Deception

Deception is something that magicians rely on quite heavily.  Here's another example:
One Friday night, a worker approached the guard shack with a wheelbarrow full of hay.  He stopped while the guard searched the hay.  Finding nothing, he let the worker go home.  That went on for several Fridays, the guard knowing the worker was stealing something, never finding anything in the hay, but just couldn't figure it out.  Finally, the guard stopped the worker and told him he knew he was stealing something, that it was driving him crazy and that he was being transferred to another city.  He begged the worker to tell him, promising not to tell anyone else, just what it was he was stealing.  The worker said "wheelbarrows".

Quiet - War Worker Sleeping

That's the sign we proudly displayed on the front of our house during World War II.  Our father was working the night shift in a factory producing material needed to help end the war, and needed to sleep during the day.  We made sure the neighborhood kids were aware and steered clear.  All street games were played up the street, as quietly as we could manage.  Can you picture us playing tag, whispering?

The Last Time

Our son’s step-son died suddenly at age 35.  Of course, everyone is grieving and  in shock that he could be taken at such a young age.  But, such is life – and death.  None of us know the time of our coming demise.  That is the uncertainty of life: we never know when the last time we see someone will turn out to be the Last Time.  So what does that mean to us?  Should we grieve after they’re gone because of all the things we left unsaid?  Or should we celebrate that we took the time to truly be with them each and every time we had the opportunity?  Regret or rejoice?  I can only hope, for my Last Time, that it will be rejoice.

Post Brexit

Now that the vote has been taken and the majority have said to leave the EU, many are saying they want a second vote.  Why, oh why, are some now saying that they wouldn't have voted to leave, if they knew that would win?  They're saying they voted against the side they wanted to win.  What?  Is that attitude prevalent among voters worldwide?  Good grief!

Some Westminster Village History

This is an article I wrote for our monthly magazine, "The Villager."

 

Note: much of the information in this document was gleaned from issues of The Villager.

Up From Nothing

In the beginning was the word, and the word was PLAN, and the plan was put forward to build a retirement facility in the northeast valley, and the plan was initiated by a small group of Presbyterians from Valley Presbyterian Church. That was in 1981. 

Dick and Helen Chapman watched good friends move into a retirement facility, in which the nursing section was a few blocks away. Noting the inconvenience, they began talking about the need for a combined facility with friends John Finch and George Butler. Once the need was verified by the people at the Senior Center, George gave the group 20 acres of land in Tucson. With Deed in hand, they established a rudimentary organization, got an attorney, a C.P.A. and a bank to approve any needed loans. Subsequent meetings at the church convinced the group that there would be no lack of people wanting to move in.

January 25, 1982 was the first recorded meeting of the Board of Directors of Westminster Village Inc., a Not For Profit corporation chartered by the State of Arizona. Board members were Mel Bowman, Dick Chapman, John Finch, Walter Goelkel, Wilson Kilgore, Maude Ligon, Arthur Nelson and Gordon Nielson. The Advisory Board members were George Butler, Bill Cotton and Hamilton McCrae III; Harry Weyrich was President. Retirement Centers of America was engaged to guide them through startup activities. All they had to do was find nearby land and complete a forty million dollar project.

They found a suitable site at the corner of Cactus and Pima Roads, so they canvassed the neighbors to propose their enterprise. An emphatic “no thanks” greeted them, so an alternate property was found on a corner of Pima Road and Shea Boulevard. Zoning needed to change, but a year and a half after applications were submitted, they were rejected. Then, toward the end of 1984, the atmosphere at Cactus/Pima changed and the group were able, by January 1985, to obtain 17 acres. It had taken three years, and they were ready to move forward.

“The land was found; hopes were high but the pockets were low. At this point the members of the board and friends had either made gifts or made loans to pay the necessary expenses as they went along and a small income eventually came in from the sale of George Butler's land gift which helped a great deal but organizations such as RCAI, Arthur Anderson, the law firm, and the architects were all 'on the cuff.' If the thing flew they would get paid. If it flopped they wouldn't.. The enthusiasm and faith of our small band had become contagious. A most fortunate arrangement was made with Sam Kitchell. He would buy the land and hold it for W. V. If W. V. could come up with the price he paid, plus the cost of holding it, the contract for the building would go to Kitchell Contractors. When the land became available it had seemed fairly simple to raise the money. Just copy others such as Royal Oaks in Sun City. Get an underwriter and sell bonds. To do this you must first sell half the units, so the group opened the Hayden Rd. office with its model apartments and went into high gear. In early Dec. 1985, 35 units were sold. Just over a year later 48% were sold and Morgan Stanley agreed to market the bonds. Months of work go into preparing the hundreds of pages needed to present a bond offering. By March of 1987 things looked pretty good. Morgan Stanley sent their David Blair to Scottsdale to talk to the eager prospective retirees. In April came the groundbreaking ceremony. Then suddenly interest rates were up and Morgan Stanley almost pulled out because the bonds would not sell at an affordable interest. In June came a bit of hope. Parkside, a Lutheran group, joined the endeavor and brought 5 million dollars to the rescue. On July 15^th 1987 the bonds were finally handed over to nine purchasers and at 11.00 A. M. the directors of W. V. wrote checks to pay off the debts they had incurred. Seven million dollars worth. Building started the very next day.” From Vol. 1, #4 of The Villager, August 1989.

“You might think the people behind W. V. would be exhausted by the time building started but their work was not over. The place had to be finished furnished and filled. A project so big was understandably fraught with frustrations as for instance when the road caved in on Nov. 1^st 1987 over the improperly constructed city sewer line, causing a year of litigation. However light was showing at the tunnel's end, and residents would soon be needed. The first deposit check was dated May 1^st 1985 and by the end of the month 14 units were spoken for. Early signers became known as the 'PIONEERS.' Their names were put on a plaque and a cut off date was set to encourage others to get in while they still could have the honor of belonging to the 'CLUB.' Eventually there were 82 pioneers but by the time the building was close to ready the numbers were lower. Some had died, some had changed their minds and some were scared off when the financing had seemed iffy. Of the remaining pioneers there are 35 living here now and 7 or 8 are expected soon. Just as the bond market had brought a temporary disaster to the financing dept. so the housing market has brought one to the sales dept. At one time the place was 82% sold. Today the percentage is down to the high 70's, but sales are steady and when we think of how much has been accomplished by faith up to this point it becomes easy to believe that we will soon be full.” From Vol. 1, #5 of The Villager, September 1989.

Busy, Busy, Busy

It's been quite a while since I posted anything, but here I am.  So what's been happening?  Well, volunteering at Westminster Village has kept me very busy.  Here are some of the things I've been involved with:
Activities Committee: working with the activities department to suggest things to entice residents to get out of their apartments to participate in fun and educational sessions;
Villager staff: help prepare our monthly magazine by contributing ideas for articles, writing articles, editing and printing the finished copy;
Fundraising Committee: as a part of the Westminster Village Foundation (a separate charitable corporation), help in all fundraising activities;
Putting Contest: conduct a weekly putting contest with interested residents, handing our coupons (worth 50 cents in our Garden Café) to all participants.
There are three or four others, but you can get an idea from these.
We can be as busy as we want to be; there are enough things going on around here that it's virtually impossible to participate in everything.

Go West, Middle-Aged Man, Go West

 

It all started with Sam. He was a New York State Trooper and a neighbor. He lived a few doors down from Painters in Henrietta, New York. Because of a heart problem, he retired early and moved to Scottsdale, Arizona, with his wife and two daughters. A year or so later, Dick and Maryann flew down for a visit. After touring the area and liking what they saw, decided to find a place to call their new home.

The following year, Painters found a community – Mission Monterrey on Scottsdale Ranch – and negotiated the purchase of a patio home. Because he was still gainfully employed, Dick rented out the house, under Sam's watchful eye. After retirement in 1987, Dick sold the Henrietta property and hauled his spouse and Basset Hounds to his new digs, where they all settled down to their new life. Dick found employment (as a volunteer) on the Mission Monterrey Board as well as on the Scottsdale Ranch Board, where he ruled with an almost-iron hand.

The following year, Shirley and I decided to haul our travel trailer across this vast country, stopping in Scottsdale for a nice visit. We were given the 50¢ tour, were impressed enough to decide to move here before continuing on to California. After returning home to talk with a realtor, we came back to a KOA in Avondale for the winter to house-hunt and find a builder. Our location of choice was Tierra Santa on McCormick Ranch. After we completed the purchase negotiations, we headed back to Ontario, New York, to house-hunters and garage sales. We wound up living in our trailer in Shirley's mother's yard after the house was sold – we had been next door neighbors. We rented a U-Haul to bring to Scottsdale what few possessions we kept, and stored them in a rented locker that Dick had found for us.

Eventually, we camped at Valle Del Oro in Mesa and made frequent trips to our lot to check on construction progress, taking ownership in February 1990. Sam, who started this migration from Henrietta, wound up having a heart transplant in February 1991, and, I'm happy to report, is doing quite well. So thanks, Sam, for leading the way to paradise.

The True Trans-continental Rail Connection

From an historical sign near Strasburg, Colorado:

THE RAIL CHAIN'S FINAL LINK

PACIFIC ATLANTIC

A CONTINUOUS CHAIN OF RAILS FROM ATLANTIC TO PACIFIC - A LONG VISION OF PIONEER RAILROADERS AND FRONTIER FARMERS - BECAME REALITY AT 3:00 P.M. ON AUGUST 15, 1870. AT A POINT 3,812 FT. EAST OF THE DEPOT IN WHAT NOW IS STRASBURG, COLORADO. NEAR COMANCHE CROSSING, NAMED FOR A USUALLY DRY, SOMETIMES RAMPAGING CREEK, THE LAST RAILS WERE SPIKED BY KANSAS PACIFIC RAILROAD CREWS DRIVING WEST FROM KANSAS AND EAST FROM DENVER TO GIVE THE NATION ITS FIRST TRULY CONTINUOUS COAST-TO-COAST RAILROAD. ON THE FINAL DAY THE CREWS LAID A RECORD-BREAKING 10 1/4 MILES OF TRACK IN 9 HOURS TO WIN A BARREL OF WHISKEY WHICH CANNY FOREMEN HAD PLACED MIDWAY IN THE FINAL GAP.

ERECTED BY THE UNION PACIFIC COMPANY IN COOPERATION WITH COMANCHE CROSSING HISTORICAL SOCIETY.

Sorting Out

As far as I know, I've never met an illegal immigrant. How would I recognize one? They come from all directions: North – Canadians; East – Europeans and Africans; South – Mexicans, Central Americans and South Americans; West – Asians, Orientals and Australians. They come in all sizes, shapes and colors: male, female, tall, short, heavy, slim, women, men, children, white, yellow, brown. I do know one thing: they are not here legally. Somehow, they violated our laws and borders to be here. I also know that some are murderers, as witnessed in the local newspapers recently. I'm also sure, as Donald Trump has said, that some are nice people. I wish the nice ones could become citizens and stay here to make a positive contribution, but nobody seems able to sort them out. Any ideas?

Being a Cowboy

“Return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear. From out of the past come the thundering hoof-beats of the great horse Silver. The Lone Ranger rides again!”

All the boys in our little neighborhood area of Batavia, New York, would religiously head for their parlor radio after dinner in time to listen to The Lone Ranger Show. It transported us to a time and place where we could become the hero cowboy and drive the villians and varments out of the wild, wild west. After saving the beautiful storekeeper's daughter and restoring law and order, we would ride off into the sunset on our handsome Palomino. It was difficult to come back down to earth after such nobel adventures, but reality would settle in a day or two later, after we had all told each other of our exciting imaginary deeds three or four times, each telling becoming somewhat more embellished.

Then in 1939, the cowboy gods smiled down on us. Uncle Henry, Mom's younger brother, sent a package for Fred (my brother) and me from Tucson, Arizona, that contained cowboy vests, cowboy chaps and two gun and holster sets. Shazam! I was a real, live cowboy!

Now what better thing to do than to put on our own cowboy show? What, indeed? So Fred and I invited the neighborhood to our show, at the amazingly low price of one pin. We had wanted to charge real money – one cent – but Mom said just a pin was enough; after all, we were still coming out of the Great Depression, whatever that was.

Being new to the entertainment business, we had no idea what to do, now that we had an audience, so, being the troupers we were, we improvised. Fred would do something and I would draw my gun and arrest him. Then he'd have an idea and tell me what to do, then I'd set the next scene, and on it went. Thunderous applause at the end? Well, not quite. Any applause? Well, a few polite claps.

We did continue our roles as imaginary cowboys, except that now Fred and I could put on our outfits and become the “real thing.”

Fast forward to 1949! Here I am enrolled at Oklahoma A & M College, right in the middle of the Indian Territory (school nickname: Cowboys; mascot: a cowboy named Pistol Pete). Like all my New York buddies, I rushed right out and bought flight boots, the nearest thing to cowboy boots I could afford, then asked one of my neighbors to make me an authentic lasso. Whallah! Instant cowboy!

Really? Well, close enough so that I could visit some friends on a farm in Hoyt, Oklahoma, and practice roping the young pigs. That is, until the father told me to practice on his fence posts, as roping affected the quality of the pig meat. Who knew? So I became an expert at roping fence posts – so to speak. I was even asked to mount up one of the horses and go shag a couple of cattle that hadn't come in for the night. So off went Cowboy Bob, into the dusk, to save the 1,000 head of longhorn steers from being rustled by them thar varments and villians. Except the horse knew he had a pilgrim on his back and proceeded to try to rub me off against a tree along the path. Managing to head the cayuse away from such shenanagins, he and I brought the errant herd to the barn for the night.

And so ended the career of Cowboy Bob, who went on to other adventures, but always cherishing his days ridding the Wild West of varments and villians.

Barbers and Barbershops

It may have started when that first person rid me of my golden locks, but I don’t relish going to the barbershop for a haircut.

I was ten when we moved to Rochester, New York, and my brother and I started going to Frank’s Barber Shop, which was just at the end of our street. Frank was old, in my view, but probably only in his early 60’s, a heavy smoker, but a good barber. My mother would give us a dollar for the 75 cent haircut and remind us to make sure Frank kept the change. As time went on, we noticed Frank’s hands were beginning to shake and more and more he was pulling out our hair rather than cutting it, so we moved on to Norm.

Norm had a shop a few blocks down Clinton Avenue, next to the blacksmith’s shop, where we could stand in the doorway and watch horses being shod. Norm had been a barber in the service during World War II and said he was given two minutes per recruit to strip them of their pride. It was a treat to go in on Saturday when the operas were being broadcast on the radio, because Norm would join right in with the lead tenor, or whoever he decided needed his assistance. We stayed with Norm all through High School and summers home from college, through brush cuts and “the wave” and other such styles as were in vogue.

With moves from place to place, it was a struggle to find someone who could do a good job. Prices rose, and so did my expectations. Having moved to a suburb, I found a place in a shopping mall and went there until the owner was arrested for taking bets on the horses over the phone. He never let a haircut get in the way of taking a bet, but he did a good job of cutting my hair. His younger brother worked there, and had applied to the Sheriff’s office to become a Deputy; unfortunately, his brother’s arrest ended that quest - and sent me on a new one of my own.

Over the years, I’ve visited many shops, some of which earned return visits. However, my quest has finally ended here at Westminster Village with my own personal barber, my wife Shirley. And no appointment needed!

 

                                                                

　                        

Time Changing

Back in the days before the use of logic, some well-meaning citizen thought it would be a good idea if there was another hour of sunshine when people got out of work in the winter. So he presented the idea to his Congressman, who immediately thought that everyone should adjust their clocks twice each year in order to gain the extra hour. Dimwit that he was, a requirement for being a Congressman, he never thought of the alternative of allowing everyone to simply start work an hour earlier in the morning, and leaving work an hour earlier in the afternoon. And so a law was passed that required clocks to be adjusted in all states, unless the Legislature of any state voted to opt out, which the Arizona Legislature promptly did; the Indiana Legislature allowed some areas of Indiana to opt out as well. So here we are some years later when the world has made great advances in the application of logic, when one newly-elected legislator in Arizona announced that he would introduce a law requiring Arizona to conform to that ancient edict. Imagine his surprise when he received an avalance of comments opposing his idea, so he promptly back-tracked. So now the question to be asked is: Should we abolish Daylight Saving Time and allow people the opportunity of changing their work hours? What say ye?

Old Timers Mantra

Never walk when you can stand.
Never stand when you can sit.
And never pass up a restroom.

Monday, 15 December 2014

I woke up this morning to find the other side of the bed empty.  Shirley had another one of those nights when she couldn't sleep so she was up early.  I laid there and tried a bit of mindfulness meditation, but wound up thinking about an incident back in December 1948.  I had been in an automobile accident and the top coat I was wearing wound up with a large L-shaped tear near my right shoulder.  My mother was working at Krolls, a women's wear store in Rochester, NY, so she knew all the seamstresses and tailors working there.  Someone, I don't know who, took my top coat and re-wove the fabric so that the tear was invisible.  That was truly the work of an artisan.  In this age of automation and computer-driven machines, I doubt the repair could be made.

Ferguson and Justice

As regards the death of Michael Brown, we want justice.  Yes, we want justice for the store owner who was bullied and robbed by Michael Brown.  Yes, we want justice for those whose businesses were burned down in honor of Michael Brown.  Yes, we want justice for the owners of automobiles vandalized and burned in honor of Michael Brown.  And for those looters and arsonists, we suggest they have a word with Martin Luther King, Jr., about the dream he had and how their actions are affecting that dream.  Justice for all.

Art Display and Sale

Today, Westminster Village will initiate a new feature: local artist, Gayla R. Bonnell, will showcase 46 of her artwork in our halls. They will be on display until the end of January, and are available for purchase, prices ranging from $400 to $2500. A portion of the proceeds from the artwork sales will directly benefit the Westminster Village Foundation. The intent is to offer artists, resident and non-resident, an opportunity to gain recognition for their talent. So if you happen to be in the neighborhood, stop in and brouse.

Hello, Again

It's been a while since my last post.  I've been busy writing articles for our newsletter, The Villager.  You can view the current issue at www.wnvaz.com, click on RESIDENTS and go to the newsletter page.
Our 10th great grandchild, Nolan, was born in August and I'm still working on a couple of pieces of art for him.  Shirley crocheted a blanket, which he already has.  I hope the art gets there before he becomes a teen-ager.
We took the bus to Four Peaks Brewing Company yesterday, along with a small group from Westminster Village.  Good beer, good food and good conversation.  Tilted Kilt beer and Fish and Chips.  It's nice to go somewhere, have a glass of beer and not have to worry about the drive home.
Have a good evening.

What's Going on Outside?

This is my latest article as published in The Villager at Westminster Village:

What's Going On Outside?

The appearance of our campus is being transformed. Our Landscaping Department has been busy planting, trimming, weeding, and all the other necessary chores to make this a beautiful place to enjoy the out-of-doors. We have two fish ponds, a cactus garden along the east drive, lots of Lantana and Bougainvillea, beautiful flowers, and everything continues to be trimmed to perfection. Have you noticed the plants by the trash bin at the delivery gate? The new flag? So after all that, what's coming? Hold onto your hats, folks, you ain't seen nothin' yet.

How about a Bocce lawn? Coming. Croquet court? Coming. Pitch and Putt course? Coming. Where? The gravel area west of the Bank door will be transformed into a park-like setting when these new features are added. Included will be an equipment storage locker, drinking fountain and seating area. All this without affecting existing plants. When? We'd like to have them in progress by the end of the year.

The existing Putting Green will soon be extended in size; plans for the relocated holes have already been submitted by a resident committee.

Lantana, trimmed to our special layered look, will continue to be added along all sidewalks and curbs, except where access is required by the Fire Marshall. The front entry flower beds will be replanted with annuals for a layered look. More cacti will be planted along the wall on the east. On the south side, the river rock area near the F-1 door is a candidate for a water feature, details not yet worked out. The south-west corner will become a nursery where we will grow our own cacti, and will be screened by trellises. A dog run will be coming to the west side between the D-1 and E-1 doors, with some grass areas, water and more plants. The northwest river rock area is being considered as a wildflower meadow. Yellow Bells will continue along the north wall to help screen noise and dust from Cactus Road. A sitting area under a new tree is envisioned by Park North. The cactus garden across from the J-1 door will be expanded and a path added. The “rock garden” on the north, between the H-1 and J-1 doors, will be transformed into a mountain stream, with more Pine trees and Juniper bushes added. An edging of plants will separate the grass from the sidewalk by the J-1 door, helping to keep the sidewalk dry. Each area will have shaded seating. Trail and distance markers will be installed as areas are finished, to challenge Residents to get out and walk through the new feature gardens; all will be wheelchair accessible.

Dreaming big? Certainly. Will it all happen? Not without your support, both moral and financial. If there's some project you'd like to see move forward, see Tom Winkelman and he'll be happy to discuss it with you.

From 1989, Returning From a Trip

May 26, Thursday. Well, here we are back home. Bandit has been in her yard since we arrived, with no signs of ever wanting to leave. The Azaleas are in blossom, as is one Dogwood. The Rhododendrons are about ready to blossom. The Iris are forming buds. Jim Cole had done a good job on the lawn. It took a while to get the trailer cleaned out of clothes, food, and books. More to come, but we are too tired to continue.

Things I learned on this trip

• That hub caps do fall off Travel Trailers and are never seen again.
• That a group of businessmen in Toronto, hoping to capitalize on the Blue Jays training camp in Dunedin, Florida, started a development of mobile homes in Dunedin, called, appropriately enough, Blue Jay Estates. Unfortunately, it didn't catch on with the Canadians.
• That 95 year old Aunts are fragile human beings, and when they have heart attacks and fall and break their hips, they don't last long. Hopefully, her 85 year old brother, the last of my father's brothers and sisters, will be able to relate to me all the stories she told him of their childhood.
• That it rains hard in Louisiana.
• That some Rotary clubs are very difficult, if not impossible, to track down.
• That it is almost the same distance from Key West to the Alabama border of Florida as it is from the Louisiana border of Texas to El Paso.
• That the KOA at Fort Stockton, Texas hasn't improved in the past year.
• That desert starts just past Houston in Texas and extends to the mountains around Los Angeles.
• That it is a good idea to check the batteries in your photographic equipment before you plan to enter Carlsbad Caverns. My flash unit wouldn't work, so the slides are very faint.
• That the continental divide is almost unnoticable in New Mexico, but very apparent in Colorado.
• That March is too early to see Azaleas and Rhododendrons in Alabama, and Hummingbirds in southern Arizona.
• That the sun shines in other parts of the country.
• That some Bassett Hounds can open purses, remove glass cases, and chew the earpieces off the glasses. Also, that Lenscrafters will repair the damages free.
• That Oak Creek Canyon and Sedona in Arizona are very pretty and need to be visited again.
• That it's no fun to change a tire in the heat of the day, below sea level, in Death Valley. And especially so when the jack won't fit under the axle.
• That people will stop to offer assistance in Death Valley, but only after the tire is changed.
• That automobile warranties are very carefully planned, such that replacing the bearings in the differential of our Suburban wasn't necessary until several thousands of miles after the warranty had expired.
• That the Descanso Gardens in La Canada and the Huntington Library & Gardens in San Marino are worth every minute one spends there.
• That prices in California are too high for the merchandise.
• That one should never be surprised to run into acquaintenances anywhere in the world. We saw the LaCounts in the gift shop at Hearst Castle in San Simeon, California.
• That the roads indicated as “Scenic” on the AAA maps are usually scarey as well, most winding around mountains and at the edge of cliffs.
• That some grapes grow on trees.
• That breaking a crowned tooth in not a total catastrophy.
• That Ballys in Reno, Nevada redecorated two suites for Frank Sinatra's stay: one for Frank & Barbara; one for their dogs, including installation of a sandbox.
• That the California Railroad Museum is worth visiting, as is the Colorado Railroad Museum.
• That teaching is a team effort, the team composed of a teacher and both parents; the parents should be willing to perform some of their team responsibilities at school during the day.
• That it's not as much fun to visit Salt Lake City when your genealogy records are in Ontario.
• That the railroad spike completing the link-up of the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans was not driven at Promontary Point,, Utah; and that the spike was not of gold.
• That Buffalo Bill Cody and his wife are buried atop Lookout Mountain near Golden, Colorado, far from their children's graves in Rochester, New York.
• That the Interstate highways need much work to eliminate the wash-board effect.
• That Whip-poor-wills can make a fierce racket in the evening and early morning.
• That some merchants in the US of A will accept an out-of-state personal check with no questions asked and no proof of identity. It happened in Hannibal, Missouri and again in Shipshewana, Indiana.
• That the law suits resulting from the collapse of the walkways in the Hyatt Regency in Kansas City, Missouri were just recently settled.
• That many areas of the country are working to increase tourism, that being a way to bring in capital without requiring major expenditures for improvements in services, unlike attracting industry.
• And finally, that people are fun, and funny, no matter where one goes.

He-man's Lament

He-man’s Lament

People who constantly rave about herbs

Get on my nerves.

Give me a break,

Throw me a steak.

Whether Kobi, Angus or chicken fried,

Give me one I haven’t tried.

And none of that gosh darned Worcestershire sauce.

I’ll take it plain, I’m the boss.

So stop layin’ it on me about them herbs

Afore I burn up your ears with some choice adjectives and verbs.

Proving Lineage to Miles Standish

From the Buffalo Courrier Express, Buffalo, N. Y., Sunday Morning, May 8, 1927:
"Standish Genealogy Recorded on Historic Quilt
Gives Vital Statistics on Progeny of Famous Miles
"Patches are from dresses belonging to descendants of character celebrated in song and glory.
"Albion, May 7 - Mrs. George W. Shourds is the proud possessor of an old family quilt, the story of which is stranger than fiction.  To tell its story one must go back a the settlement in Orleans County of the settlement in Orleans county of Asa Standish, Mrs. Shourd's great grandfather, for the history of the quilt is Standish history.
"In 1816 Asa Standish journeyed from his home at Benson, Vt., to Orleans.  With him came his wife and seven children.  A number of the children were married and had youngsters of their own, so it was quite a caravan that made the long journey by ox team.  Gaines was at that time the most thriving community in the county and along with many other pioneers Asa Standish took up land in that village.  He and his family settled upon a farm of 365 acrea, the site of which was near the present Transit church.
"Asa Standish was the great grandson of Miles Standish of Colonial fame.  He was born at Norwich, Conn., in 1763.  At the age of ten he moved with his parents to Williamstown, Mass., and later to Benson, Vt., where he lived many years before settling in Orleans county.
"Now it happened that some of Asa's descendants had migrated to California and one of them became desirous of joining the Society of the Mayflower, which she could not do without definite proof that the Asa Standish, whose birth was recorded at Norwich, and the one who settled in Orleans county were one and the same.  Therefore, she employed a renowned geneologist, Mrs. Idah Stowbridge of Los Angeles to assist in the search.  Mrs. Stowbridge wrote Mrs. George W. Shourds of Albion, whom she knew was of Standish descent, asking her help.
"Mrs. Shourds set about her task with a hopeless feeling.  She had been told from childhood of how Electa burned the family records and she felt sure that there was no written proof in all Orleans county that the Asa of Vermont and the Asa of Gaines were the same.
"Finally Mrs. Shourds called upon Mrs. George Mitchell, whose husband was a great grandson of Asa Standish.  Mrs. Mitchell, like all the other members of the family knew of the Miles Standish ancestry, but said that she had no proof.  As Mrs. Shourds was leaving the house she suddenly asked, "Wouldn't you like to see Mother Mitchell's old album quilt?"
"The quilt is a quaint and gay affair with a white background, orange stripes and squares of bright colored calico, pieced in the friendship pattern.  Sewed into each square is a piece of white material with the record of some member of the Standish family written in ink upon it.  It is supposed that the squares are made out of dresses belonging to members of the family and that each one's particular block is made out of her own garment.  The names Standish, Stacy and Mitchell predominate.  Charlotte Standish, daughter of Asa, who married William Stacy, is said to have started the quilt, and her daughter, Maria, who married Azuriel Mitchell, a Baptist minister of Riches Corners, completed it.
"The instant that Mrs. Shourds saw the quilt her eye caught the blocks, "Asa Standish.  Died Sept. 1, 1828.  Aged 65 years."  "Rebecca Standish.  Died April 30th, A. D. 1839.  Aged 74 years."  Inasmuch as the records at Norwich, Ct., gave the date of Asa Standish's birth as 1763, which would have made him 65 years old in 1828, Mrs. Shourds felt sure that here at last was positive proof that the two Asas were the same person.  Furtherwore, although the family had always understood that his wife had been Rebecca Sherwood, there was no record to that effect.  Photographs of the two blocks were taken and sent to Mrs. Stowbridge and these with the necessary affidavits, were accepted as the missing links in the Standish chain of proof.
"Mrs. Mitchell died in 1924.  Before her death she presented the quilt to Mrs. Shourds, giving as her reason the fact she had no children, while Mrs. Shourds has both a son and a daughter to carry on the family traditions.
"Asa Standish is buried in the old Standish burying ground, near the Transit Church at Gaines.  There is no marker for his grave.  If there were, the long search for proof would have been unnecessary.  He was at one time justice of the peace of Gaines, as a time-worn subpoena signed by him shows.  This subpoena was discovered between the leaves of an old justice book of the town of Gaines.  He served in the Revolutionary War, as did his father, Thomas.  Thomas was the son of Samuel, Samuel of Josua and Josua's father was the celebrated Miles of song and story."

Hi, How Are Ya?

I met a fella the other day, we hadn't seen each other in a while, 'n we got ta talkin' 'bout how we were 'n it set me ta thinkin' – not my usual manner of spendin' the day, but I do admit, it was some entertainin'. Seems ta me that there's a certain order of preference in answerin' the question “How are ya?” Here's what I worked out, based on actual live conversation:

1. Ya got ten, fifteen minutes ta spare?
2. Lousy!
3. Not too good.
4. Better than yesterday.
5. I'm alright, so far.
6. I'm okay.
7. Doin' fine.
8. Wonderful!
9. Terrific!
10. Best I felt in years!

So next time someone asks 'n ya don't feel like jawin' 'bout it much, just give 'em yer number. Who knows, it may be the same as there's.

The Good Old Days

While many young men and women were in the service in 1943, those on the home front had some rules to follow to help bring the war to a close. Here are some “Rationing Reminders” excerpts from a December 1943 newspaper:

PROCESSED FOODS - Processed foods rationed under War Ration Book 4 are canned and bottled fruits, most canned and bottled vegetables and vegetable juices, all frozen fruits and vegetables, all dried beans, peas, lentils, etc.

MEATS, FATS AND OILS - Meats, canned milk, fish, fats, most oils and cheeses are now under point rationing.

SUGAR - Coupon No. 29 in War Ration Book 4 is good for five pounds through January 15. Additional rations up to 15 pounds per person for canning may be applied for at any time during the canning season.

AUTOMOBILES - 1941 models driven less than 1,000 miles may now be purchased and used in gainful occupation without application to rationing boards for certificates. New cars costing over $2,500 are unrationed and may be sold to anyone having an unserviceable car at present, regardless of occupation.

GASOLINE - A coupons are good for three gallons; new B and C coupons are worth five gallons each. . . Farmers may now obtain gasoline for their tractors, engines and other non-highway equipment for a period of six months instead of three months, as formerly.

TIRES - Motorists holding only basic rations are not eligible for new or used tires. Drivers with total rationed mileage of more than 120 miles per month but less than 601, may obtain a certificate for a Grade III tire. Only C book holders who drive more than 600 miles a month may obtain certificates for Grade I tires. Owners of recappable tires should have them recapped at once.

SHOES - Stamp 18 in War Ration Book 1 is good indefinitely for one pair of shoes in any store that sells shoes. Stamp 18 is transferable among members of a family living in the same household and related by blood, marriage or adoption.

FUEL OIL - Period 1 coupons, good for ten gallons a unit for household use, are good through January 3. Period 2 coupons also are valid and will remain good through February 7; they, too, are worth 10 gallons.

ANTHRACITE COAL - Rationed by the trade, but not through rationing boards.

STOVES - Most common types of coal, wood, gas and oil stoves are obtainable only upon issuance by local ration boards of certification based on proof of need.

BICYCLES - Pupils who need bicycles for travel between home and school are eligible for purchase certificates providing the daily mileage is at least three miles and the bicycle is used at least five days each week. Anyone gainfully employed or doing voluntary work contributing to the war effort or to public welfare, who needs a bicycle on his job or for travel between home and work, can qualify for a purchase certificate upon meeting the same requirements.

HNY

The stitches are out!  Now I'm ready for a new year.  May you all have a happy, healthy 2014!  May all your goals be reached.

Today, 30 December 2013

I had my 4th shot of Hyalgan in my right knee this morning.  One more to go.  It's supposed to replace the natural lubricant in the knee joint that has disappeared over the years.  Then tomorrow the stitches come out from my back.  Nurse Shirley has been doing a wonderful job of cleaning and bandaging it for me.  I started our monthly job of printing the Villager magazine, then turned over the reins to Shirley while I went to the doctor's, then came back just in time for the last 30 (of 500 total) to be printed.  Lunch next.  And now to relax.

After and Further After

Here are photos of the site of the melanoma on my back after the biopsy was taken and then after the excision and stitching of the wound.  The melanoma was about the size of a quarter; the redness above the site is an allergic reaction to the tape used on the bandage.

To Card or Not to Card

The folks in the younger generation are arguing amongst each other whether or not to send Christmas cards to family and friends.  I think if you can’t spare a few minutes to sign a card and a few dollars to send one, then you need to reevaluate your priorities.  Phone calls fade from memory, but a card is a physical reminder that you are special to someone.  That's not to say that phone calls aren't important; they are.

One is Not Enough

I've been reading a lot of P. G. Wodehouse's books lately.  I like his type of humor.  One thing I've noticed is that he seems to feel that three or four are better than one, whether it's adjectives, paragraphs or sub-plots.  Try one of his "Jeeves" books.  You might get hooked, too.

Straining the Brain

I decided to write my memoirs.  Should be easy, right?  So far, I have 6 chapters started, including one titled "Afterthoughts."  The first chapter takes me through the first ten years when we lived in Batavia, NY.  The second deals with the early years in Rochester, NY; the third with more Rochester stuff.  The next two continue on into college.  What I find is that I'm continually going back to "finished" chapters to add a person or event that has just come to mind.  And I find myself jotting down notes as reminders of things while I'm watching TV or reading a book or out walking.  It's surprising to find that my brain is able to dredge up from the depths all those things that haven't been at the surface for decades.  I use photo albums as aids and sometime in the future I'll try to find journals I've kept sporatically.  I wonder if any of the people from my past have thought of writing their memoirs.  Try it, you'll re-learn things about yourself you've forgotten.  Happy memories!

Progress

I just got back from getting a haircut.  While I was waiting, I counted 36 shelves loaded with products for the care and cleaning of ones hair.  Back in the olden days, I remember only Ivory shampoo.  In my high school days, some guys used some sort of goop to get their hair into a fancy wave.  I guess the industry took off from there.  But 36 shelves worth? 

The Quest For Family

It was many years ago (about 1951) that I asked my parents for information about their families.  What they wrote down was very limited, not more than one or two generations past.  My mother had her parents’ Marriage certificate, her own Birth certificate and her mother’s Bible.  My father had his Birth certificate, his parents’ Marriage certificate, a Deed to the cemetery plot where his mother was buried and his grandfather’s Naturalization certificate.  Most of that information lay dormant while I was raising a family and establishing a career.  Occasionally, a new document or piece of information would float my way, including a letter confirming my maternal grandfather’s naturalization on Sept. 18, 1899. The death of my parents provided me with a few more items, including my mother’s photograph albums, neatly labeled with names and sometimes dates. 

It wasn’t until the late 1970’s that my wife, Shirley, and I started a more rigorous quest.  We attended a lecture about genealogical research given by a Mormon couple at our local library in Ontario, New York.  We have since scoured the Local History section of the Rochester (NY) public library, viewed the local Historian’s files and original church records at Lyons, New York, traveled to Salt Lake City to the great archives of the Mormon Church, spent time researching at NEHGS in Boston, visited many historians’ offices in the northeast, and eventually spent time in England, Germany and France.

One of my early memories of school is hearing the story of the Mayflower, Plymouth Rock, the Pilgrims and the first Thanksgiving feast.  After the story, we were to draw and cut out images of Pilgrims, Indians, turkeys, whatever we thought was representative of that story.  I cut out a pair of Pilgrims, little knowing my future quest would bring me to Plymouth Rock and the Pilgrims first settlement.  What I later found was a link through my paternal grandmother, Lennie Mann, to her paternal grandmother, Nancy Standish, which led directly to Myles Standish.  Taking this news to a family gathering, I made the announcement of this discovery, to hear my brother say: “I knew that.  Dad told me that years ago.”  Shirley and I have since visited the Plymouth Rock area including the Standish monument.  We have had the pleasure of holding the “Standish Quilt” housed in the DAR Museum at Albion, New York, which was used to make the genealogical connection from Myles to Asa Standish, who settled near Albion.  A distant cousin provided copies of family information from Nancy Standish’s Bible and two photographs of Nancy, which have been added to her Overview on Ancestry.com.  We also have visited the Standish Cemetery where Asa and other members of the family are buried.

Based on my research, I found that members of my mother’s father, Henry Göbel, came from a small village in Germany, named Breitau, and that my mother’s mother, Clara Marie Steinmetz, was born in Kassel.  My father’s father, George Müller, came from Lembach, a small village in France near the German border; he was German, although the Naturalization Certificate reports him as a citizen of France.  Shirley and I visited these places in 2000,  and I left a copy of my family tree with the minister of the church in Breitau.  Subsequently, I received an e-mail from the son-in-law of my second cousin, Martin Heinrich Göbel, who still lives in the family homestead.  We made arrangements to visit and two years later we were sitting in the Göbel house, being treated like royalty.  We met other members of the family living in the area, and I had a telephone conversation with a cousin with whom I had corresponded in the late 1940’s.  I have since found on Google Earth that the Maginot Line ran quite close to Lembach and there are still remains of that fortification in the area

In 2004, we visited England to trace Shirley’s roots, taking us to Doncaster,  Farnham, Ewell, Hatfield, Fishlake, Bramouth, Snaith, Rawcliff, Whitgift, Whitby, Plymouth and Southampton.  Through Ancestry.com, Shirley has contacted a cousin in England and they have visited us to look at houses and gravestones in Rochester, New York.

Because most of our families lived in the northeast, we have used fultonhistory.com extensively to find newspaper articles about them.  Many official documents – birth, death and marriage certificates - were found on the microfilms available through the Mormon Church Library; these have provided information about other family members.  The church archives in Rothenburg, Germany sent records of the Göbel line from their microfilm files.  I was able to copy records from the original church books in Lyons, New York and Gerstungen, Germany.  The tree keeps growing.

Of course, we have hit brick walls.  For example, I have not been able to find the parents of my 3^rd great grandmother, Martha Conklin, nor for her husband, Thomas J Patterson.  Likewise, the line through Jesse Mann, Jr. to his father, Jesse, Sr. to his father, Amos Mann, leads to some mystery; there are several possibilities for Amos, none of which I can conclusively claim.  So the search continues.  To date, there are over 3600 people in my Ancestry.com file – “Miller/Mann/Goebel/Steinmetz Family 2006.”  It’s a public file, so take a look to see if we have anyone in common.  We could be cousins.

 

A-Rod and the New York Yankees

Even though nobody has asked me, I’ll tell you anyway what I think about A-Rod and the New York Yankees.  There seems to be a lack of ethical standards in that group.  A-Rod was found guilty of using performance enhancing drugs and was suspended by the baseball league, acting in the best interests of professional baseball.  A-Rod has appealed the suspension, ignoring his guilt on the charges.  The Yankees management has ignored his guilt and continues to play him, when he should not even be sitting on the bench.  What kind of message do those actions send to our youth? 

The Education System

Think the educational system is in trouble?  We started out in Grammar School, where they taught us, among other things, grammar.  If we passed all the strict tests, we finally made it to High School.  After a while, the starting point was Elementary School, where they taught some things, mostly elementary stuff, Watson -  maybe even grammar.  High School was broken up into Middle School and High School.  Why it didn't become Low, Middle and High, I'll never know.  Finally, we have K-12, and it's anybodys guess what's taught there.  Somewhere in that progression of name changes, our federal government decided we needed a Department of Education.  What I'm trying to understand is - what did the millions of dollars we spent for that department do to improve our educational level?  Anybody?

Our Postal Service

If you ran a business, would you like a group of hundreds setting the rules for you?  That’s exactly what the Postmaster General faces.  Every year, he oversees a business that loses money, with no hope of changing conditions within the Postal Service that would make it at least break even.  Take away the restrictions imposed by Congress and he would have a good shot at running in the black.  Would that ever happen?  Ho, ho, ho, naïve one!

I Wonder

I wonder if the people living as the Ice Age was ending ever thought about global warming.

Giving Thanks

I’d like to thank the person who introduced Frank Arthur Miller to Wilhelmina Henrietta Goebel.  Thank you, whoever you are.  I’d like to thank  Frank for proposing marriage to Wilhelmina.  Thank you, Dad.  I’d like to thank Wilhelmina for accepting Frank’s marriage proposal.  Thank you, Mom.  Without those three actions, neither my brother, Fred, nor I (and our families) would exist, so next time you think of us, say a word of thanks to “whoever”, to Frank and to Wilhelmina.  Thank you.

Fuzzy

When the children were young, we recited this verse:

Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear.

Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair.

Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn’t fuzzy,

Was he.

My grandfather, William Francis Miller, Sr., was called Fuzzy because he always had his hair trimmed close to the skin. (In his older years, his youngest son, Uncle Bill, would trim it for him.) He was born in Lyons, New York, the seventh of eight children, but spent most of his life in Batavia, where he raised his family. There were 10 children, 7 of whom grew to adulthood. His wife, Lennie, died from complications during childbirth of the 10^th child, Thomas, who was stillborn; daughter Rachel died at 4 months from cholera; their first daughter, Violet, died in her first year, also. He was a lather, said to be the fastest in that area. Before plaster board, lath strips (about 1 inch by ¼ inch) were attached to the studs of a building to hold the plaster. The laths were spaced about 1/4 inch apart so the mason could force the plaster through the spaces, which allowed the plaster to stick to the wall. I can imagine it was difficult to keep the family together in those days while working throughout the county. His sister-in-law wanted to take some of the children but he refused. The family grew up relying on one another for support. In 1893, he was kicked in the leg by a horse; the break was not set properly and caused him to limp and use a cane. In 1905, he made the newspaper by defending his 16-year old daughter from the unwanted attentions of a stonemason; he was fined and his revolver confiscated. In his elder years, Fuzzy lived with his oldest daughter in Rochester, where he passed away at age 93.

Rochester After Dark

Joe Squeezer owned a bar on Lake Avenue, near where State Street ended and Lake Avenue began.  He featured live music; the stand was in the middle of the bar, up so everyone could see.  We were just old enough to be legal, drank 7 & 7 and smoked Raleigh cigarettes – you know, where there was a coupon in every pack you could save up to send for merchandise, but we never seemed to save up enough for the good stuff.  When we walked in and saw the organ on the stand, we knew it was Doug Duke and it was gonna be a great set, with those sounds only Doug could coax out of the organ.  Some jazz, some danceable stuff.  Our dates didn’t like that we only wanted to watch and listen, so we tried to keep them occupied with stuff like who was that in the back room who didn’t want anyone to see who they were with, or who was the doll in the fur that just walked in and who was she with and all kinds of things like that.  We were busy with the music.  And sometimes it was a piano and Joe Mooney up from Florida for the summer.  Joe was to the piano as Duke was to the organ.  Pure rapture.  Smokes and 7 & 7 and live music.  Life couldn’t be any better than this!  Afterwards, we’d head to Cutali’s, before he moved south, for spaghetti and meatballs and a glass of beer, just around the corner from Sibley’s.  Rochester after dark, in the 50’s, was a great place to be and we made what of it we could.

Technology and I Have Parted Company

Technology and I have recently parted company. It was beginning to tire me watching as things kept going by faster and faster. We signed on together when a crystal, cat’s whisker and head phones were required to listen to a radio station; when airplanes were guided from one beacon light to the next; when phonograph players needed to be wound by hand and the Bakelite records were one-sided. Placing a telephone call required interfacing with an operator; when pen and ink wells were on our school desks; letters (remember those?) were either hand-written or typed on a manual typewriter. You begin to get the picture?

As we proceeded, vacuum tubes then transistors and integrated circuits enabled radios to grow smaller, televisions to grow bigger and thousands of songs to be carried around in the palm of my hand. Telephones moved from the wall to everyone’s pocket or purse and even took photographs. Then came fountain pens, ball point pens and even pens that could write under water; I never felt the need for one of those as every millisecond of being under water caused too much panic for me to want to capture my thoughts for posterity.

Airplanes are now flown by computer (I always say a prayer for the programmers that they’ve got the correct code in the proper order) based on information from space satellites. Computers grew from using our fingers to abaci to adding machines and now the hand-held devices that do everything but drive the car. And whatever happened to slide-rules?

So I got off the train with my HDTV, DVR, HP computer with Windows 7, cell phone that doesn’t do text messaging or e-mail but can take photos if I could ever remember which buttons to push and, oh yeah, a DVD player and VCR player that aren’t plugged in because the instructions are written in some sort of code. But I do know how to use the word processing capability of my computer which is how I’m able to let you know that technology and I have recently parted company.

One of "The American People"

Remember back a short while ago when the candidates were talking about what “the American people” wanted?  Well, I’m one and I thought I’d have a go at stating for the record just what it is that I want.

 

First off, I want the two Senators from each state to share an office.  Regardless of political affiliation, they were elected by the voters of their state to work for the best interests of that state.  In order to do that they should be in the same room working on common problems, not in separate buildings where who knows what the other Senator is up to.  Work in the same room!  No walls separating their desks!  Each able to share with the other!  And look each other in the face!

 

Next, the two Senators from each state should have desks next to each other on the Senate floor.  No more of this “across the aisle” foolishness!  Work together!

 

As for the House of Representatives, the same restructuring – all the Representatives from each state in a single room (some will be LARGE as in the case for California) and all sitting together on the House floor.  How can they possibly work on common state goals if they can’t interact with each other?  How can they possibly agree on common state goals if they’re separated by office and building?

 

Simple solution?  I think so.  Achievable?  Not with the current thinking in Washington.

Autumn

This is the time of year when we eat breakfast on the balcony.  It may last for only a week or so before we shift to lunch out there, but it's very enjoyable while it lasts.  People up north are closing their pools and getting out their bowling balls and parkas, while we look forward to walks out-of-doors during the middle of the day.  Life has a different perspective depending on which part of the world in which one lives.

A New Path

Yesterday, I started down a path new to me but one which many others have trod.  The doctor said the biopsy was positive and I have cancer of the urinary bladder. The first treatment was yesterday.

The procedure is: check my urine for bacteria, if any, abort.  If OK, drain bladder via catheter, add BCG in 50 cc saline solution (about a large shot glass).  Go home.  Lie on all four sides, about 15 minutes each.  After 2 hours, empty bladder.  Resume normal eating and drinking except no caffeine or alcohol for 24 hours.  So far, there have been no after effects.

Treatments will continue for five more weeks.  Three to four weeks after treatment stops, an examination will be made to assess results. I think they found it early enough that there shouldn't be any problem in erasing it.

Emotional Music

Bruce Pulk, a percussionist for the Phoenix Symphony Orchestra, recently gave a talk about Bohemian Rhapsodies at Westminster Village.  The last orchestral piece he played stirred us emotionally and was variously described as a violent storm, the destruction of a village, inner turmoil, etc.  Afterward, I talked with him about how emotional I felt when listening to Symphony No. 7 – the Leningrad Symphony by Dmitri Shostakovitch.  I related the music to the war years when the German army had besieged the city.  Bruce encouraged me to read Testimony: the Memoirs of Dmitri Shostakovitch  by Solomon Volkov to gain an understanding of the origins of the symphony.  It turns out that I was way off base, that Shostakovitch had begun the work as a tribute to the people of Leningrad who had suffered through the purges and starvations of the Stalin era leading up to the siege of the city.  That throws a completely different light on the music, but certainly does not diminish the emotions the piece stirs; it only redirects the origin of the suffering to Stalin, who had no compunctions about torturing and murdering his own countrymen.  One can only hope that those days of terror are gone from Russia forever.  In any event, I encourage you to listen to the complete symphony and analyze your emotional reaction to the music.

Art?

I've tried something new for my great-grandchildren.  Hidden in the squiggles is a message that I hope they can find.  I put two up recently and my granddaughter was able to find the message for her son too quickly.  Here are the original and the message.

How old?

Tomorrow my body turns 81 years of age.  My brain isn’t so sure.  Sometimes, it’s 16 and dishing up ice cream cones at Bowker’s Dairy in Rochester, New York.  Or it’s 58 and hauling a travel trailer into the Valle Del Oro park in Mesa, Arizona.  Wait a minute, it’s really 21 and in a cap and gown in Stillwater, Oklahoma, waiting in line for that diploma.  Oops, it’s 35 and camping in the Adirondack Mountains with my brother and our sons, looking for the elusive trout.  Well, actually it’s 80 and waiting for all the fireworks to celebrate the eve of my birth.  Happy Fourth of July, everyone.  How old is your brain?

Meteorologists Have Gotten Lazy Lately

Meteorologists have gotten lazy lately.  It used to be, not too long ago, that the rule for determining when the monsoon started here in the Valley of the Sun was when the relative humidity had reached 55 for 5 days in a row.  Now, it has changed to the 15^th of June.  So what happened to cause the change, you ask.  Well, here’s what I think.

Tom, Dick and Mary, all esteemed meteorologists, were gathered around the office water cooler one scorching hot June day, discussing various and sundry meteorological matters when their boss came along and reminded them that it would soon be time for the annual monsoon decision.  Their conversation went along these lines:

Tom:  Oh rats, now we’ve got to get out our charts and start keeping track of the relative humidity.

Dick:  Yeah, it sure does louse up the day to have to go outside with those dumb equipment things.

Mary: You mean the humidity measurer doohickeys?

Dick:  Yeah.  I can never remember from one year to the next how to work the dumb things, let alone where we stored them.

Tom:  And we never can get anyone else to go out and do the measuring for us.  There’s got to be an easier way. 

Mary:  Maybe we can somehow come up with a better formula, like after it rains two days in a row.  That would make it easier.  We wouldn’t have to use those dumb charts for such a long time.

Tom:  We wouldn’t even have to go out, we could just watch out the window for the rain.

Dick:  I’ve got it!  Remember how those guys over at Stonehenge figured out the solstices were all tied to calendar dates, like December 21^st and June 21^st and, um, those others.  Why can’t we tie the monsoon to the calendar?

Tom and Mary, in unison:  Great, Dick, you’ve hit on the solution.

Dick:  Okay, now what date should we use?

Mary:  Well, today is the 15^th of June, it’s right in the middle of the month, easy to remember, why not use it?  And besides, it usually rains sometime around now, according the local paper.

Tom and Dick, in unison:  Right!  Let’s go tell the boss how we’ve managed to make the work around here simpler for everyone.

And that’s the way it was one day at the meteorological office water cooler.

It's Summer, Tra La

Summer began on Sunday here in Westminster Village.  That's when it was too hot to sit out for breakfast.  It was 80, and the mornings will stay in the 80's until a monsoon raises the humidity and lowers the temperature.  Or raises the temperature.  In any event, we're in for the duration.

One or Two?

Clay Thompson writes a feature for the Arizona Republic newspaper called “Valley 101” in which he attempts to answer questions submitted by his readers on any subject.  Recently, someone innocently (we assume) asked whether there should be one or two spaces at the end of a sentence.  I don’t remember the answer he gave, but apparently it caused a flurry of responses.  A large number of readers questioned his intelligence, which happens quite often, by insisting that one space is the correct number, citing various epistles such as Wikipedia, the Encyclopedia Britannica, Roget’s Thesaurus, and various English teachers from the far distant past, to justify their position.  An equal number of irate readers said that two was the only true answer, citing the very same epistles, and emphasizing the level of his incompetence as shown by his response.  He has since asked that we are free to use one or two, whichever suits us, and to please consider the matter closed, as he is tired of his mail being cluttered with angry threats and comments about his manhood.  So please don’t write him (clay.thompson@arizonarepublic.com) to join in the fray.

I myself have used two ever since I was weaned away from cursive writing and was sat down behind a keyboard, be it typewriter (remember those?), word processor or computer.  There’s something about automatic spacing using two empty spaces at the end of a sentence that appeals to my esthetic nature.  So whatever your preference, one, two or whatever, count me as a “two spaces” guy, and don’t bother trying to convert me.

Patio Time

This is that time of year when we open the patio doors when we roll out of bed.  We have time for a cup of coffee and to read the paper before the temperature drives us indoors.  It won't be long, though, before it'll be too warm.  A short period in the spring and then again in the fall.  So we soak it up while we can. 

Jerking Sodas

The hardest times were the hot, humid days when families would crowd around the counter, all wanting me to serve them their ice cream cones first.  The frustration was twofold; first, trying to decide who was next, and then, trying to hold up to four cones in one hand without crushing any before they were handed over to the eager eaters.  The best times were after all the orders were filled and we could go in the back where the ice cream was coming out of the mixer and we were free to sample the soft, creamy delight.  The year was 1947, the place was Rochester, NY, the store was Bowker’s Dairy Products and I had just finished my junior year of high school and had my first paying job. 

Soda Jerk.  It doesn’t sound like much, but it was a life of adventure for me; a place to serve the paying public; a place to meet girls; a place to satisfy my sweet tooth for free.  Let me explain that last part:  we were told when we were hired that we could eat all the ice cream we wanted as long as the customers were served; that if we made a mistake on an order, we were free to put it aside for future consumption.  How close to heaven could this be?

It didn’t take long to learn the various recipes.  Chocolate milk shake: milk up to there in the container, 2 scoops chocolate ice cream, 2 squirts chocolate syrup, put on the mixer, then pour into a tall glass.  Lime soda: 2 squirts lime syrup, soda water up to there, 2 scoops vanilla ice cream, stir and serve.  Black and white sundae: one scoop vanilla ice cream covered with chocolate syrup, one scoop chocolate ice cream covered with marshmallow syrup, whipped cream and a maraschino cherry on top.  And so on.

It was a fun time: good music on the jukebox; friends dropping by; a cool place in the summer heat; and all that ice cream in all those wonderful flavors!  My favorite was any kind I happened to be eating at the time.  Well, enough of the reminiscing, time to hit the Garden Café for a scoop or three.  Happy sundae!