My Dad - Frank Arthur Miller (1896-1974)

 

          Dad’s lineage on his mother’s side, goes back to Miles Standish, while on his father’s side it traces to German farmers in Alsace, France.  He was a twin, the fifth of ten children born in Batavia, NY, to Lennie Mann and William Francis Miller, eight of whom survived infancy.  His mother died when he was eight, after which his oldest sister kept order in the household.  Schooling ended at the age of thirteen when he had to earn money to help support the family.  Following his father’s footsteps, he worked in construction, eventually having his own business as a bricklayer and mason contractor.  He spent part of The Great War as a Naval Seaman in England, building barracks for the troops.  Marriage to Wilhelmina Henrietta Goebel in 1922 brought two sons, Frederick and Robert, raised during the Great Depression.  He was a hunter and fisherman, providing the family with pike, bass, pheasant and rabbit to feast on.  During his short life (77 years) he built houses for his sons, entertained 13 grandchildren, was active in the local Spiritualist Church, shoveled snow off miles of sidewalk and almost survived prostate cancer.  There are many structures in Batavia and Rochester, NY, that bear the fruits of his labor, and his family sorely misses him.

My Mom - Wilhelmina Henrietta Goebel (1897-1979)

Mom was the eldest daughter of immigrants from Germany.  Her father, Heinrich Göbel, arrived in his teens and worked his way to become a noted chef in Rochester, NY.  Her mother, Clara Marie Steinmetz, arrived with her mother and sisters at the age of eight; she worked as a domestic until her marriage to Heinrich, who had since become Henry Gabel, ultimately settling on Goebel.  As she grew up, Mom saw her 18-year old brother, Fred, dead from an accidental electrocution, and her two-year old sister, Marguerite, dead from scarlet fever; her youngest brother, Henry, lived to the ripe old age of 97. 

Always surrounded by cousins and friends, she enjoyed family outings, especially visits to her Uncle Fred Gabel’s farm in Mendon, NY.  After graduating from high school, she attended business school, eventually working at Remington Typewriter Co. as a bookkeeper.  The summer of 1922, she worked at Camp Mohawk, a resort inn on Fourth Lake in the Adirondack Mountains.

After marriage to Frank Arthur Miller in 1924, she lived in Batavia, where her two sons, Frederick Arthur, and Robert Harold, were born.  She was an active member of the Methodist Church, and with her husband, joined a local Bridge Club.   Mom and Dad continued to meet monthly with Mom’s girlfriends and their husbands to play Pinochle, rotating from house-to-house, even though it meant traveling the 30 miles to Rochester.

          After the family moved to Rochester, in 1941, she took a job as Receptionist, Cashier and Switchboard Operator at Kroll's, a women's clothing and millinery shop on North Clinton Avenue.  After her husband's death, Wilhelmina suffered a series of strokes.  She moved into a nursing home on East Henrietta Road, where she lived for her last 4 years.  She died in Genesee Hospital of pneumococcal pneumonia at the age of 82.  She was a grand lady and the proud mother of two, grandmother of 13 and great-grandmother of three.

What's the Problem?

Last November, the voters in Arizona approved a measure to raise the minimum wage to $10.00 per hour, with additional increases over the next few years.  This was one of those “feel good” measures that passed without anyone assessing the true impact on families, businesses and our local economy.  So what was supposed to happen and what did the measure achieve?

First, step back and ask: What was the problem that the measure was trying to solve?  That was never made clear during the campaign.  For the Legislature, it apparently was to provide more tax revenue.  For the employees, it apparently was to give them more spending money in their pockets.  For the employers, we don’t know.  What really happened?  Well, the Legislature will be getting more tax monies to spend; employees will be getting a percentage of the increase to spend, not the full amount, because of their increased tax burden.  And what are the unintended consequences of the measure?

Employees who were earning the minimum wage received an increase, regardless of their performance, taking away their employers right, and ability, to reward performance.  Employees who were earning a dollar or two above the minimum wage because of their performance, now see themselves earning the same wage as lower performing workers.  To adjust for this forced discrepancy, employers must now raise everyone else’s wages, ultimately causing prices to rise.  This is forcing a rising economy, which eats into everyone’s disposable income, negatively affecting their ability to buy the necessities.

A simpler solution?  Keep wages at a level determined by the labor market, and lower the tax burden.  So, let’s repeal the wage increase, define the real problem, and start putting the economy back on solid footing.

24, 48 or 72?

Take a look at your deodorant.  Mine says it's good for 48 hours.  48 hours?  I take a shower at least once a day, so why would I need a deodorant that lasts longer than that?  And now I find that stores offer some that last 72 hours.  Does that mean I could forego washing under my arms for three days?  Well, it ain't gonna happen - I'm buying the 24-hour stuff next time we shop.  Sure makes one wonder, though.

The Old Hometown Looks The Same - Sure!

 

This is a street view from Google Earth of the old homestead in Batavia, New York.  It looks the same as when we lived there in the 1930’s, except there was a Spirea bush next to the porch, instead of what looks like a Lilac bush.  The fourth house down the street to the right belonged to my Grandfather, but his barn is gone now.  And down Miller Avenue, to the left, there is a four-car garage; my father converted it from the original five-car structure sometime in the 1950’s, when I was in college.  When we visited about ten years ago, everything looked smaller than I remembered.





 

The Old Hometown Looks the Same - NOT!

It’s been years since I walked the streets of downtown Rochester, New York, but I have checked out parts of it on Google Earth.  At the corner of Main and Clinton many changes have taken place, including Midtown Plaza having been replaced; I wonder what happened to the “magical” Clock of the Nations.  Across the street, the Sibley Building has been enclosed by construction fencing, presuming some major changes there.  The building held the Sibley, Lindsay and Curr Company, a major department store back in the day.  The big treat was to visit the toy department on the fourth floor just before Christmas to see the tremendous display of marvelous toys, dolls, electric trains, games, bicycles – all the goodies we wrote Santa about.  The elevator took us up, or rather, the elevator operator took us up.  He was responsible to make sure we were clear of the doors he manually opened and closed, then worked the lever to take us up, all the while singing out the floors we approached and the merchandise contained therein; second floor, ladies dresses coats and hats; third floor, men’s and boy’s clothes; fourth floor, housewares and toys.  That was the one we waited anxiously to hear.  And then the rush out the door to the Christmas Wonderland!  Great memory!

Lectric Shave, Customer Response and Me

Lately, I’ve been reading the ingredients on stuff I use, and was interested to note that Lectric Shave contains Fragrance, plus Green 5, Yellow 10 and Orange 4 dyes.  I use the product just before I go into the shower, so thought it didn’t make since to have those things in a product I washed off within minutes.  I looked up Lectric Shave and found it’s a product of Combe Incorporated and sent off a letter to Mr. Christopher B. Combe, President, suggesting those items be removed.  I told him about allergic reactions to dyes and fragrances and mentioned a reduction in production costs could be realized.  Their current brands are “category leaders in feminine health and intimate skin care, men’s hair color and grooming, and oral device care.” It took several weeks, but I did receive a response.  Not from Mr. Combe, but from someone in his customer response organization.  In a few short sentences, she wrote that, if I didn’t like their product, I shouldn’t buy it.

            That sent me off to wonder about other of their products I shouldn’t buy, so I did some research and here’s what I found I shouldn’t buy, besides Lectric Shave: Vagisil, Just For Men, Aqua Velva, Brylcreem, Johnson’s Foot Powder and Sea.Bond.  So they are now on my “No Shopping” list, not that I’d ever need Vagisil.

Sizing Things Up

I bought a bathrobe, white, made by Izod.  It’s more like a kimono.  The tag says “One size fits most”.  That’s true if most are 5’4” Sumo wrestlers with short, stubby arms.  I’m not, but I make do.  My socks fit shoe sizes from 7 to 10½; my size is 9½, so I’m reasonably sure that my heel and the sock heel come together.  Imagine a fellow with a size 7 – the heel must come up to their ankle; and the person with a 10½ shoe must find himself walking on the sock heel.  Another thing is shirt sizes.  I’m half way between S and M.  I wish they made a Small-and-a-half.  The sleeves might turn out to be just the right length.  Are you a size 35 waist, drowning in size 36 slacks or holding your breath in a 34?  Welcome to the club.  So if you meet me anywhere and I look like I slept in my clothes, blame it on the manufacturers, not my bedtime habits.  After all, my hair is combed.

Odds ''n Ends

Over a week ago, a rain cell stalled over our building and dropped over 2 1/2 inches of rain on us.  Our patio doesn't drain - it's a long story - and we wound up with a small pond, because the wind was just right.  Our Housekeeping Manager came with a power extractor and sucked up over 50 gallons of water.  Our thanks to him, we have a very dry and clean carpet.
This morning, our newspaper was short sections A, B and C.  I called in the problem to the AZ Republic office and was promised a new paper and a credit to our account.  Now, that's customer service!
If you're interested in pet portraits, look at this blog: http://pamelamangelsdorf.com and read her August 2016 post.
It's official - I'm old.  One son has just retired and a daughter is just about to.  But weren't they born just a few days ago?  Seems like it.
Here's the dust storm that rolled in last week just as we were getting out of our car.

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!