MY FIRST REAL LIFE HERO

Blog number Ninety-four                              30 May 2007

I was four years old, maybe five.  I hadn't started school yet.  In the spring of 1936, the depression was still going on.  The farm could not support us, since farm prices were either low or nonexistent, so the family left the farm near Graettinger Iowa to go to Des Moines.  My Mom claimed that she ate so much corn and corn products during the depression, that although the rest of the rest of the family relished fried corn meal mush, she wouldn't eat it.  She would cook it, but she wouldn't eat it.

My Dad got a job at Lake Shore Tire and Rubber Company.  We lived in a house at 2050 Maple Street - an address that was ingrained into my consciousness in case I got lost in the big city.  This came in handy when I followed a boy home from kindergarten one afternoon so that we could play together. 

When we got to his house, he went inside and left me standing there.  I started to walk towards where I thought home was, but I was completely lost.  I must have started crying because some adults asked me if I was lost.  When they asked me my address, I told them and they said, "Why that's THAT way," pointing back where I was walking from.  I didn't believe them at first, but they were insistent.  I don't remember whether any of them took me home, but I did make it.  I don't remember ever talking to that boy ever again - not on purpose, but that's just the way it turned out.

One day I was outside and the postman came by and said to me, "Hi Bud."  I didn't say anything, but I went inside and told Mom that the man had called me, "Bud."  She told me that people called people that when they didn't know their names.

The next day I was walking around the neighborhood when I spotted two boys about my age playing in their back yard.  I walked up and said to one, "Hi Bud." He looked surprised and asked me how I knew his name.  I didn't reply.  Kids that age sometimes don't respond because it's too much trouble to explain, or not worth the trouble, or they just never think of it.

His name turned out to be Roland Cathewood, although I didn't find that out until a few years later.  His brother's name was Robert.  (to be continued)

IF NOT ME, WHO?

Blog number Ninety-four                              27 May 2007

I''m sitting in Barnes and Noble reading a book when I notice an employee stacking books on a shelf.  He leaves and as a customer walks by, the books drop one after the other until a pile of ten or twelve books lie on the floor.  The customer looks back and keeps on walking.  The employee is out of sight.

I notice that the book I am reading has a sticky red circle on the cover, obviously left by a soft drink in a glass.

We go to Mimi's to eat.  It is very busy - a 25 minute wait.  We decide to sit at the counter.  We see an employee drop a gob of butter on the tile floor.  Waitresses and busboys dodge it to keep from stepping in it and maybe slipping and breaking a bone or two.

Who is there to correct these things?  Who is there to correct these things and forestall a feeling of irritation or worse in fellow humans?  Who is there to prevent more bad feeling from slipping out into the mass that is humanity?

Ever see a shopping cart left in a parking place in a crowded parking lot?  Or left smack in the middle of a parking space so that no one can park there until it is moved?  Bet you have.

Ever ran over a nail someone left in the road after seeing it lying there and figuring it was someone else's job to remove it?  "I didn't leave it there.  Why should I take care of it?"

Whose job - whose responsibility is it to pick up the books, clean the book cover, tell an employee about the spilled butter, put the shopping carts back where they belong, pick up the nail?  Is that your job or is it mine?

The first time this question really came home to me, I was sitting at a sidewalk coffee house beside a busy street where a large object had fallen into the middle of the street.  I watched as cars veered around it and as other customers commented on the danger of that object lying there.  It finally came to me that if I didn't remove it, nobody would.  It finally came to me the real meaning of, "If not me, who?"

But listen to this.  A different book that I was reading was that "Hate Mail From Cheerleaders" that I told you about.  I read about a star basketball athlete that needed a kidney.  Six thousand people volunteered to give him their kidney.  People that had never met him, but because he was their hero, they would give him a kidney.  Now listen to this:

One guy - a guy named Warren, wanted to give the athlete his kidney, but when he started reading about the many thousands of people on a list for a kidney, thought, "Why should this guy receive a kidney simply because he was a star athlete?"  So he volunteered to give up a kidney to the first one on the list or to whomever matched his blood type.  Now you talk about a service to humanity, what kind of a person could do something like that?  Not me.

NO - YOU'RE A HOCKEY PUCK.

Blog number Ninety-three                              22 May 2007

Read an autobiography of Don Rickles at Barnes and Nobles this morning.  He told of an incident that I had read about before.  I like it so much I thought I would share.

Don took a girl to the Sands in Vegas.  Sitting at a table, he sees Frank Sinatra come in with a bunch of his friends.  Don gets up, walks to Frank's table, says, "Hi, Frank."  Frank says, "Hi Don."

Don, "Say Frank, would you do me a favor?  See that girl sitting over there?  I want to impress her, so I would consider it a great favor if you would come over and just say, 'Hi Don,' Like we were good friends.  Would you do that?"

Frank says, " Sure.  Glad to."

Don says, "Aw, thanks, Frank."

So Don goes back to his table with the girl and he waits five minutes - no Frank.  Ten minutes go by.  No Frank.  Fifteen minutes.  Don is getting concerned.  Then Frank comes over, says, "Hi Don. How ya doing?"

Don waits a beat, then loudly says, "NOT NOW, FRANK.  CAN'T YOU SEE I'M WITH SOMEBODY!"

Everybody gets quiet.  Waiters stop in their tracks.  Frank stares at him. Then Frank collapses, laughing.

THOSE WEDDING BELLS ARE RINGING FOR YOUSE AND ME

Today is my wedding anniversary. 

Teresa's is tomorrow.

(Just kidding)

We been married 51 tumultuous years.

Mostly it's been fun.

RONNIE, BABY!

Blog number Ninety-two                              21 May 2007

I just finished reading a book about fans - the people kind, not the cooling kind.  I wrote that line to someone else recently.  I hope it wasn't for my blog.  Signs of senility, ya know.  Anyhow, the book was much more interesting and informative than I thought it would be.  The author likes to get inside the heads of people - including his own.  I like that.  One of my favorite day dreams is that I become able to read people's minds - especially that of babies.  I very often wonder what they are thinking when they do their "baby" thing.  Like staring at their mother's eyes for hours on end. 

But I digress.

Not that long ago I realized that memories are completely unreliable.  Not that all one's memories are not what they seem to be, but that you can't trust any of them.  Surely you have had the experience of remembering something and somebody else remembers it differently?  The thing that is amazing to me about memories that two people remember differently is that both of them have a "video" picture of the event running in their minds as they are remembering.  It's not like remembering history dates.  These are reruns of actual happenings.  So between two people remembering an event differently, there are two "TVs" showing the same event differently.

Now back to the fan book.  On the last page the author is describing going to view Ronald Reagan's body lying in its coffin.  He reminisces with his father about getting Reagan's autograph.  "Remember when he (Reagan) thought the fake signature was real, and I said it wasn't, and he said, 'Well, I guess you know better than me' ?"

My Dad, who was also there, said, "That's not how it happened.  Reagan said, 'I already signed this,' and you were quiet for a second, and then you said, 'Then could you please sign it again?' "

Amazed, I disagreed.  I told my dad that I remembered the exchange as clear as yesterday.  Later, though, I started wondering if Dad was right.  After all, he, as a father, was focused on his son; and I, as a fan, was focused on my star.  The exchange that I remember is more plausible: its last line captures Ronald Reagan's careless affability; it's the kind of thing he would have said.  The exchange my dad remembers is just as credible: its last line captures the gentle persistence with which I've always approached the famous, although my own memory adds the cheekiness that drove me, too.

Ain't that weird, about memories?

Yes it is.

 

I'M A PILE DRIVING MAN

Blog number Ninety-one                              17 May 2007

That couple I was talking about in the last blog where the husband died?  One time we four were talking about an upcoming election  and Rolly (his name) said that Jo (her name) was a Democrat and he was a Republican and in order not to cancel out their votes and thus waste them, they decided they would both vote Republican. 

Teresa and I laughed about it later, but we never said anything to them.  Oddly, something like that was totally expected from them.  They were a lot of fun. 

Rolly and I used to beat the girls at pinochle due to our expertise at bidding.  Teresa told me years later she and Jo used to sometimes win because they cheated - they would rub their ring finger for diamonds, touch their hearts for hearts, etc.

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Walking to my coffee shop in Sacramento, I went right by one of those pile drivers that had just been set up that morning.  It took me a few days of going by before I noticed that I couldn't see any sign of where water would be stored in order to operate the pile driver.  The only pile drivers I had ever heard of were steam driven. 

So I looked closer and saw that it was a diesel engine.  One giant cylinder, like a "Poppin' Johnny" John Deere tractor.  The cylinder would fire, driving the piston up, it would fall due to gravity, pounding the pile into the ground.

One morning I got to watch them start the "engine."  They pulled the heavy iron pile driving part up to the top, let it go, it would drop and the "engine" would "puff" and a cloud of smoke would come out.  Putt putt...putt....puttt...  the engine stopped.  They pulled the driver to the top again, let it go, Putt...putt...putt putt putt off and running.

I just realized that I never noticed how they pulled that heavy driver up to the top.  Dork!

A POCKET FULL OF MIRACLES

Blog number Nintie                                  16 May 2007

This Morning we ate breakfast at Mimi's in Phoenix.  It's an "Italian" restaurant, so they play a lot of Frank Sinatra, Tony Martin, Dean Martin, Tony Bennett, et al.  Why does music play in restaurants?  Did you ever hear anyone say, "Let's go to Mimi's and listen to some music?"  No, you never did.  You go to restaurants to eat and talk.  Music in the background interferes with that.  Am I right or am I right?

Anyhow, today we heard Louie Prima and Keely Smith - a singing duo from the fifties.  They had a television program back in 1955 or so.  She had coal black hair cut in a pageboy.  She was Indian - Cherokee, I think.  He was a big Italian.  They sang together, did patter much like Sonny and Cher in later years.  In fact, Keely would zing Louie in the same manner as Cher zinged Sonny. 

Prima and smith also had an excellent dance team consisting of two woman and a man that performed every week.  I'm not really an aficionado of dance, but these three were so good that they always seemed to mesmerize me.  Nowadays I can't remember but part of one dance.  One of the women acted like a snake and actually seemed to slither down the body of the male, like she didn't have any bones in her body.

We also saw, at Mimi's this morning, a man that looked like an Italian friend we had in Sacramento.  Going to Phoenix, I was ruminating on a couple that were our very best friends for many years until the husband died and she remarried and moved away.  We went to visit her and her new husband, and I can't remember now, but the relationship, where and how they lived, their offspring and the husband's job, his very name, was so exactly like another couple we knew in Sacramento that I had a hard time believing it was all coincidental.

So have you ever heard of "alternate selves?"  The same consciousness inhabiting several bodies at the same time?  Ever hear of "dopplegangers?"
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I'm reading a couple of books right now.  One of them is on the life of St. Francis in the form of an autobiography written in the present time.  Interesting.  Anyhow, he describes seeing the lips of a statue of Jesus move as the statue talked to him.  I remember reading of this incident in a more factual book (written as a biography instead of an autobiography.)  The "present time" St. Francis then goes on to say that of course the lips were not moving, that it was his own internal experience that was happening - that another person looking on would not have seen the lips move.

The other book I'm reading is on the experiences of fans.  People fans, not cooling breeze fans.  The author heard a song by Dolly Parton which he took as a "message" to read the Bible to his Alzheimer's affected mother just before she died.  Due to interview Dolly, he wanted to tell her how much that incident changed his life.  Unfortunately, the interview opportunity was revoked.  It made his so angry and upset that he ranted and railed a while until a couple of Dolly's handlers set down with him and asked him why it meant so much to him that he couldn't tell Dolly what she had done for him.

He realized from that question that he had no reason to inform Dolly of what she had done for him - that it was that old familiar "internal experience" thing.  Dolly would not have known anything about it, being only the "carrier" and not the instigator.

The war book I just finished where the author relates hearing "you will survive the war" loud and clear while everyone else sitting around him heard nothing.

I read of a guy that saw a female statue walking and talking in a temple in China, and went around for years trying to get someone to explain to him what had happened.

What could be an explanation for all these things - the alternate selves, the impossible visions? 

Delusion? 

Lying? 

Say they all really happened.  What then, could be an explanation?  No need for an answer, just a need for to ponder.  A need for a glimpse of the miraculous as ordinary.

ODDS ENDS

Blog number eighty-nine                                  09 May 2007

In one of my earlier BLOGS, I promised that if I remembered the name of the park in Los Angeles near the place that sold only cups of coffee and donuts - a cup and a donut for 10 cents in 1955, I would tell you the name of the park.  It was famous for soap box orators.  I watched them several times.  Very interesting.  They were usually - if not always, heckled.  The name of the park was, "MacArthur Park."  So that's that.

We went to Chandler today and Mom (Teresa) bought some coffee flavored fudge bars.  Driving home, she tried one and said they were too sweet.  A short time later, thinking on it, I asked her to dig one out for me.  When she did, I noticed the top had been bitten off.  It struck me right then that if someone sold fudge bars with what looked like a bite taken out of one side, I think they would sell very well.  Kids would love them - right?  Hell, I would buy them.  They would be neat and neatness counts.

A couple of days later we were shopping at Safeway and walking by the freezer section, I happened to notice the boxes of ice cream bars and viola!  The pictures on the box portrayed ice cream bars with a bite taken out.  Now, if that is an attractive way of showing pictures of ice cream bars, why not have the actual bars look like that? 

I wish I worked for Ben and Jerry's so I could get a bonus for suggesting that.

On the last page of Sport's Illustrated magazine is a column by Rich Reilly.  He recently published a book of his columns called, "Hate Mail From Cheerleaders."  The title comes from mail he received after writing a column saying that cheerleading was not a sport.  Anyhow, he is a funny and very insightful writer.  His columns are not about sports, but about people that have something to do with different sports.  I have read several columnists over the years and he is by far the best.  I recommend him highly.  I like witty people.  I like intelligent people. 

I was watching "Cops" the other night and they were at a house where a group of people from AA were helping a woman move from her house while the cops were there to make sure it was a peaceful move.  She constantly badmouthed her ex, and at one point she said, "Tell them how you prostituted me."

She told her ex that he ought to get religion like she did and join AA.  He told her she should quit drinking.  She replied that she did quit, that she didn't have any problem quitting drinking - that she had done it many times.  She didn't realize the humor of what she said.  She was serious.  She was a terror.

OH GREAT! NOW I GOTTA WORRY ABOUT THAT TOO

Blog number eighty-eight                                  08 May 2007

Every species of organisms have within it, it's own destruction, from microbes to rabbits to humans.  Every species will, if left unchecked by predators or epidemics, die of its own refuse, or by eliminating its food source through overuse.  Rabbits will, if left unchecked, eat all of its food source, for instance.

So I worry.

Ironically, humanity seems to be the only species that has the ability to consciously regulate its population.  All the other species are stuck with what they have, or with whatever humans allow them.  Irony comes from the seeming fact that humans will never do this.  Humans seemingly will never regulate their population explosion until it is forced upon them by disease or starvation. 

Or dehydration.

Or mass murders.

So I worry.

Asteroids swarm about us, almost any of which, if impacting the earth, will wipe us out.  Same goes for comets.  

If the sun changes temperature by two or three degrees either way, that will destroy most of life on earth, including us.

So I worry.

Now I find out that the moon is receding from the earth an inch and a half every year, and when it gets far enough away, it will lose its stabilizing power on the earth, causing the earth to wobble on its axis such that the poles will be directly under the sun's rays, melting the polar caps, inundating greater portions of the land, and the equator will be darkened for most of the year, resulting in ice covering the rain forests.

I wonder which way would be the most interesting way to die.  Probably the wobbly earth, wouldn't you say?  Least interesting way would be to drown in our own waste, I imagine.  Nasty nasty.    

Being in the middle of an epidemic wouldn't be all that great either. 

Dying of thirst is reportedly not too pleasant either.

Neither is having people try to kill you, I hear.

Better get an assault weapon I guess, with a trunk full of ammo.

Maybe an APG or two also.

And trail mix and a large canteen full of water.

And underlings.

And several large vicious dogs.

And a sharpened Kbar.