tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58205322762650177932024-03-05T13:17:37.387-08:00Dry MartiniDry Martinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09848984695729501628noreply@blogger.comBlogger57125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5820532276265017793.post-76791865902538600742023-06-29T08:50:00.001-07:002023-06-29T08:50:06.717-07:00The Path Not Taken<p><br />With all due respect to Mr. Frost, our well-trod path in Indiana has yielded a milestone. Young Dominic has turned 18 and straddles the line between high school and adulthood. He stands at life's bus station, ticket in hand, and intently studies both directions: the road from whence he came and the winding, partially obscured curves of the future.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl5G5XED83oTAY5SQeluvethFwzkWEeE9-aut39wJHMqLep_N_4jsd204oq8gks5YBksJK4FY2fWVqCTzAQXDxBDj34gZVwAiDt7kthPP34J8FExTlv2Sb8YZS-tJeSq-9-8cFaaFbyDtd8nt9L7jF-ozV6qva15lWNWaasHBgpB8K1WCsll_IfbMeuIo/s1977/DomAward.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1977" data-original-width="1290" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl5G5XED83oTAY5SQeluvethFwzkWEeE9-aut39wJHMqLep_N_4jsd204oq8gks5YBksJK4FY2fWVqCTzAQXDxBDj34gZVwAiDt7kthPP34J8FExTlv2Sb8YZS-tJeSq-9-8cFaaFbyDtd8nt9L7jF-ozV6qva15lWNWaasHBgpB8K1WCsll_IfbMeuIo/s320/DomAward.jpg" width="209" /></a></div>The image is a curious double-fold for Dom. As the youngest of four brothers, I'm sure it has been difficult, at times, bringing up the rear. In role of family caboose, one is expected to follow the tracks well laid before you. The course has already been cleared in most instances...just follow the well-trod, matted down grasses and don't stray too far from the pathway. You went to the same grade school, high school, scouts, et cetera, because, in a way, you were <i>expected</i> to...because that was simply <i>the way we</i> <i>did it</i>. The anticipated challenges of sweeping away debris had been done before of you. Just follow the path. (At least you were all boys. No "hand me down" clothing for any of you as they were always too worn out to pass along.) As far as expectations go, the only requirement was to keep up, step lively and follow along. Fortunately, that wasn't entirely the case. <p></p><p>It is worth noting that you're occasionally leaving the path, literally and figuratively, has been interesting, if not refreshing. When you were five, you strayed from the family on vacation at the Liberty Bell in Philly and your dad got to give the nice Park Service Ranger his name and address in exchange for a crying child's hand and a stern lecture. In grade school, you read so many books that your teachers gave you ribbons and we purchased eye glasses Later you explored the mountains of Colorado with your scout buddies, seeing indescribable vistas first hand, that your brothers and parents have only seen in photographs. As a college major, you've pointed your gaze toward chemistry...<i>chemistry?</i>! Didn't I tell you about my straight "D's" in Mr. Middendorf's class? You've never strayed dramatically and always seemed to find your own unique way back home.</p><p>And now the "real" journey begins. There's no roadmap now. No required attendance. No hand-me-down guidebook. The world is wide and big and (sometimes) frightening but you have a well-crafted internal compass and the stars to guide you. Like the hiking backpack that you've hoisted many times, be confident that you have packed what you need to endure, survive and thrive. Load up your broad shoulders and get ready to experience the "road less traveled" knowing that you are always loved and any steps can always be retraced back to your home. The future awaits...and that makes all the difference!</p>Dry Martinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09848984695729501628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5820532276265017793.post-21127910167528575102020-06-24T13:37:00.001-07:002020-06-24T13:37:10.987-07:00Ode to Grit and GrowthThis is late. My older boys graduated from high school and their dad wrote something heartfelt in a timely manner to try and express emotions revealed. Theo, dear Theo, waits an extra year. In fact, I am embarrassed to say that, as time has passed and boys grown into men, I've become less and less timely. Perhaps because I am less and less ready to let go.<br />
Theo's my dirty kid. His thoughts and manners are clean and pure as fresh snow but his hands are filthy. Visit Theo and you'll find him arm deep in a motor, or engine, or some other oily, greasy project. How does it work? How does it come apart? And can it go back together and work again? Honestly, not everything that has come apart has gone back together smoothly but that's, perhaps, a lesson in life we can all share.<br />
"That boy will always have a job offer" I am told. Willing to work, and work hard, Theo is entirely comfortable getting dirty with projects I probably would have shied away from even when I was young and confident. I always liked to "tinker"--as did my dad and grandfather-- but, for me, there was always a line drawn between a "tinker" and a full-blown, hair-pulling rebuild. My patience, what little I used to have, completely eludes me in my graying years. Theo still enjoys the challenge of the big project as much as the reluctant satisfaction of completing the small task and always has.<br />
So it was really tough when he went off to college last Fall and took with him his handiness around the homestead. Sometimes tasks waited until he came home for the weekend or on break. I always felt kind of bad to hit him with a "list" when he walked in the door but he's been a cheerful, pliant recipient of the needs of the household. I'm sure I'll face those same empty feelings this fall, too, when Year Two begins. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9zHNdWM82hUy-sW-PyFyIElaEiEFVfa4mIBpk4nea8-AYmpelsLC_Dp1CVLsfTD8CJb_u3Uu3UfJlu9IkN-GGDje0L5SOuVyLqixc7K6p_EY1IFwlMBp9ucq7kH1yd_2Y776Vv0jo9TY/s1600/IMG_20200530_203908716.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; clear: left; color: #0066cc; float: left; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1223" data-original-width="1600" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9zHNdWM82hUy-sW-PyFyIElaEiEFVfa4mIBpk4nea8-AYmpelsLC_Dp1CVLsfTD8CJb_u3Uu3UfJlu9IkN-GGDje0L5SOuVyLqixc7K6p_EY1IFwlMBp9ucq7kH1yd_2Y776Vv0jo9TY/s320/IMG_20200530_203908716.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9zHNdWM82hUy-sW-PyFyIElaEiEFVfa4mIBpk4nea8-AYmpelsLC_Dp1CVLsfTD8CJb_u3Uu3UfJlu9IkN-GGDje0L5SOuVyLqixc7K6p_EY1IFwlMBp9ucq7kH1yd_2Y776Vv0jo9TY/s1600/IMG_20200530_203908716.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>Lest one read this and think I am only raising a worker bee, Theo is also a fun kid to be around. All of the boys are so different it confounds and fascinates me. Theo is the only child who gets excited about a photo of a tractor or a video of a steam engine or even a funny cat video. And while I don't always understand the displacement of a Ford tractor engine any more than Gabe's explanation of how a Bluetooth works or Tony's summary of how non-profits act in a bullish economy, I do listen and enjoy the lessons. I might not "get it" but I enjoy sharing that precious time. Dom, you are next...where will your interests lay?<br />
And, oh, isn't the time going so fast? I sincerely regret all of the precious moments I failed to fully exploit as a dad and I am so sad I cannot return down those lost miles. After years of being the boy's taxi, it's tough expressing how much it hurts when I drive with an empty passenger seat beside me. The loss feels both permanent and temporary. As long as I can imagine the next time we are all together, the familiar sights, sounds and laughter flood my imagination with warmth and joy. Only then do I feel full again because while one cannot completely shake the brutish feelings of regret, he can strive to replace them with a hopeful brighter vision of the road yet to come.<br />
And for Theo? He will always be master of his domain--that being of tools, trucks and tinkering. He's comfortable in his skin and that would be a great place for all of us to be...even if it needs a little soap and water now and then.Dry Martinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09848984695729501628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5820532276265017793.post-28727156676591907702018-04-18T10:58:00.002-07:002018-04-18T11:05:38.793-07:00Happy Birthday, Hayley MillsDear Ms. Mills,<br />
I just wanted to write you a note on your birthday. Actually, it's been quite a while since I've seen or heard of you, but I saw your birthday listed on a "this date in history" page and wanted to extend my fondest wishes.<br />
Actually, we've never met. In fact, we've probably never been in the same state at the same time. But one time, long ago, you were my first real "crush" and seeing your name brought back a flood of good memories. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhudXLx4Gfgx_6sfeadzqSyAukEzXUIt5LKXEZ5i82psm9mq37W346OniuuuCen00ibdIBKnPFqNHFBESALEWa0vRxBB24aIAtt07MkYBqTvpJUlOz8loj8W1cGNZAYmqJld4pxbfUZgbg/s1600/MillsHayley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhudXLx4Gfgx_6sfeadzqSyAukEzXUIt5LKXEZ5i82psm9mq37W346OniuuuCen00ibdIBKnPFqNHFBESALEWa0vRxBB24aIAtt07MkYBqTvpJUlOz8loj8W1cGNZAYmqJld4pxbfUZgbg/s1600/MillsHayley.jpg" /></a>I was a young man...well, boy...when I watched "Pollyanna" on television--probably the Wonderful World of Disney. Okay, I was only 5 or 6 years old. But I was captivated by your performance. When your character fell off the ledge of the house and lost all interest in her recovery, I knew then you needed a man...er, boy...like me to take care of you. I don't remember much about the rest of the movie actually, and probably have seen it only once since, but I was prepared to abandon my luxurious 5-year-old lifestyle and hop on a train to come to your side and help you. Instead, in our local newspaper's "TV Guide," I clipped out your small photo and kept it in my new vinyl wallet for several years, until it literally fell into pulp fiber dust.<br />
And then it happened! It was around 1973 (as I recall), when someone gave me a World Almanac as a gift. One of the sections of the almanac was "celebrity birthdates" and I quickly dashed through the "A's," "B's" and arrived at the "M's" and found out when you were born.<br />
...And I was crushed.<br />
I then looked up when "Pollyanna" was filmed (1960) and did the math (I was never very good at math but could figure this one) and the realization hit me: Our relationship wasn't going to work out. I hope you understand but a May-December relationship probably wouldn't have gone over well in my childhood world. Plus, you've never heard of me. <br />
Being brave, and by this time focusing my attention on my first grade classmate (also unrequited, by the way), a lovely girl named Sherri who looked a lot like Pollyanna, I decided to break it off with you. <br />
In retrospect, it probably wouldn't have worked out anyway. I did get teased a lot about "us" by my parents and friends. In time, memories faded and only occasionally, over the years, did I remember that wallet-sized newspaper picture. But I have no regrets.<br />
There <em>is</em> something about those grade-school age "crushes" that I miss. The reminder of those new feelings during an age when just about every feeling you had was new. The childlike brain was just a mushy ball of emotions and physical changes that seemed to have no logical purpose. In some ways, I'm sad those days of surprise are long gone, replaced by more calloused, retreaded emotions. And yet, I would not want to re-live my childhood a second time. I'm fortunate that, sometimes, I can still summon those deep down feelings from the hard drive of my memory banks.<br />
Well, I must close now, but I wanted to send this along to "whereeveryouare."<br />
Happy birthday, Hayley.Dry Martinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09848984695729501628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5820532276265017793.post-15977747859579167832017-10-12T13:16:00.003-07:002017-10-12T13:28:35.851-07:00CharlieThere was an interesting novel (later turned movie) called <em>A Dog's Purpose</em> by Bruce Cameron--maybe you read it. Without giving too much away, it's the story of a dog who spends his life (actually, several lives thanks to reincarnation) trying to figure out his purpose in existence. I enjoyed the story and have often looked into the eyes of my pets to contemplate what <em>they</em> feel <em>their</em> purpose must be. For our dog, Abel, it's simple: to bark relentlessly for an hour each morning into the darkness to chase away unseen ghouls and goblins that could be lurking in the fields behind our house. But for our older dog, Charlie, it was a lesson learned only this week.<br />
Actually, it was yesterday. When he died. After a long, sad, slow couple of years, old age crept up and stole him away. At 14 1/2 years, this big black-lab-of-a-dog was not shortchanged by life--he did what he wanted as long as he could. But despite the strength and size of his heart, time finally caught up and overtook him and left his tearful owner staring into the inky darkness and asking questions to himself such as: what would Charlie say was his purpose?<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicBSd6XADc-IKfOKNd95scBRAULh7ZD_JQBLpYohLghhsaQVy4Ho9B5ckFfnpetLFGc2SD2_JnAGnVIzo2CtlJ5TYBUKPuOFtyZGnzq1b6gF4krIsL62y_01WDwaT5byRGPZUvmesYQyY/s1600/CharlieDog.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="750" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicBSd6XADc-IKfOKNd95scBRAULh7ZD_JQBLpYohLghhsaQVy4Ho9B5ckFfnpetLFGc2SD2_JnAGnVIzo2CtlJ5TYBUKPuOFtyZGnzq1b6gF4krIsL62y_01WDwaT5byRGPZUvmesYQyY/s320/CharlieDog.JPG" width="234" /></a>Well, my drooling, wagging friend, <em>that</em> isn't an easy question to answer! From the day he entered our family some 13-years ago, Charlie made it very clear that he was "too cool" and "too sophisticated" for the average dog routine. Charlie never retrieved a ball or stick (despite being a "retriever") and had no interest in impressing anyone. Content with a dip into our mossy pond (his previous owners had a mansion and in-ground swimming pool) or a long nap in the sun, Charlie was nobody's fool. That's not to say he wasn't easy-going...I've never seen an animal so laid-back. Charlie wouldn't<em> think </em>of biting or growling or showing angry teeth. Even when other dogs playfully nipped, he stood and took it without the slightest hint of fierceness. A newborn baby human would be perfectly safe in his company. He did enjoy the occasional long walk in the woods and he loved a good snack...but a "purpose?"<br />
The answer to that question became clear to me in recent days as I started to accept the dire reality of the situation. As Charlie got older and it became painful to go up and down steps, he decided, bullheadedly, to spend most of his indoor time on the cool floor of the basement. The obvious negative side of this decision was that it kept him out of normal family "activity." Without such interactions, Charlie spent a lot of time alone and I felt terrible about it. He did still enjoy days outside lying in the sun when weather permitted, but that wasn't always the case. Even our long walks became harder and more unpredictable. But he always there...and, boom, therein lies my answer.<br />
Charlie was Always Just There and that's a wonderful trait to have. When I needed a friend, he was Always Just There. And when I was busy or tired, he waited, patiently, until he was needed. Always Just There--the golden trait of any good friend. I'd tell him my problems, complain about my day, and, for a small scratch behind the ears, he'd give me his close attention and those deep, brown eyes, which seemed to absorb my stresses and spirit them away. No pressure, no demands...Charlie was Always Just There.<br />
I tried to pay him back, even a few pennies on the dollar, this week as he started to fade away. The night before he died, I spent hours on the cool basement floor alongside him because that's what friends do...they're Always Just There. And now he's gone, and I miss him terribly.Dry Martinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09848984695729501628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5820532276265017793.post-43016909014897988102017-09-08T15:20:00.001-07:002017-09-08T15:25:29.131-07:00Looking BackRecently we decided to retire our mini-van. After 351,000 miles and trips West, North, South and East over the last ten years, we decided that the time had come to downsize and move forward. Our next vehicle will be smaller and have all-wheel traction to battle the rural winters. In truth, with one son working out-of-town and another living away at college, there is no need for a vehicle that seats six. The new vehicle eliminates one row of seats and we can certainly count on better gas mileage.<br />
But what I didn't count on was a trip we took--not far--just last weekend. In some fortunate confluence, all the "baby chicks" were back home for one night. We decided to go out to get something to eat and immediately the oldest hopped into <i>his</i> car to follow along. But mom and dad, sensing something important, strongly advised everyone to take one vehicle--the battered old mini-van with duck-tape on the fender...and I'm glad we did.<br />
As we ventured across the back country roads on an absolutely stunning sunny afternoon towards our destination, I glanced in the rear view mirror and immediately my eyes began to swell with tears. It hit me. Quite unexpectedly, really. This would be it. The final time all six of us will be traveling in one vehicle together.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Efnhkqcp8SSFRczMDQm17l7dhaWsroSN2oEikCH_z92T6vIuYaYH3yS2Zke3c6FGgEWmNCZ-vTayCBSxJYGS7S8SjErMUxtB4JynaXqAN4uKWk6LQJZepW9Bqugt8wnY7xPsQQBXX0k/s1600/RVmirrirC.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="744" data-original-width="1024" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Efnhkqcp8SSFRczMDQm17l7dhaWsroSN2oEikCH_z92T6vIuYaYH3yS2Zke3c6FGgEWmNCZ-vTayCBSxJYGS7S8SjErMUxtB4JynaXqAN4uKWk6LQJZepW9Bqugt8wnY7xPsQQBXX0k/s320/RVmirrirC.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Granted it was a unique situation reserved for those with multiple children. I really doubt my parents ever faced such a thought (I'm an only child) and so there might not be universal understanding. But the groundswell of emotions that flooded within me at that moment was powerful: the sounds, the conversations, each bobbing head in its place. Dom and Theo in their spots in the "way back" seats, Gabe listening to his headphones behind me, Tony readings something in the seat behind Sue--everyone in their place where they "should" be. My goodness, how I witnessed that routine countless times! We traveled out West to see Yellowstone, headed many times to the beaches of Florida..."Are we there yet?" "Mom, he crossed the line and is touching me" "Hey, what was <i>that</i> for?" "When is the next stop?" <br />
There was no such fighting on this short trip (well, not much) because they are all older, but the noisy ghosts of the past kept bouncing around my head. And the tears welled.<br />
As "the <i>dad</i>," more often than not, I was behind the wheel of the mini-van and my attention was equally split between the road ahead and those bouncing heads behind me. I yelled, I broke up fights, I pointed out (what I thought was) interesting sights. For a fixed period of time, the bobbing heads were my responsibility. No matter how tired I was (literally slapping my face, at times, to stay awake during overnight trips), or how dark and lonely the highway, it was my job to get them to our destination safe and sound. Now they are growing or have grown and they no longer need me. As the number of bouncing heads has reduced over the last couple of years, I really didn't notice. Not until they all came back last weekend. My heart soared during the moment, the last trip. It was sunny and warm...but I also had to wipe my eyes. <br />
After returning home, the older boys said goodbye and went their separate ways into the night. And the new vehicle will arrive in a week or so. It will be nice--heated seats, zone air conditioning, no duct tape--and it will seat four, maybe five, comfortably. I know I'll continue to have responsibilities for several more years until the last two chicks fly away from the nest. My mission is in no way completed. <br />
But I can't help but rewind and replay the sounds of that final full mini-van trip over the open country roads and I also can't stop glancing back into the rear view mirror of my life searching, looking, for something familiar and wiping my eyes over what I see and what I won't see again.Dry Martinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09848984695729501628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5820532276265017793.post-31900862118210832642017-01-12T15:08:00.001-08:002017-01-13T06:58:25.268-08:00My Music TeacherThe passing of the woman who first taught me a musical instrument, Sr. Frances Jean Sandschulte, O.S.F., recently reminded me how much my life is infused with the love of music. Sr. Frances Jean taught music at my grade school in an era when nearly every kid at least <em>attempted </em>to learn how to play an instrument. Eddie, next door, tried the trumpet...Lisa, across the street, studied flute. I went into Sister's office with every intention of learning how to play the saxophone. Ultimately, I left that initial encounter with a loaner trombone because she said: "you <em>look </em>like a trombone player!" (Later, I learned that the trombone player in the school orchestra graduated and there was a vacancy that needed to be filled!) In time, Eddie and Lisa retired from their musical careers but I stayed on with the trombone through college and it changed my life. Band camps, pep bands, marching, basketball games, band tours, clown band, stage band and music ranging from the silly to the serious...trombone, band and music have been an important part of my life.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv_i7Os8BzL_xIY1bM7DZkYVxFz-IjvUtbwyu221vAoLfFD7lF2OSDwTJNiT85CFaR3SqzBoPmJx2gfgEv0FL0Gk7Q85nrVRq3JCdnbAkhVBvcZaa5nyXrSICtSGI9R9icvvyqZ7k85Wc/s1600/SandschutteSrFJ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv_i7Os8BzL_xIY1bM7DZkYVxFz-IjvUtbwyu221vAoLfFD7lF2OSDwTJNiT85CFaR3SqzBoPmJx2gfgEv0FL0Gk7Q85nrVRq3JCdnbAkhVBvcZaa5nyXrSICtSGI9R9icvvyqZ7k85Wc/s200/SandschutteSrFJ.jpg" width="152" /></a>Sr. Frances Jean was a patient teacher, too. While I liked playing the trombone, I had a conspicuous aversion towards "practicing" and, thus, I was never very good. Decent, perhaps. Sister was an accomplished musician in her own right--a CCM grad who excelled on piano and organ, but who could also play flute and any of the brass instruments. She was strict and could be riled a bit by an occasional uncooperative youngster like myself, but she never yelled (although she'd tap briskly a key on her piano to mark a sourly played note.) She must have taught tens of thousands of students in her career, which spanned 65 years, at several grade and high schools. I wonder how many other students were introduced to new musical worlds because of her. If patience is indeed a virtue, she earned her angel wings with me alone.<br />
And I also wonder about current and future kids and lament the fact that there are far fewer opportunities for them to learn music the way I did. Instrumental music requires practice and more practice. Gratification comes in small droplets over weeks and months and it's tough for such sluggish endeavors to compete with the flash of video games and computers. I've seen the numbers of my own high school band shrink every year and I am saddened that there aren't more kids who display the patience required to practice scales or paradiddles. Also, are there enough teachers to endure the curious kids toe-dipping into the rudiments of a wide range of instruments--particularly the non-guitar and non-piano types? Surely, FA music degree grads need jobs.<br />
Sr. Frances Jean lived to be 97 and I'm sure music added years to her life. She was playing trombone, herself, in several Cincinnati community bands well into her 90s. At the time of her death she was still organist and pianist in her Oldenburg, Indiana religious community.<br />
Meanwhile, It remains to be seen if or how music affects my longevity but I do know it has added to its quality and richness. It's rare when I actually pick up the old trombone anymore, but I listen to and enjoy music daily. If I could better articulate that influence, perhaps maybe some young person reading this would be sparked toward <em>attempting </em>to learn an instrument. Just trying is half the battle.Dry Martinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09848984695729501628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5820532276265017793.post-78860055442702569182016-09-09T15:32:00.002-07:002016-09-09T15:32:27.564-07:00Tony and the TideRecently we went on vacation to Florida. Because of college co-op commitments, it may be the final family vacation for incoming freshman and boy #2, Tony, for a few years. I wrote awhile ago about boy #1, Gabe. Tony (or Anthony as he sometimes prefers) is cast from a different die than Gabe. Energetic at home, Tony was at one time, like his father, painfully shy in public. But high school experiences, leadership speeches and a few added inches were the fertilizer that helped blossom his public persona into a much more self-confident young man. <br />
It's funny how us dads, as we get older, find ourselves comparing ourselves with our children. "Wow, I wish I had my son's ability to (fill in the blank.)" Tony, I confess, is blessed with more smarts, looks, athletic ability and artistic talents than his old man...which gets me back to the Florida vacation.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn3eThVV-AtZ8BCQTJdCJfGP_6Bmvuu60xHeDOQkiCMzJhEH3ns8qaJ_8j_spkXY5Vwi_Ze1tecSKqHPFBPL6W3H8o3VsBKEtitaXC1Z0PiPRVLkNru5fvMMG57DL486tZDEfEMvCGe68/s1600/TonyBeach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn3eThVV-AtZ8BCQTJdCJfGP_6Bmvuu60xHeDOQkiCMzJhEH3ns8qaJ_8j_spkXY5Vwi_Ze1tecSKqHPFBPL6W3H8o3VsBKEtitaXC1Z0PiPRVLkNru5fvMMG57DL486tZDEfEMvCGe68/s320/TonyBeach.jpg" width="240" /></a>I remember being his age and staring at that same ocean on that same beach. I remember thinking about the title of the Beach Boys' album "Endless Summer"---what a contradiction! Of course summer isn't endless...no more than the span of boyhood, itself. Vacations, summers, high school exams, boy scout jamborees--all <em>must</em> come to an end. And then we move on. And yet, one might stand on a beach, toes dancing in the incoming foamy surf and be suddenly overcome with feelings of permanence and eternity. That ocean, that beach, probably hasn't altered its course much in millennia. The tides churn in and out rhythmically and predictably every hour of every day of every year of every century. Surely, there must be "endlessness" here, true? By the way, the same can be said for those who ponder a mountain or an old-growth forest, if that's their preference.<br />
So which is it...and what about that 18-year-old standing on the doorstep to independence and a bright, alluring, exciting world extending as far as an ocean horizon? Well, perhaps there is a sense of permanence when one considers his or her "home." I remember dipping my "toes" into adulthood cautiously, because I knew that if the sands would shift awkwardly, I always had a place to which I could return home (thanks, mom and dad!). I feel badly for those who leave home in anger or disgust and never look back. I hope Tony...er, Anthony...knows that somewhere a lamp is lit for him if he needs it and that the regular, predictable "pulse of the tides" awaits him, day and night, no matter where in the world he chooses to explore.<br />
By the way, Tony took the photograph using his cell phone propped in a flip-flop sunk in the sand, so photo credits go exclusively to him, the talented fellow!Dry Martinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09848984695729501628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5820532276265017793.post-10340482762016666182016-01-22T13:18:00.002-08:002016-01-22T14:22:06.416-08:00The Crier of the ClosingsMy local radio morning announcer is a slacker. There, I said it. On a frigid, snowy morning this week, he read the names of four schools, played a commercial, and cheerfully invited listeners to check out the station's web-site "for the complete list." Poff! Mr. Softee. <br />
(Ahem) Back in <em>my </em>day, we read the entire list, from "Adams County Ohio Valley" all the way to "Zion Academy." Twice an hour. Uphill both ways.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuH9j6_eFfhn56FOFxJKeqZBNkME3f13xRVDODuhr9VvsfVYjmgg4gh2yU6AahDVPMeomQpbTrNprK8ouBnvsv5O0oD1hrJEXaq6xcpKJgFOzIWVOADzbrpnfRUZQJuh82QZ9IltxcMKk/s1600/schoolbussnow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuH9j6_eFfhn56FOFxJKeqZBNkME3f13xRVDODuhr9VvsfVYjmgg4gh2yU6AahDVPMeomQpbTrNprK8ouBnvsv5O0oD1hrJEXaq6xcpKJgFOzIWVOADzbrpnfRUZQJuh82QZ9IltxcMKk/s1600/schoolbussnow.jpg" /></a></div>
Seriously, though, I used to get a big kick reading school delays. It was a challenge that required some thought as lists would come in somewhat scrambled and I, in my youthful logic, would organize them by location and by status (closed, one-hour delay, two hour, etc....there was always one school that would go on a 90-minute delay just to screw me up, but I digress...) using a clever system of red, blue and yellow highlighters. I was quite proud of my school announcements and can only hope there were moms out there who appreciated my diligence and accuracy.<br />
When I was working, all school closing came through a guy named Charlie Springmyer. I never met Charlie...apparently he was just some guy who decided to be "the" clearing house for all school closing information in Greater Cincinnati. I hope he got paid...in fact, I often wondered if there was a neighbor kid who tried to bribe him. Anyway, school superintendents would call Charlie at his home and Charlie would compile a list and fax them (remember faxes?) to all the TV and radio stations. I think I read once that Charlie had since passed on, but his operation still exists.<br />
Meanwhile, at my old station (WVXU), in the early 1990s, we pioneered the "Snowflake Hotline." We used carts in those days--a sort of plastic, 8-track-looking device containing a "loop" of audio tape. Tape lengths could range from 10-seconds to 7 minutes and so it was my job to pick the correct length cart and record the school closing announcements and fill the rest of the tape with music. Then we would disable the "tertiary" tone on the machine (which would otherwise stop and re-cue the tape at the beginning) and let that rascal roll all morning, until the next update came in. Listeners could call in to a special hotline and listen to that recording. It was pretty darned innovative for a small college public radio station (credit goes to our engineer, Jay Crawford) in that day and age and soon the big commercial stations were copying us. By the end of the 1990s, we acquired a digital recorder (no tape!!!) that could hold an entire 1-minute!! We thought it was the most amazing invention ever. It probably recorded one kilobyte by today's computer standards but, back then, it was magical.<br />
I also remember some school districts who seemingly <em>never </em>had school. Grant County, Owen County, Mason County, Ripley-Union-Lewis, plus a whole range of "MRDDs" and "exempted villages." They would seemingly shut down in mid-December and remain closed until the first daffodils popped out in April. I often wondered if some of those districts required two calendar years to collect enough days for one school year. Again, I digress...<br />
Those were fun days. Adrenaline flowed freely, mingling with the caffeine inside my arteries as Charlie's latest list came chirping though the fax machine. And it was a public service, too, knowing there were thousands of little tots hanging onto my every word, waiting for good news or, by my omission, bad news. And just read only four school names? I'd never shirk <em>my </em>duty!Dry Martinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09848984695729501628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5820532276265017793.post-19763149693520568932015-02-07T07:34:00.002-08:002015-02-10T07:25:49.601-08:00The Booth Gets the BootRecently, I heard a radio commercial where the storyline sends the customer "to the phone booth no one ever answers." While the ad slipped by a few times before I really thought about it, it did eventually raise the question: do kids today even know about phone booths?<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUyhCtfqA7SID8gcR9WXYnAsIHTMi-1VhsxUFKAAi_topQ5LuNEgtv0qWfGL8SI9bLr_HR61s9Ggndf2cvBbo59udi5-0p46BJKjpid2y13qWJWkbhAoCpiiR2K9cRhPirxguyYSMNFYI/s1600/PhoneBooth2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUyhCtfqA7SID8gcR9WXYnAsIHTMi-1VhsxUFKAAi_topQ5LuNEgtv0qWfGL8SI9bLr_HR61s9Ggndf2cvBbo59udi5-0p46BJKjpid2y13qWJWkbhAoCpiiR2K9cRhPirxguyYSMNFYI/s1600/PhoneBooth2.JPG" height="320" width="209" /></a>Coincidentally, I have noticed that the last remaining phone booth I know about in Cincinnati has been removed. I'm not claiming it was "the" last one--there could be a few others--but it was the last one I've seen and it sat on Winton Road just north of the Brentwood Bowl until a few months ago. For years I passed it on my way to work and one day the urge struck me that I needed to take a photograph. Maybe the snapshot was the jinx because shortly thereafter it had vanished. <br />
Of course the demise of the phone booth is easily explained in today's cellular world and this is less a lament than an observation. Growing up, I only had cause to use the phone booth on rare occasion, even though mom made sure I tucked a quarter in my wallet "in case I needed to call home." Mostly phone booths were handy sources of information because of the yellow- and white-pages bolted down securely inside. Racked with a medieval iron-clasp device that only allowed the heavy books to swivel up and down in limited fashion, the security didn't prevent people from just ripping out the page or pages that they needed. More than once, in desperate attempts to find an address or number, I left the phone booth grumbling because the exact page I needed was gone. <br />
I also remember the graffiti in phone booths with phone numbers and, often, accompanying obscenities displayed for all with black "sharpie" permanence. And the difficultly opening and closing the accordion folding door. And trying to be heard on the phone during a downpour. Still, despite the gaps in the side panels and the obviously transparency of the scratched, dirty windows, I always felt safe and secure inside a phone booth. A little "time out" space from the busy, noisy craziness outside. A shared fortress from chaos. Even the name, phone "booth" sounds far more cozy than, say, phone "shack" or phone "<br />
shelter."<br />
Obviously, the cell phone is cheaper, easier and rarely has pages torn from its memory banks. Meanwhile, the phone booth joined the cassette and the film camera in obsolescence many years ago. However, I've learned a great life's lesson from the phone booth and I'll share it with you now: I learned that... (**sorry, if you'd like to continue this blog entry, please deposit another quarter into your computer**)Dry Martinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09848984695729501628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5820532276265017793.post-72897298776212632014-08-07T09:35:00.000-07:002014-08-07T09:41:19.876-07:00Golf, the Radio PerkAs I post this, golf's best male players are on the course at Valhalla, near Louisville, competing in the 96th PGA Championship, the fourth and final "major" of the golf season. I'd much rather be at Valhalla right now than at my desk at work.<br />
But doggone it, years ago, I sure was blessed. Working at a rather prestigious public radio station in Cincinnati (as opposed to a teeny one now), it was fairly simple landing media credentials for an event like the PGA Championship. Even though I was producing mostly news and worked early mornings at the time, no one else on the staff was even remotely interested in golf, so I had the sport to myself. I covered both of the previous PGA Championships at Valhalla, in 1996 and 2000, as well as a couple of "Memorials" near Columbus thrown in for good measure. Of course, "covering" a golf tournament 80-miles away in another city on a station not exactly known for its sports is a loosely pondered venture to begin with. But I dutifully filed my daily 60-second report as if someone cared other than me. The thrill was all mine, I assure you...hanging with golf's greats on a world-class course. I had a blast.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP_R67a17uBSiH5tY0CUYG9dufyq_fdApA51cMQVXKT8MkhgZMatiWgdlYYZjytVzDvFI2E8difZNGv3cCUduf7F3no_BiOZg4yn_TiocqOhuJwzGB33anIqt4kiudz4sfWFU_FN4nBPo/s1600/KrogerSenior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP_R67a17uBSiH5tY0CUYG9dufyq_fdApA51cMQVXKT8MkhgZMatiWgdlYYZjytVzDvFI2E8difZNGv3cCUduf7F3no_BiOZg4yn_TiocqOhuJwzGB33anIqt4kiudz4sfWFU_FN4nBPo/s1600/KrogerSenior.jpg" /></a>As much fun as the PGA was, though, it still couldn't compete with the annual visit of (what Lee Trevino called) the "round bellies" to the Jack Nicklaus Sports Center across from Kings Island for the Kroger Senior Classic each July in the 1990s. While the PGA is serious golf, the Kroger Seniors were just plain fun. From the very first tournament in 1990 (won by Jim Dent), I quickly discovered what a blast this week could be. In those early years, the golfers entered were the ones I grew up watching on TV: Jack Nicklaus, Arnold Palmer, Chi Chi, Gary Player, Billy Casper and my childhood-hands-down-all-around-favorite Lee Trevino. The tournament was low key enough that the players had fun and interacted with the fans. I immediately found out about the option of securing a shoulder media arm band, which allowed the "working media" inside the ropes. This allowed an up-close, best-seats-in-the-house view, hole after hole, as long as you followed the rules: don't talk to the players, don't block the view of the patrons, and don't be a distraction or get in the way. Probably the greatest day I've ever spent on a course was one of the first years when Nicklaus, Palmer and Trevino were paired together in the opening round and I watched every shot up-close while proudly displaying that glorious arm band. <br />
And the thrill didn't end on the course, either as the tournament gave the media special wrist bands allowing unfettered access to the "magical" Kroger VIP Tent. A cross between Disney World and Wolfgang Puck's, the Kroger VIP tent was blue-blood bacchanalia at its best. Table after table of burgers, ribs, salads, pastas and desserts (even Graeters Ice Cream) plus soft drinks, teas and even beer. All 100% free! Free! Let me tell you, it didn't take long for this middle-class west-sider to truly appreciate the unlimited availability of Free Food at any time the hunger-pangs pinged. And it was good stuff, too...Krogers used to have this incredible chicken salad with grapes and nuts (that I don't think they offer anymore on their salad bars) that would make Mr. Maisonette turn purple with jealousy. Just thinking of it two decades later makes my mouth water, but I digress... <br />
Unfortunately, great things do not last forever. By the early 2000s, the likes of Nicklaus, Palmer and Trevino were being replaced by Bruce Summerhays and Gil Morgan. With the dearth of stars came a gradually fading attendance. For the media, rules changed too...no more arm bands for non-photographers and many of the perks and goodies also were trimmed for expenses. The end for me came when the tournament was moved to the month of September and shifted to a course in inconvenient Maineville. I remember the last tournament I covered featured Hale Irwin as its only "name" (read: the only player most of the spectators heard of) and the masses would crane their necks to get a glimpse of the three-time US Open winner who was probably shocked by all of the attention. Anyway, the final Kroger Senior Classic was held in 2004, ten years ago, and I doubt too many miss it. Well, I do, sort of. I miss the memories of chatting with Palmer in the parking lot during a rain delay. I miss the thrill of conducting a one-on-one interview with "Mr. 59," Al Geiberger. I miss the naughty humor (and fat cigars) of Simon Hobday as well as Chi Chi Rodriguez "slaying an imaginary bull" with his putter following a long putt. Of course, I miss Trevino and his hilarious quotes, like, "Pressure??? Pressure is being a dirt-poor caddy in Texas and making a five dollar bet with only one dollar in your pocket!" Oh, and that chicken salad...I do miss that chicken salad.<br />
Dry Martinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09848984695729501628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5820532276265017793.post-36133269585096418272014-04-30T15:33:00.004-07:002014-04-30T15:33:36.135-07:00Bidding Adieu to The RockToday is the last day for a golf course (somewhat) affectionately known as "The Rock." Hillview Golf Course, perched atop a summit in western Green Township will close forever at sunset tonight. Soon, 220 houses will spring up like daffodils across the 100-plus acres of bent grass and manicured greens. While I can't say I regularly played the course, it does occupy a special place in my heart because it was the first "real" gold course I ever set my spiked shoes upon.<br />
When I was about ten years old, I was a little kid who had exactly one club--a child-sized 7-iron with Chi Chi Rodriguez's name on it--and boasted golf experience that was limited to whacking little white whiffle golf balls around the backyard. That is, until dad took me with him to Hillview the first time. I wasn't there to play, mind you (too young), but I got to pull dad's "pull-cart" around the course while he played with his friends. I don't remember if I got standard the caddy fee that day, but my guess is I got a can of pop and the chance to swing my 7-iron once or twice on a "real" course. Perhaps my love of the game of golf began that day. <br />
Fast forward to high school, when I was playing and/or caddying nearly every day of the week during the summer and I got to play Hillview myself every so often. That's when us teens dubbed it "the Rock" because at that time they had no discernible irrigation system and by August the whole hilltop was one dusty, dry, burned out lunar landscape. We regularly hit drives 600 yards (we estimated) and the ball would send up little blasts of dust as it skated off the tops of hills and into woods. It was like playing golf on a curved pool table without the felt. There were some tee boxes where (I'm not making this up) you couldn't insert the wooden tee into the ground--even with a hammer--without snapping it in half. Oh the stories we had about playing the Rock!<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdgSYJZzkitIGrnUymVAeOS5Qdty6wrNesBPB0ofICJzqcw6tv-UicSmowMEVzJdkOYCvB310nmwx6ViGeG4Ig4IFj9jN3fEkJWCwT5jFxHWuJTtBZvBtRVqWY1m98sdVbHvilc8e5liM/s1600/HillviewGolf.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdgSYJZzkitIGrnUymVAeOS5Qdty6wrNesBPB0ofICJzqcw6tv-UicSmowMEVzJdkOYCvB310nmwx6ViGeG4Ig4IFj9jN3fEkJWCwT5jFxHWuJTtBZvBtRVqWY1m98sdVbHvilc8e5liM/s1600/HillviewGolf.JPG" height="250" width="320" /></a>As the years progressed owned Bob Macke and his sons improved the course. A lot. They installed irrigation, decent grass, cart paths, entire new holes carves out of wooded, forgotten corners of the property. In retrospect, it's perhaps what I most admired about that darned place. Here is a guy (later his sons) who had a big hunk of land and envisioned, planned and carved out their own golf course. Their <em>very own golf course!!</em> I remember a beat-up old yellow bulldozer sitting near the barn. Every year there'd be subtle or major changes. I currently live on 70-plus acres and I can tell you exactly how I'd lay out <em>my</em> personal golf course if I only had the money, time and courage. The Macke's got to do that and that must've been a ton of fun for a family of golf nuts. In fact, I think one of the sons turned professional. It's sad, but, because of the expenses involved these days, there aren't too many family -owned golf courses anymore.<br />
Time passed, Bob died, the family started running other courses elsewhere and I'm sure a developer "made them an offer they couldn't refuse." Too bad. The family was thoughtful enough to open the course for one more month this spring to allow folks to play it a last time before they turned over the keys. My dad, my son and I did so just last week (and I didn't have to pull the pull-cart!) We had a blast!<br />
So goodbye Rock, it's been a hoot. And to you home builders;<br />
good luck digging out basement foundations should the weather turn dry this summer. You might want to bring along a few extra bulldozer blades!Dry Martinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09848984695729501628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5820532276265017793.post-9005864373271244422014-04-15T06:39:00.001-07:002014-04-15T06:44:05.301-07:00Appeasing the godsIt's mid-April and I woke up to an inch of snow this morning, which is a bit jarring since it was nearly 80-degrees-F just 36 hours ago. The latest "Accuweather/No-Wait/Doppler/PowerofFive" forecast tells me that it will be cold again tonight but back near 70-degrees by this weekend, so there's no need to panic. For most of us, the brief wintry blast is good water-cooler conversation fodder and yet another prank by a particularly puckish "old man" winter.<br />
Still, I can't help but think about those who lived here long before the internet, TV, newspapers and, even, the town crier. I'm thinking about the ancient peoples...you know, the ones living in sod huts and wearing pelts. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAC0TrJY09ktaJcZcNVmFWz886W6RTqXnqLTHISZ2ooMKiUE4bsR28rQM7oORQlvdEVRUaK1RSWiITUi-2NvhH4QYHJMl49ZauD-EJ041o_G96BS3EKJjcC_fs_e-XtsGMMnivAPBm5V4/s1600/Snowflower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAC0TrJY09ktaJcZcNVmFWz886W6RTqXnqLTHISZ2ooMKiUE4bsR28rQM7oORQlvdEVRUaK1RSWiITUi-2NvhH4QYHJMl49ZauD-EJ041o_G96BS3EKJjcC_fs_e-XtsGMMnivAPBm5V4/s1600/Snowflower.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a>These were people who were far more in tune with the randomness versus predictability of nature. Having no TV or internet to distract them, they studied the stars and the movement of the sun, building large earthworks aligned with the equinox, and sitting around the nighttime fire noting every planetary path, shooting star and elusive comet. When the warm sun came out and temperatures hit 80-degrees, like they did for us last weekend, it was a joyous experience, particularly following a nasty winter (like we had.) The sun god must be happy. The sacrifices must have pleased.<br />
And then, overnight, the temperatures plunge and they wake up with snow over their huts! Uh oh. There must have been some finger pointing around the commune, "Okay, who hacked off the gods?" "Harvey, was it you? Didn't I see you sneak behind the pine tree yesterday to smoke some elderberry leaves?" <br />
And then, "We need to make it right with the gods again, guys....any suggestions? Anyone willing to be sacrificed? Come on, guys, my wife just packed the winter pelts away in the cedar chest so we'd better do something now or we'll never see a warm day again!"<br />
And then, miraculously, two days later, the sun is back out and the temperatures are back in the 70s. The gods must be pleased again. Harvey, if he wasn't offered up as sacrifice, was vindicated.<br />
It's natural for any living thing to seek out the predictable. Our fish, dogs and cat expect to be fed every day at the <em>exact</em> same time. When our dog, Charlie, barks at the door, he expects someone to open it. Thunder scares them, I think, because it's random and occasional. Even plants know when to bud, not by the changes in weather as much as the lengthening of daily daylight.<br />
People are the same way, too...we seek out routines that lead to expected outcomes. Every morning, I follow a precisely repetitious routine, lest I stand in the shower standing there wondering if I already washed my hair.<br />
Unpredictable events can be exciting and provide an occasional thrill, but lets face it: the desire to seek out the predictable is ingrained deep in our DNA. Today's snow didn't bother me in the least, but that's because I haven't gotten my loincloth and summer leggings out of the cedar chest yet. Oh, and I also read the National Weather Service forecast.Dry Martinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09848984695729501628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5820532276265017793.post-80800828073423743072014-01-10T15:14:00.002-08:002014-01-10T15:14:31.143-08:00A Winter and the Clare
<br />
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The recent exceptionally frigid temperatures in the <st1:place w:st="on">Midwest</st1:place> reminded me of the infamous winters we had in
Greater Cincinnati in 1977 and 1978. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During those winters, I was finally old enough
and tall enough to experience the world of driveway shoveling and remember
piles of snow far taller than I stood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
recall sled riding, snowball forts and even tunnels dug through the snow
piles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I remember the plight of the
“Clare E.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
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OK, looking back over recent posts, it appears I have a bit
of a keen interest in riverboats—and I do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Maybe, just maybe, it all started with the “Clare E.”</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMvi04zVS322V8zpOto1WGD7V8limcW4JPwn_mPTdJlz_wN9JT-lgL-hDjRksnXX9J8oSrQjevkKlZg5wTNXjWIQ7XUsL7BEDbx6LoCD9mEkKimpjE-_emuipsuGQHC0564vx3Kxgx8mg/s1600/ClaireBeattySemet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMvi04zVS322V8zpOto1WGD7V8limcW4JPwn_mPTdJlz_wN9JT-lgL-hDjRksnXX9J8oSrQjevkKlZg5wTNXjWIQ7XUsL7BEDbx6LoCD9mEkKimpjE-_emuipsuGQHC0564vx3Kxgx8mg/s1600/ClaireBeattySemet.jpg" /></a>To be correct, her official name was the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Clare E. Beatty</i> and I had never heard of
her before January 1978.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But when the
Ohio River froze for the second time in two winters, all Cincinnatians learned
about a salty, gruff, old riverman named Capt. John Beatty who was kind of the
Red Adair of Cincinnati (remember Red?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He was the swashbuckling Texan who went around the world putting out oil
well fires.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When a situation related to
the river elevated to a crisis, Capt. Beatty came to the rescue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Beatty had a fleet of heavy-duty river
equipment and could rescue stranded boats, refloat the sunken ones and renovate
the historic ones (he was one of the forces that turned the “Mike Fink” into a
restaurant.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The flagship of “Beatty’s
Navy” was the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Clare E. Beatty</i>, a
plucky towboat originally launched in 1940 as the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Semet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>Beatty bought her in
1970 and changed the name in honor of his wife.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But I digress…back to 1978…</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjzlLaaM7Fr8hPoX3QbmkJGC97aOfj06zAfgCdPsINXuA-e2P-iv-hN3bur5yTLa4RqXaOz-RzUgVBnp8ZHQAajclG2WI8y1i1QObtYmq3peX-Coq1hiFDdWLu_87j5IbpcKtpCNSKoaI/s1600/ClareBeattyIce.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjzlLaaM7Fr8hPoX3QbmkJGC97aOfj06zAfgCdPsINXuA-e2P-iv-hN3bur5yTLa4RqXaOz-RzUgVBnp8ZHQAajclG2WI8y1i1QObtYmq3peX-Coq1hiFDdWLu_87j5IbpcKtpCNSKoaI/s1600/ClareBeattyIce.jpg" /></a>The <st1:place w:st="on">Ohio River</st1:place> was in
various stages of freezing and huge chunks of bobbing ice had caused several
barges to break away from their moorings. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Beatty and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Clare</i>
went off in chase down the <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Ohio</st1:place></st1:state>
to round up the barges before they could slam into Markland Dam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like a cowboy lassoing steer, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Clare </i>successfully nabbed a few barges
before it, too, became entangled in ice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It soon became apparent the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Clare</i>
was trapped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> For a couple of days, e</span>vening news reports kept
viewers updated on the helpless plight of the boat. Nothing could be done and the ice eventually
forced the boat to the bottom of the river.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It should be noted that the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Clare </i>was
lavishly adorned inside with brass and antique furniture and a big oil painting
of the real-life Clare Beatty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
remember one hopeless reporter asking the Captain if he removed the artwork and
salvaged the furniture and Beatty snorted, in his gruff way, “you never undress
a lady.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyway, Beatty kept his
promise, too--later that summer he managed to refloat the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Clare</i> and had her cleaned up and fixed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hooray!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I remember following the entire story with great admiration.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wish it had a happy ending.</div>
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Recently, I wondered about the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Clare </i>and the interesting man behind her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember reading that Capt. Beatty
died—indeed, he passed away in 1994—and the following year, his company was up
for sale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the meantime, however, the
employees running it were called to salvage a bunch of half- sunken barges near
Maysville.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Beatty’s Navy” showed up in
full force—two WWII Minesweepers, the floating Hercules crane, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Clare</i>—and one by one, the various craft
became entangled in the wreck. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps
the absence of the Captain at the helm was too much to overcome. The entourage
of vessels would never escape the snare.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Potential new buyers walked away from the sale and the boats were left to deteriorate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently, plans by the city of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Maysville</st1:place></st1:city> to remove the
wrecks were never approved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As of a few
years ago, only the pilothouse of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Clare</i>
could barely be seen in the muddy water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
I can only assume the bones still lay beneath the watery blanket.</span></div>
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I’m sure Beatty’s family feels terrible but I’d bet a
million bucks, if he were alive, the ol’ Captain wouldn’t let “his lady” meet
such an unhappy demise. </div>
<br />
Dry Martinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09848984695729501628noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5820532276265017793.post-31800495497354474222013-11-15T12:52:00.003-08:002013-11-15T12:52:53.932-08:00Looking for The President
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Before your time is wasted…no, not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> President.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In 1988,
25-years ago, <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Cincinnati</st1:place></st1:city>
hosted its first “Tall Stacks” celebration to commemorate the city’s
bicentennial.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a memorable and
historic event that the city attempted to duplicate a few other times but none
had the aura and energy of that first Tall Stacks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the reasons Tall Stacks ’88 was my
favorite was the selection of steamboats that visited the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Queen</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">City</st1:placetype></st1:place>
and specifically, in my book, was a chance to tour <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The President</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When <st1:city w:st="on">Cincinnati</st1:city>’s beloved <st1:place w:st="on">Coney Island</st1:place>
excursion boat, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Island Queen</i>,
exploded in 1947, it was long before I was born.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yet, growing up, I heard many stories and
saw many photographs of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Island Queen</i>
and fell in love with the long lost boat (In 2007, I produced a one-hour radio
documentary about the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Island Queen</i>,
but I digress….)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So imagine my amazement in 1988 as I toured <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The President</i> at Tall Stacks and learned
that the boat was the twin sister of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Island
Queen</i>!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both huge vessels were built,
side-by-side, in 1924 as overnight packet boats to run freight and passengers
between <st1:city w:st="on">Cincinnati</st1:city> and <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Louisville</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The original name of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The President</i> was the <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cincinnati</i></st1:place></st1:city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the stock-market crash wiped out the
company and the <st1:city w:st="on"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cincinnati</i></st1:city>
was sold to St. Louis’s legendary Streckfus Lines in 1929 and in 1932 was reconfigured
and rechristened <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The President</i>, the
largest excursion boat on the Mississippi.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Featuring a huge dance floor, a ride on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The President</i> was every bit as romantic and thrilling as a
Cincinnatian’s ride on the <st1:place w:st="on"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Island</i></st1:place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Queen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>The boat plied the waters around <st1:city w:st="on">St. Louis</st1:city> until 1941 when it was moved to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New Orleans</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It came back to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">St. Louis</st1:place></st1:city>
in 1978 when its huge side paddlewheels were removed and replaced by diesel engines
and discretely hidden propellers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
boat was otherwise intact when it returned to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Cincinnati</st1:city></st1:place> for its 1988 visit.</div>
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However, the ensuing years were not as kind to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The President.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Caught up in the sweeping race to add
riverboat gambling, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The President </i>was
converted to a floating casino and sent to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Davenport</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">Iowa</st1:state></st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But greedy gamblers soon outgrew the boat
there and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The President</i>, by this time
a bit worn for the worse, was moved to satisfy gamblers in <st1:state w:st="on">Mississippi</st1:state>,
then to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Memphis</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In 1999, she was officially retired and towed
back north, where, neglected, she slowly rusted away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In 2007, a businessman conceived an idea to
cut up <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The President</i> into large
pieces and transport the boat overland by truck <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But steamboat fans know
that such an idea is not so simple because of stresses and bends in the hull
and that’s it’s nearly impossible to re-weld such a complicated steel steamboat
puzzle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a couple of years, while the
owner attempted to raise funds, the boat “chunks” sat in a field alongside busy
I-70 in the middle of cornfields.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact,
if you “google” the boat, you come away with the impression that the pieces are
<u>still there</u>, patiently awaiting a welder’s torch.</div>
to St. Elmo, Illinois, where, according
to the plan, the boat would be reassembled and turned into a hotel—either on a
lake or on land.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPyFwm3MIhDERmdg5ethg403xnybdU4BT0AWSV2nrWStTckhCXgO0pMXqu1koiduOi9kOwLJPkemMNhsD1PSkuWKla_gUwwQ9RmABy4QxA6aIKhwiYAlcQ_60oYqIcQ_ol0I8riHITVag/s1600/president.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPyFwm3MIhDERmdg5ethg403xnybdU4BT0AWSV2nrWStTckhCXgO0pMXqu1koiduOi9kOwLJPkemMNhsD1PSkuWKla_gUwwQ9RmABy4QxA6aIKhwiYAlcQ_60oYqIcQ_ol0I8riHITVag/s1600/president.jpg" /></a></div>
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But that is not the case!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>On our way home from vacation this summer, I convinced my sufferingly patient
yet reluctant family to humor me and make a side trip in search of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The President</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Using GPS map coordinates, we found the field
easily but there wasn’t a hint or a scrap of steamboat to be found.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After we got home, I decided to call the St.
Elmo City Hall and a very nice lady told me the town became tired of waiting
for the owner to reassemble the boat and so it’s unsightly pieces were hauled
away a year or two earlier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You might
try Effingham (the neighboring town), but I think it’s all gone,” she
concluded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I hope I’m wrong, but it
appears this once fascinating steamboat has been relegated to the lost slate of
maritime history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sigh.</div>
Dry Martinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09848984695729501628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5820532276265017793.post-8721650947951178732013-10-21T06:59:00.002-07:002013-10-21T07:03:04.394-07:00WLW and Mt Jacor<br />
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Today is one of the most historic days in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Cincinnati</st1:place></st1:city> broadcast history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Okay, maybe not….but I’ve managed to keep
your attention for one sentence longer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was on this date, 25 years ago, that “<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Mt.</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Jacor</st1:placename></st1:place>” went on the air
and I was the first regular announcer to broadcast from that legendary (or “notorious”?)
facility. Honest injun.</div>
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After working a year, part-time, at Warm98 in 1987, my
wonderful boss, Tracy West, was "dismissed" and I started to look for someplace
new.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My fulltime job was at WVXU, but I
wanted to keep a weekend presence on commercial radio.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On October 10, 1988, I was hired by Kathy
Lehr as a weekend, overnight, news anchor using the name “Mike Morgan.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those first few weeks’ newscasts originated
from the dingy, dated WLW studios in a building on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Fourth Street</st1:address></st1:street> downtown but I was well
aware that new studios in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Mt.</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Adams</st1:placename></st1:place> would soon be
ready.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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It was an interesting job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The downtown studios were dark, decorated in mid-‘70s furniture and
yellowed with nicotine stains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
studios were separated by glass windows and the news booth was cramp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Studio B, for talk shows, had curtains and they
were often drawn shut for the nights Bill Cunningham had “The Fun Girls” on and
my imagination reeled as “Sudden Sam” ran the board in the control room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidZ-rAZFZD69yZRUjSpy6V_zfiuBMIwRwbbvZ-yQanje6DkYWohnXY3FEv6mCc2J4WbvkqiCEQJmFlnGANKR2aey7Fe_qPVfZZ-FwBzPcFOS7grakjWaJenK9zPx-MePGBTRvqfObT2Cg/s1600/MtJacor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidZ-rAZFZD69yZRUjSpy6V_zfiuBMIwRwbbvZ-yQanje6DkYWohnXY3FEv6mCc2J4WbvkqiCEQJmFlnGANKR2aey7Fe_qPVfZZ-FwBzPcFOS7grakjWaJenK9zPx-MePGBTRvqfObT2Cg/s1600/MtJacor.jpg" /></a>Meanwhile, a mile or two to the east, 1111 St. Gregory, in Mt
Adams (dubbed “<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Mt.</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Jacor</st1:placename></st1:place>” in tribute to the
new station owners) was bright, beautiful and state-of-the-art. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The news staff was taken up there several
times before we moved so we could become acquainted with the palatial newsroom,
with its clever individual production “stations.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
engineer friend, Jay Crawford, was working up there on weekends assembling the
new studios for WEBN, which would go on the air a few months after WLW—so I had
someone to talk with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, the big
date arrived and I just happened to be the one on duty that night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On Friday, October 21, I was instructed to
write two newscasts for the 11 p.m. hour and presented one downtown at 11:30
before hopping in the car and heading up the hill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never set foot in the <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Fourth Street</st1:address></st1:street> building again.</div>
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That very first night I immediately experienced what would be one of the
downfalls for <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Mt.</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Jacor</st1:placename></st1:place>: the parking garage
was full and I had to find a place on the street. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The reason quickly became apparent when I
entered the WLW studios and found the place full of happy people dressed in elegant
dresses, expensive suits and holding cocktails.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I went about my business making final preparations as, by then, midnight
was quickly approaching.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With minutes to
spare, I entered the polished, new news-booth and waited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At midnight exactly the switchover
occurred.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the station bigwigs (I
can’t remember if it was the GM at the time or someone from Jacor but
definitely NOT a regular on-air person) expressed a few appropriate remarks
now lost to the ages (I don’t think the affair was recorded) and then he ended
with: “…and now let’s resume regular programming!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At that point every well-coiffed head and
drink-sipping suit turned and stared through the glass and into the news booth,
occupied by a quivering, rookie newscaster who, I’m pretty sure, stumbled over
the first few words of his news-copy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After that, the party pretty much ended and the tipsy folks bid farewell
and, gradually, departed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By 12:30 am,
10/22, it was just me, either Dusty Rhodes or “Party with Marty” Thompson, and
a few wayward engineers cleaning up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
And that’s my brush with immortality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I worked there the better part of a year and, boy, do I have a few stories which I'll save for a later post! </span>Thank goodness for the blog because it gives
goofballs a chance to share memories of which very few care except for the one
typing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
Dry Martinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09848984695729501628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5820532276265017793.post-53960375747269740982013-09-27T14:10:00.001-07:002013-09-27T14:10:13.247-07:00Wanted: A New 54-Year Old ChevyCollectors of older cars have had this weekend circled in bold red pen for about six months now...it's the weekend of the long anticipated Lambrecht Chevrolet auction. Here's the background: The Lambrecht family had a Chevy dealership in Pierce, Nebraska, for over 50-years. Ray and his wife, Mildred, Lambrecht loved their Chevys...so much so, that if a car or two didn't sell, well, they just kept it. Every year. Some of the cars were squeezed into a warehouse in the back of their dealership and others were parked on their nearby farm. Years passed, the dealership closed and the couple passed away, leaving their family with a huge find. Of course, everyone knew the Lambrechts had kept some cars but few realized just how many--over 500. Some of the cars date back to the early 1950s and some are as recent as a 1980 Monza (remember them?) But most amazing of all, a significant number of those automobiles were never driven...ever! Over fifty of the cars have less than ten miles on the odometer....some with only one or two miles. It was like auto archaeologists entering King Tutankhamun's garage. Now there's no question most of these cars will need a little love--new rubber belts, tires, a good washing. But imagine hopping into a "new" 1958 Belaire....or a 1959 Impala. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN5CgP42P0JnvCbTx0zFtRu8MKgScpgyCyEsbmi8kYn2Xqv7Rx8YJjozkFYsFdAuybLOFWLURkm8DPA2brBE65xrZVKh-bzardUSX4ocZyD0oZk9sb3vkp9K1ttjG-o1f8JNPrSfpafnY/s1600/59Chevys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN5CgP42P0JnvCbTx0zFtRu8MKgScpgyCyEsbmi8kYn2Xqv7Rx8YJjozkFYsFdAuybLOFWLURkm8DPA2brBE65xrZVKh-bzardUSX4ocZyD0oZk9sb3vkp9K1ttjG-o1f8JNPrSfpafnY/s320/59Chevys.jpg" width="320" /></a>Ohhhh!<br />
That's the car that caught my attention.... there are four '59s in the auction with single digits on the odometer. Mom and dad had a cream colored, '59, two-door Impala--it was the first car I remember and I can still picture, from the dank depths of my memorybanks, the rust colored interior, large chrome speaker grill dividing the back seat, unique steering wheel and dashboard, and the trunk that could haul a B-29. Although I was only about 5-years old when my parents sold it, I remember running my hands along the big, bold rear fender fins and cats' eye taillights. Sigh...I won't be in Pierce this weekend and couldn't afford to participate in the auction even if I was there. But if someone out there lands one of those '59 Chevys and you're passing through Cincinnati, let me know. I'd love to see it and run my hand along the fins.<br />
Dry Martinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09848984695729501628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5820532276265017793.post-34567162709265431142013-09-06T13:42:00.001-07:002013-09-06T13:42:12.269-07:00Marian McPartland and MeOne glance at the title of this post and the reader might be mislead and so I'll immediately fess up and say this is a story of scotch, ignorance and a major goof.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4MEZrR6IHGd73OOtn3kllxpHbRzc9d56vaSq0wH72PSuWtt8ppX72lUNvc25VA8OkvBPYNiSpr90_VaS5tLHUBk-120xbZTXUVBj4XNLonmH-qaXDv4aiPuvXnmYwxjW0yPQ4qy_v0AU/s1600/McPartland.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4MEZrR6IHGd73OOtn3kllxpHbRzc9d56vaSq0wH72PSuWtt8ppX72lUNvc25VA8OkvBPYNiSpr90_VaS5tLHUBk-120xbZTXUVBj4XNLonmH-qaXDv4aiPuvXnmYwxjW0yPQ4qy_v0AU/s320/McPartland.jpg" width="251" /></a>The events took place in the Spring of 2003. Licking our collective woulds over a Peabody snub for our audio documentary, <em>Cincinnati Radio: The Nation's Station, 1921-1941</em>, my WVXU boss, Dr. James C. King, treated co-producer Mark Magistrelli and I to a trip to New York City to pick up a New York Medal award. Not quite as prestigious of an accolade, it was, however, a free trip to the Big Apple, so off we went to the Marriott on Times Square where the awards banquet would be held in the hotel ballroom. As it turned out, Mark decided to attend another event that night and so Doc and I dutifully trudged off to the event, open bar and all, to receive the award. Don't get me wrong, it was a very nice event--but neither Doc nor I are great socializers and as the drinks flowed, the silliness of the pomposity of the evening became more and more apparent and small, under-breadth comments were exchanged between us. Also slightly amused at the proceedings were two quiet, but pleasant, women seated to my left at our table. We exchanged small talk. The woman next to me was named Shari and she was a producer at a station in South Carolina. To her left, she introduced, was an older woman, simply, "Marian." I said hello and we shook hands. Shari seemed very nice and joined in a bit on our comic play-by-play commentary. Eventually, our station's call letters were announced and Doc and I went to the stage to accept a "Best Documentary" award. Marian, the older woman, gave us her congratulations as we returned to the table. Shortly thereafter, the announcement of "Best Music Program" was announced. "Marian McPartland's <em>Piano Jazz!</em>" (you probably know where this is going, by now.) I slunk into my seat. "That's....?" To make matters worse, our station used to carry <em>Piano Jazz</em> years ago, but cancelled it because of a shortage of financial support. Well, Marian barely sat down again before she said she was tired, bid us adieu, and left us to return to her room. Shari Hutchinson, her longtime producer, remained and entertained us with delightful stories of working with this great woman and jazz pioneer. By the end of the evening I felt slightly less of an idiot for not recognizing Ms. McPartland and boldly asked for an autograph, which Shari kindly mailed to us days later.<br />
So that's my Marian McPartland story! The nice thing about "time" is that it eventually allows us to laugh at the mistakes we make. In the meantime, rest in peace Marian McPartland--a jazz and radio legend who died last week at the age of 95. And congratulations to Shari Hutchinson, who, I understand, now manages eight public radio stations in South Carolina.Dry Martinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09848984695729501628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5820532276265017793.post-66117958386156265552013-08-08T08:51:00.003-07:002013-08-08T08:55:43.195-07:00The Boy Packs Up<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Our oldest child is heading off to college this
weekend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a ritual repeated throughout
time immemorial, but new to me, the little bird is leaving the nest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“The Boy,” as I affectionately call him (‘tho
there are three brothers behind him), seems ready to go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like a sprinter at the Olympics, he has comfortably
settled his shoes on the chock blocks of life and awaits only the sound of the
starting pistol.</div>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAfRqvTjiV2xBOtv3XgWNyP6EgYkvk_boHFa_Iwdxvz-xlLde2zY43y4xCHk3Rv8TPgqeJp2kstAcoyMm122ORfT4bxvNthahN1P6TNU-bXW1szCVGjhjF1jC0mIY-bGrS3xV2OCsAf3s/s1600/GabeTonyPPeak.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAfRqvTjiV2xBOtv3XgWNyP6EgYkvk_boHFa_Iwdxvz-xlLde2zY43y4xCHk3Rv8TPgqeJp2kstAcoyMm122ORfT4bxvNthahN1P6TNU-bXW1szCVGjhjF1jC0mIY-bGrS3xV2OCsAf3s/s320/GabeTonyPPeak.JPG" width="320" /></a>The Boy is excited, and why shouldn’t he be?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is standing on top of a mountain and the
world--a fat, exciting, ripeforthepickinging world--lies in front of him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, a few weeks ago, we visited <st1:place w:st="on">Pike’s Peak</st1:place> on vacation and a photo of him and his
brother now rings quite poignant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
many ways I share in his joy and add a pinch of jealousy…it’s been a few years
since I stood on that same vista.</div>
<br />
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As “dad,” I’ve had several months, nay years, to prepare for
this weekend and yet I feel caught totally off-guard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The other morning, I awoke around 2-am upset
because I never took him to Terry’s Turf Club for an award-winning cheeseburger
(eating is a favorite hobby for both of us.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was on my “list” and I failed. (I won’t even attempt to use the
excuse, “I didn’t have time” because that’s an overly-cited, weak, and lame
argument.) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other missed opportunities tumble
through the “sprockets” of my “guilt projector”… there are old movies and
cartoons I failed to share with him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
don’t think we played “pickle” enough and I never taught him “Kick the <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Can.</st1:place></st1:country-region>”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s never joined me on a golf course or a driving
range.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We haven’t been to the Air Force
Museum in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Dayton</st1:place></st1:city>
since he was a little baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never
introduced him to “real” pulled pork BBQ.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Mammoth</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Cave</st1:placetype></st1:place>?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Nope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he was about five and
learning to ride a two-wheeler at my wife’s office, a neighbor took the
training wheels off Boy’s bike and witnessed something I only heard about later
after I came home from work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Harry
Chapin’s “Cats in the Cradle” played in my head for two weeks after that one.</div>
<br />
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Before you call the police for “suspected self immolation,”
I am not entirely wracked in guilt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do
not feel short-changed—indeed, knowing friends who have lost children to death
or illness—I feel grateful and Blessed for 18-years and all those times we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">did</i> have together…fun and not-so-fun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last spring, Boy and I attended a rock
concert together (check that off the list) and just last week we had a nice father/son
dinner at a restaurant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone reading
this has either had a child grow up and leave home, or left a “home” him- (or her-)
self....me included!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the shocking lessons most
people experience months and years later is that life, in fact, goes on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(<em>My</em> big shock came when my dad first re-recorded the “home” answering
machine with my name omitted, but I digress…)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ancient Greeks had a
phrase:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Panta rei” (things change) and
Thomas Wolfe told us <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You Can’t Go Home
Again</i>, but I hope The Boy doesn’t stray too far and remembers he can always
come home. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Gabe is big and tall and handsome and adult now, so I’ll have to
reconsider that nickname, too, I guess.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
not right now…not yet.</div>
Dry Martinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09848984695729501628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5820532276265017793.post-74599835719844103792013-07-22T15:46:00.001-07:002013-07-22T15:50:10.671-07:00Indiana Chicken DinnersEver since I was a tot, my arteries have surged this time of year with the byproducts of the chicken dinners of southeastern Indiana. As a kid, they provided an excuse for a "Sunday drive." Since moving into the area 17 years ago with my wife and kids, our knowledge and fondness for the various dinners has only increased (as has my weight.) Amazingly, and sadly, this summer's chicken dinner schedule may be the last--forever. Because of church consolidations and mergers announced this year by the Archdiocese of Indianapolis, the best-of-the-best dinners will likely not return next year and that's a terrible shame.<br />
The St. Martin's picnic in Yorkville is the one I've attended the longest because of my relatives who are active in the parish. I remember going to this one as a kid, when they handed out "fish pond" gifts--blue butcher's paper-wrapped gifts for the boys, pink for girls--from the window of the long-since demolished schoolhouse. Their chicken dinner was always the best and had the most Cincinnati "draw"...although in recent years it has been diminished somewhat by switching from "family style" to "buffet style" service. Still, I'd put its chicken among the best. The next dinner, this Sunday (July 28th), might be the last as the parish will be merged with three others. However, the parish is appealing the archdiocese's decision.<br />
St. Paul's in New Alsace always follows St. Martin's by two weeks, this summer falling on August 11. St. Paul's has evolved into my favorite chicken dinner because they still serve family style--that is: big bowls of food are placed on the table and diners can take as much as they want. The line can be a little long getting into St. Paul's and the gym can be a little hot, but the food is fresh and the chicken very good. Parking is also pretty good at this one. St. Paul's is also merging and even though the church was built in 1837 (making it the oldest continuously used church in the area) and was visited by John Hunt Morgan during the Civil War, it is slated to be closed which is terrible news from a historical aspect, too. <br />
St. Pius, in rural Ripley County, has its festival and dinner on August 18th. This is the one to go to if you want a traditional, old fashioned church festival. Located in a very rural area of farmland (and right down the road where we live), this festival, with its traditional games, is like stepping back in time. The chicken here is sold in whole quarter chunks, so you get a lot. Rare is the visit when we didn't walk out with a bag of leftover chicken because they give you so much. But the real treasure here is the old fashioned, home-made gravy and mashed potatoes. The best! Although it, too, dates back to the late 19th Century, St. Pius is slated to close and merge with another parish, even though its parishioners are active and finances are excellent. <br />
The last of the "big 4" actually comes on October 14th and doesn't feature chicken at all. St. Mary's of the Rock is located in rural Franklin County between Sunman and Brookville. Instead of chicken, they have a turkey and stuffing meal that rivals anything your mom might have made for Thanksgiving. The turkey is good, but the stuffing is the best, the cranberry sauce is real and pies are homemade. St. Mary's has a historic grotto carved out of the hillside behind the church. The parish is also slated to close at the end of the year, which is very sad. Their fall festival, which usually takes place as the leaves are changing colors, is worth a visit just because the drive getting there.<br />
These four festivals have been an important part of our family weekends over the years and I'm so blessed to have been able to share them with my children. Unfortunately, circumstances might bring an end to all four traditions. If you've <em>ever </em>heard of the famous Indiana chicken dinners and thought about visiting, this might be your last opportunity. I'm sure we'll be attending all four and, at the risk of gluttony, I expect to savor the memories, tastes and aromas of these fading community traditions.Dry Martinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09848984695729501628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5820532276265017793.post-48845418256854480122013-06-20T08:11:00.000-07:002013-06-20T08:11:39.015-07:00Things I Miss About My First CarEarlier this week, I was at the pump getting gas when a mid-'80s Somethingorother pulled up to the next pump. The driver came around back and popped back the license plate and started filling up. Wow....I'm amazed that I had forgotten all the cars I owned that also had the fuel intake hidden behind the license plate. It was pretty common at one time. When exactly did they disappear? Although it was a little tough to use one handed--due to a spring the size of an anaconda--it was a pretty nifty idea and it didn't matter to which side of the pump you pulled up. It got me to thinking: so what other things about my first car, a 1972 Chevy Impala Convertible, have been made quietly obsolete by automakers?<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4hnKr9V3lWIGB5y5ZX1CUwu6ZM8SBrzaJBIvhUdUovhQWORn3js2NDmPw2c4EWzp9lfCS2E4PISABtPuh2vRvrq6Es1km0YnDILHIj7GUYDVuXxpfEFpfH0r1dzfds7mUeMBONoK3nnQ/s1600/Impala72.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4hnKr9V3lWIGB5y5ZX1CUwu6ZM8SBrzaJBIvhUdUovhQWORn3js2NDmPw2c4EWzp9lfCS2E4PISABtPuh2vRvrq6Es1km0YnDILHIj7GUYDVuXxpfEFpfH0r1dzfds7mUeMBONoK3nnQ/s1600/Impala72.jpg" /></a>Well, I still really miss the reliable little high-beam switch on the floorboard. The "click-click" sound and sensation made high-beam headlights fun and gave the left foot something to do. Remember playing "gotcha" with cars in the opposite lane?<br />
While my Chev didn't have them, my mom's '71 Plymouth had cozy-wings on the side windows. Those seemed to make a lot of sense--letting in just enough air without disrupting conversation or the radio. Not sure why the cozy-wing was ever dropped other than expense, I guess. <br />
My Chevy did have fender skirts, which gave it an elegant appearance that far exceeded its actual luxury. They were easy to take on and off, just a discretely hidden lever underneath. I did not have curb feelers, but considered them one time. Ask an older person about curb-feelers.<br />
I did have white walled tires, though, and my dad showed me how to make them sparkle using Comet and warm water and a stiff scrub brush. I remember getting tires in the 1990s, when white-walls were out of "style" and telling the guy to mount them backwards to hide the stripes--I kinda regret that now, since white walls have completely vanished.<br />
Overall, I miss chrome...that Chevy had a lot of chrome and it was a part-time job to keep it waxed and polished. Today's paint is so much better, I admit, and I haven't waxed a car in years, but back then it was a constant battle with rust, particularly around the fenders, and despite monthly waxings, rust usually won out. But buff the dried wax off of chrome on a sunny, summer day, revealing your distorted reflection, and it was truly a spiritual experience.<br />
I don't miss the frequency and difficulty in changing headlamps; the constant replacement of master cylinders, starters and generators; floorboards that rusted though to the point where you could see the ground; and terrible sounding radios. <br />
I DO miss full sized spare tires, the concept of a real 2 or 4-bbl carburetor, scouring junk yards looking for parts and, alas, the days before strict seat-belt laws. <br />
My old Chevy was probably crushed in a junk yard years ago, sadly, but I'd love to drive her one more time--and pull up to a gas pump to fill 'er up behind the license plate!Dry Martinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09848984695729501628noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5820532276265017793.post-21566346693907650872013-06-13T13:34:00.001-07:002013-06-13T13:37:59.762-07:00Another Milan MiracleLast Saturday, the town of Milan, Indiana, officially dedicated the Milan '54 Hoosiers Museum...a museum celebrating Milan High School's amazing 1954 Indiana State Championship as well as <em>Hoosiers, </em>the 1986 movie upon which that championship was loosely based. The day was perfect...rain and clouds departed just in time for the parade featuring a couple dozen vintage automobiles....many convertibles with celebrities riding on top of the back seat. The parade was similar to a parade back in 1954 when those cars were new and the teen aged players were celebrated as they returned to town following their big win. Some of those players, including game-winning shot-maker Bobby Plump, returned for the museum dedication and ribbon cutting. Some of the movie actors and producers were also on hand. Did I mention that tiny Milan only had 161 students back in 1954? It was an incredible victory in an era when all Indiana schools competed in the same tournament, no matter the school size. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm4fdxCrQY1BFB21rwm52Vqw880KrRkWi8B0Mj7-4LPHV8tETZ06y4TwBDMPG9CUYolt_pyCm7fowYUbkgKpgaW4YugWjvKrD_3J7xxTckkqDS_BE48uYFLb4UsCSsPINig0BVFDKTawg/s1600/photo_2010_03_28_milan_muncie_1954_game-400x280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm4fdxCrQY1BFB21rwm52Vqw880KrRkWi8B0Mj7-4LPHV8tETZ06y4TwBDMPG9CUYolt_pyCm7fowYUbkgKpgaW4YugWjvKrD_3J7xxTckkqDS_BE48uYFLb4UsCSsPINig0BVFDKTawg/s320/photo_2010_03_28_milan_muncie_1954_game-400x280.jpg" width="320" /></a>For Milan, the '54 Museum is a nice tribute to the "most important event in town history." It's too bad every small town in rural American can't have such a thrill. It's great to have something to be proud of....so proud, the old railroad water tower still bears the fading "Milan 1954" lettering. As a neighbor of sorts (I live about six miles away), I couldn't be more happy for the town. Admittedly, most of our family traffic takes us north, through the town of Sunman, and so I don't get to Milan too often. Thus I felt a bit like an outsider during Saturday's big event. However, I still feel a sense of pride and joy, despite having no connection to the Championship other than a framed certificate signed by some of the players and a piece of the Milan's "old" gym floor.<br />
I think my happiness centers around one woman: Roselyn McKittrick. When we first moved to the area from Cincinnati in 1995, I happened into Roselyn's now-defunct antique store. She immediately engaged her new customer in conversation. What a delight! In one corner of the store, she had recreated the locker room of the Milan championship team, complete with signed basketballs, letter-jackets and photographs. She told me then that it was her personal tribute to the team that brought fame to her adopted home town (she arrived a few years after the championship) and that she hoped to someday have a permanent museum. Over the years, she would bend my year regarding any progress for the plans and, obviously, it takes many, many people from all over to pull off something like this. But for Roselyn, it's a personal victory and I couldn't be more happy for her. As someone who is trying to build a museum and organization myself, I appreciate the hard work and dogged determination behind such an accomplishment. Dreams can come true and it fills my heart with optimism when "the little guy" pulls off a big victory like this museum--kind of like Milan itself!<br />
In one room of the museum, a video of the original championship game runs in perpetual performance. There were about a dozen people jammed into the room Saturday, including myself, and after a young Bobby Plump once again stroked a jump shot over an outstretched defender for the game-winner, someone in the group blurted out, "they won again!" Everyone laughed and yet it was poignant...some things like the 1954 Milan championship and this small town museum are still kinda hard to believe. Congratulations, Milan!Dry Martinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09848984695729501628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5820532276265017793.post-91851192705515051912013-05-08T12:09:00.001-07:002013-05-08T12:12:34.368-07:00The Office--One Last TimeThis isn't the first time I've written about my favorite show, The Office, but it will probably be the last since fans are on the doorstep of the penultimate episode. The series finale is scheduled for May 16.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3ZreHKWRReTU4tab2n4ykxomjEPpgJ0-wTse5s_0bDjpl4eyk6D6bUn4QRzbNrebot_BScnlz8kRQz3sJ3vhF3ziyztdS-av41I98gBfE4t7iLney8MiLKCJk43UjePV27cgrmMCgR2Q/s1600/Office.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3ZreHKWRReTU4tab2n4ykxomjEPpgJ0-wTse5s_0bDjpl4eyk6D6bUn4QRzbNrebot_BScnlz8kRQz3sJ3vhF3ziyztdS-av41I98gBfE4t7iLney8MiLKCJk43UjePV27cgrmMCgR2Q/s1600/Office.jpg" /></a>It's hard to say goodbye to a long running television friend. I remember some of the emotions when Everybody Loves Raymond (my previous favorite) signed off...and Seinfeld...and Home Improvement. And Mary Tyler Moore and MASH. And the Waltons. Usually I have only one favorite at a time and they've all seemed to overlap perfectly--because Raymond ended when it did, I can honestly say I watched EVERY episode of the Office. I'm not sure what might be next for me or if there will even be another"favorite." Thanks to technology, my watching habit has changed so much...although I haven't missed a single episode of the Office, I haven't actually <em>watched</em> a single episode <em>on TV</em> in four years! How? Hulu--one of the great cyber creations (particularly since NBC comes in so poorly at our house out in the country thanks to the stupid digital conversion, but I digress....) When I started watching the Office in 2004, I was still recording shows on a VHS, believe it or not.<br />
As far as the show itself is concerned, I have mixed emotions. There's no doubt it is time for it to come to an end. I've hypothesized before about how good sitcoms have a lifespan of 8 or 9 seasons maximum. All of the above titles, plus my all-time favorite Andy Griffith, ran out of gas by season 9. When Steve Carell departed the Office after season 5, it was the beginning of the end and most fans knew it. The subsequent story lines and new characters were occasionally good and occasionally cringe-worthy. Every so often, the writers would slap a hit but just as often, they'd swing and miss. Every show (except the age defying Simpsons, perhaps) must eventually arrive at the point where the creative juices simply stop flowing. For the Office, the show is ending at just the right time.<br />
Still, there's a part of me that is sad, too. There were some really interesting and rich background characters like Creed, Meredith and Stanley that should have gotten more stage time. Meanwhile, the show was a nice diversion and dwelt on some quirks we've all experienced in our own workplace but I can think of a few they missed. Many in the cast have gone from "obscure" to "movie star," which is satisfying. I hope their careers continue to bring them fulfillment.<br />
I am looking forward to the next two episodes and then we will all say goodbye and move on. Storylines will be tidied up and, I'm sure, tears will be shed. I've heard maybe even Carell will make a cameo. Television has changed so much since Mary, Ted, Lou, Murray and the gang huddled in a circle and sang "It's a Long Way to Tipperary" as they exited the WJM newsroom for the final time. I only hope the Office exits with the same class. Meanwhile, I must decide if there's something else out there worthy of the title "favorite show." Or maybe I've graduated beyond that, too.Dry Martinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09848984695729501628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5820532276265017793.post-92173999991510909412013-04-11T07:53:00.001-07:002013-04-11T07:59:42.753-07:00The Apple (and not the computer)<br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">It wouldn’t be an issue if I actually liked them, but I’m
not keen on apples.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nevertheless, about
a year ago, I decided to try and eat an apple every afternoon for a snack
instead of candy or chips or whatever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This has forced an overall reevaluation of the apple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, I’m still not thrilled with them, but it
has proven to be a much smarter way to stave off the afternoon hunger
pains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My question now, though, is which
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">variety</i> of apple is least odious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a year’s analysis of some seven or
eight varieties, this is what I’ve decided.</span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY665IxtHet2qu1n9F8T4zm91ETlOwQ6DAlA67wVEABXA5ShH6TuE-SblV_KJtz4DcJiFIp_p3KQ3IgFPvznWOrD4RsMjqQfKp6Sdq0ljOCZFT0pAOJmmnp3jNbKzRlNEcLpcjOSbNVwo/s1600/apples.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #f3f3f3;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY665IxtHet2qu1n9F8T4zm91ETlOwQ6DAlA67wVEABXA5ShH6TuE-SblV_KJtz4DcJiFIp_p3KQ3IgFPvznWOrD4RsMjqQfKp6Sdq0ljOCZFT0pAOJmmnp3jNbKzRlNEcLpcjOSbNVwo/s1600/apples.jpg" /></span></a></div>
<span lang="EN" style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">First of all, the hands-down winner in my year-long apple
survey is that Honeycrisps are, by leaps and bounds, the most enjoyable
variety.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For flavor, tang, crispness and
size, The Honeycrisp is a great apple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Unfortunately, they are not only more expensive than the other varieties—they
are waaaay more expensive!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ate my
first Honeycrisp around October, so naturally I figured they were created for
fall-like, caramel dipping, water bobbing, treat making activities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At $2.99 a pound (and because they are so
large, each apple is almost a pound), they quickly became a very expensive
snack. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But maybe the price was
seasonal, I reasoned?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a few dips to $2.49 in December, the
price has stayed rather steady at nearly three bucks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, like some strange drug, I am
addicted and no other variety satisfies anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Looking over my unofficial notes, last spring
I discovered Sonya’s and thought they were pretty good (and affordable) at the
time but my first Sonya’s this year have an odd aftertaste, aren’t very sweet
and are a bit mealy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I haven’t seen any
Jonagolds yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For some reason, they
marked high on my list last summer but were only sold for about a month. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also getting reasonable marks were Jazz apples,
but my comments were not overwhelming praiseworthy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oddly enough, I think I only bought Granny
Smiths one time and found them too tart…maybe I’ll try them again.</span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Despite their name, Red and Golden Delicious apples are
anything but. Yeck. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Braeburns and Galas
also ranked very low. There was one
called Envy that I tried but, once again, you can’t judge an apple by its name.
Of course, there are "eating" apples and "baking" apples, so some of the previously mentioned varieties may have their own fans.</span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="background-color: black;">For my individual preferences, I insist the apples spend a few hours in a refrigerator. For awhile, I only ate them cut up with a sharp pairing knife, but I've since become lazy. I think, I
prefer red to yellow/green apples.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d
like to see McIntosh apples in my grocery store, but I can’t say I’ve been able
to try them in the last year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="background-color: black;">Unfortunately, Honeycrisps have spoiled me but I simply
cannot afford them…plus it looks like their season is coming to an end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you have a suggestion, feel free to
contact me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Remember, my requirements
are simple: Sweet, crunchy, firm, affordable and good cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe I can track down that John Chapman
fellow…or that “Eve” lady…..<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 9.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
Dry Martinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09848984695729501628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5820532276265017793.post-54534542439286654452013-03-04T12:29:00.002-08:002013-03-04T12:29:29.750-08:00Standing in the Beer Line<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
It was a Krogers on a Friday evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All the checkout lanes were packed except for
one near the middle with a perky young girl at the register—perhaps 16-years
old—and an equally strapping young lad happily bagging on the end of the conveyor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked at my armful of goodies—some apples,
a newspaper, a card, and a six-pack of Black and Tan Ale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew what was coming next and sighed…oh
well, it was the shortest line, I guess I can wait..</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
To my great surprise, however, the young girl didn’t call
for assistance from an “older” co-worker and the young lad placed the bottled brew
in a plastic bag and handed it over to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Hmm…Something different here?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
the past when I purchased beer at the grocery and the checkout person was
underage, she/he had to call over someone older to slide it past the laser UPC
code reader.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I recall being impossibly
frustrated that this employee wasn’t permitted to drag the beer six inches to the left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Indeed, they weren't allowed to even "touch" it. </span>It was as if the beer contained a
radioactive isotopes or something…or maybe they didn’t trust an employee who
was so thirsty that, as I fumbled head turned through my wallet for my loyalty card, he/she
would swipe a few gulps from one of the bottles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember even offering to slide it past the
scanner <em>for them</em>; “Oh, no sir!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That
would be against the rules,” they’d say. No, things had changed and maybe a healthy heaping of
common sense finally won out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a
restaurant, <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Ohio</st1:place></st1:state>
law says 16-year old waitresses can carry unopened alcohol on a tray to a table
and 17-year old's can carry open liquors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>No radiation there. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So what was
up in the grocery? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyway, the dumb rule
is apparently gone and good riddance.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I rather lucked out in my own personal beer consuming past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Ohio</st1:place></st1:state> raised the age limit for beer to 18
when I was a junior in high school, they did continue to make an exception for 3.2 percent
beer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t drink a lot but on the
rare occasion when I did, it usually manifested itself through the one-time very
popular Hudy DeLight brand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the
Feds decided to use extortion by linking their determination to unify the age at 21 in exchange for
10% of a state's highway funds, the states caved and the drinking age was raised to 21 in
1987…happily, over a year after I came of age, so again I lucked out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Personally, I still don’t have a problem
with age 18 for beer (even though I’m a dad)…My college friends and I shared in a few $2.50 pitchers at
Groesbeck Tavern (ironically, its now a police station, but I digress....)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It really was no big
deal to us back then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyway, I’m sure there’s no
political thirst for supporting a lower age for beer, so 21 it shall remain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As for Krogers?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe the next step will be to improve the “self
check” lines, which come to a screeching (“an assistant has been notified to
assist you”) halt whenever you try to sneak alcohol past the commonsenseless
computer.</div>
Dry Martinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09848984695729501628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5820532276265017793.post-35788734157796257732013-02-18T11:28:00.002-08:002013-02-18T11:28:52.178-08:00The Who in LouisvillePardon me while a gush a bit. When I found out last fall that the rock band The Who would be touring this winter AND would be playing my favorite album, Quadrophenia, from top to bottom, I ordered, for the first time in my life, tickets to a concert online. Louisville was the closest venue to home and there was a date on a Saturday just a few days after my birthday. Even the ticket price wasn't too bad and so I bought two in the middle section with no clue who I'd ask to go with me. The concert was was screaming at me from my bucket-list and I was going to see it come youknowwhat. <br />
Now let's go back to the spring of 1980; my freshman year in high school. I had come of musical age during grade school and the disco era. My favorite DJ was Mark Sebastian at Q102, who every afternoon told us listeners that he wanted to see us "totally, and I mean totally, N-A-K-E-D." We laughed and were loyal until "the Q" abandoned us guys for bubblegum pop and Top-40, and so we all migrated to WEBN. I pleaded with mom to let me install an FM converter in our 1971 Plymouth. I spent $75 I saved from cutting grass to by a Fisher stereo (with 8-track) for my room, carefully placing the speakers to maximize the sound. In freshman religion class, we were all told to bring in our favorite songs. I didn't really have one, but the other classmate narrowed it to three: Freebird, Stairway to Heaven and Baba O'Riley. That latter song was different...rough and gentle, bold and introspective. I was searching for a new direction and The Who fell into my lap--unfortunately, just a few months after their Cincinnati concert tragedy and a year after Keith Moon died. Timing hasn't always been my greatest thing (I "discovered" Stevie Ray, alas, only <em>after</em> buying his post-mortem Sky is Crying CD).<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqmMdNguLXjn21mJe1yOYE2HbPIIsb6z-FwZSA4fUZQguuiH0u8i54_7RfQaDChRspj-zdjnOU_tyaJ1u5Pbp6PypyGo9ZC7Zbvjoata_ygV-I8ZRe1mNZDMvnVtIVKtu_YhEZfGeAHbw/s1600/WhoCrop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqmMdNguLXjn21mJe1yOYE2HbPIIsb6z-FwZSA4fUZQguuiH0u8i54_7RfQaDChRspj-zdjnOU_tyaJ1u5Pbp6PypyGo9ZC7Zbvjoata_ygV-I8ZRe1mNZDMvnVtIVKtu_YhEZfGeAHbw/s320/WhoCrop.jpg" width="320" /></a>Throughout high school I gobbled up what I could find--Who albums, bootleg discs, books--I even joined a "fan club" (my first and only one.) Then, during my senior year, the band decided to have a "final tour." I had neither the financial means nor the parental consent to travel to their closest stop (Lexington, KY), so I convinced a friend with cable TV to invite my then-girlfriend and I to watch the final show, December 17, 1982 in Toronto, on pay-per-view (my tab) at his house and recorded the audio on my cassette deck. And that was it. The band broke up and I moved on to other bands, finding out that my musical tastes were actually much wider than I would have guessed. In 1990s, there was a rash of "reunion tours" and The Who made appearances in fits and starts with small tours in '02 and '04. In December '06, they came as close as Columbus but I just couldn't justify the trip. I regretted it momentarily but age provides perspective. Fortunately I got a second chance.<br />
Roger Daltrey will be 69-years-old next month--Pete Townshend will be 68 in May. I took a little ribbing from friends after their Super Bowl appearance a few years ago but didn't care. In terms of this tour, any arrow even close to the target would satisfy me...it's not about the music anymore...its about my youth and "the Q" and "making out" at my friend's house and freshman religion class and an ocean of other memories triggered instantaneously by the first few notes of a song tacked by iron spikes to the walls of the caverns of my innermost memories. I felt a little sick to my stomach last week in the days before the upcoming show (for one, no one wanted to go with me and I thank my 17-year-old son for humoring his "old man"), not because I didn't think the show would live up to any musical expectations but instead because it would not fulfill up to some impossible personal mid-life vacuum.<br />
However, I am happy to report, the concert was not just satisfactory--it was incredible. The lighting, the video backdrop, the performances, the sound, the mixing of the present with wistful nostalgia. Roger unbuttoned his shirt and swung his mic, Pete's windmill guitar swung almost exactly the way I saw it watching hours of Who concert videos and movies from the '60s and '70s. It was better than I had hoped given our collective aging. Zach Starkey and Simon Townshend were great added touches and the way they incorporated original Moon and John Entwistle video into the show (you just had to have seen it) gave me chills. Even the parking, the venue (YUM Center) and my traveling companion...to me, a perfect night. I can't describe here what it meant. <br />
Suffice it to gush, I had a great time. I still have plenty of things on "the list" to do yet (helicopter anyone?), but this was one of those times where reality did exceed nervous expectations.<br />
Dry Martinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09848984695729501628noreply@blogger.com0