Maybe Then but Not Today

It could have been me in 1946.

I had just finished helping a neighbor stuff an attic with insulation. The itchy-scratchy kind. And it was August when a friend and I got done with the job.

We thought a camping trip would suffice as relief from the job and so Eddie and I gathered up survival rations and primitive camping gear and set out for the Hunter Mountain area of New York's Catskill Mountains. No backpacks. No tents. No sleeping bags. No insect repellent. Two bushel bags full of food a little like the picture above but not carried on a pole. And we were hitchhiking.

We arrived at the mountain in late afternoon ate our first meal, and proceeded to spread our primitive
bedrolls to get an evenings rest before setting out on the trails the next morning. What we didn't know was that flies, fleas, gnats, and mosquitoes had scheduled a convention in our camp site and we were their welcome guests.

The joy of camping and hiking was gone by morning and, rather than going back home, we decided to hitchhike to Niagara Falls and back. So back to the highway we went and it was not long before a farmer allowed us the privilege of riding in the back of his pickup truck for a few hours. When he reached his destination, we thumbed another ride in another truck for quite a while. (I think we ended up in Cooperstown of baseball fame by then.)

On the road again, we got a ride from a traveling salesman who got us all the way to Buffalo. On the way we cooked up a supper and he picked up a lady who turned out to be totally out of it from an alcohol binge and she was deposited at the front door of a Syracuse Police station. Then it was on to Buffalo where our driver allowed us to sleep on the floor of his Buffalo apartment living room.

I have no recollection of how we got to Niagara Falls but we made it there, and at the end of the day we decided to stay in a YMCA in Lockport. By this time we were getting a bit "ripe" and the "Y" had showers. The next morning we were on our way again - same clothes since we brought no change of clothes. Somehow we got to an open field between Syracuse and Utica where we camped in an open field. No bugs and 'critters' this time but the ground was really hard and sleep was hard to come by.
Seems to me that we started the day off with a breakfast of sardines and beans since there was not a lot of food left.

The next day we somehow made our way to Albany. How I don't know because we were really looking pretty shabby - an d left some body odor behind wherever we were. Not only that, but we were not very agreeable to each other - we were trying to decide whose crazy idea it was to take this trip anyway. We may have been out of food, but we had a little money in our pockets and decided that in the interest of getting home we would take the train the final 30 or so miles. By the way, it was well before the days of Interstate highways.

When Eddie and I met again some fifty years later we had matured a bit. we had a pleasant reunion but the question still remained: Whose idea was it to take the trip in the first place? And whose idea
was it to give up hiking to go to Niagara Falls? And was the trip a wise one to undertake?

Not on your life - but it was one of those things adventurous teenagers do - and sometimes still do.
But times were different then and we got away with it. I can't say the same for doing stuff like that today.

Tulip Time

A few years ago Joyce and I took a nice jaunt from our then home on the eastern shores of Michigan to go to a train museum in the center of the state and then we spent the night in Grand Rapids. The next morning we drove to Holland. Not Holland Holland - Holland Michigan. It was a perfect trip - the huge crowds that invade Holland were gone and it seemed as though we had the town to ourselves - except for millions and millions of Spring flowers. What a wonderful place Holland is - either the one in the Great Lake State - or the one in Europe. I remember that one well from my Air Force days when I spent several months in The Hague working with the Netherlands Air Force.

i guess that all came back to me yesterday when we drove down to Evansville for a a college honors convocation in which granddaughter Jill was one of the honorees. The University of South Indiana is one of those places that has masses of tulips at this time of the year. Not just the University - the flowers were all over the city and it was beautiful. It really brings to mind the beauty of God's paint brush and makes one glad to be alive.

But I wasn't all that glad when our cell phone went off a when we were in our local bankers office the other day. The cell phone sounded off and it seemed as though everyone started laughing. I don't know why - all it was was a cell phone ring.  It was just a ring tone of Tiny Tim of past years singing "Tiptoe Through the Tulips". If you haven't heard it, or are unfamiliar with who Tiny Tim was, look him up on the Internet -  I'm sure you will be impressed - or at the very least puzzled why anyone in their right mind would use that ring tune. Then, again, I''ve not been accused of a somewhat twisted mind for a long time. Or maybe Joyce doesas well - I think the ring tone was her idea.

Then there is the story about  long flower beds filled with beautiful tulips - a little like the picture above. This flower beds ran from a sally port entry to a large apartment complex in Rye, New York. Running along the flower bed was a concrete sidewalk leading to an ornate entrance to the building proper. I was quite young - perhaps four or so - and we had an apartment, our first home on the mainland after my father retired (for the first time) from the active Army. This row or tulips was the managers pride and joy.

Needless to say, I had not completed driver education but I was equipped with wheels - a four wheel pedal car. Unfortunately it was not equipped with GPS and so, when I drove it, the little car had a mind of its own as the direction it went. If you are think that the car might have  affinity for tulips, you are 100 percent right. Not just one side of the sidewalk but both sides experienced a floral demolition derby. From one end to the other. It was not a tip toe through the tulips - it was mass destruction.

If memory serves correctly, we did not last in that apartment complex. I've been told that the manager invited (urged? insisted? demanded) us to move quickly after my moment of floral devastation and we ended up in my grandmother's boarding house. The picture above is of the infamous vehicle with me behind the car and one of the Tucker boys to the left. Granted, the picture is a bit faded, but so am I at the moment. And wonders of all wonders, I have a considerably better respect for flowers - especially if they are my wife's.

March Madness

It's a glorious time in the Midwest - a time when all hearts and souls focus on basketball. High school, college, and most everyone else. Except this year when people held their breath to try to figure out where former Colt quarterback Peyton Manning would end up. And so it will be the Denver Broncos and now focus is back to basketball.

But I want to focus on something else - the March Madness of 2012 weather in Indiana. I thought it might be interesting to compare our 2012 weather to New York City winter in March 1888. As noted in the picture above, the Big Apple enjoyed a bit of snow in mid-March.  As much as 58 inches in one storm. There were 400 or so people who died, and there were damages estimated as high as 25 million in 1888 dollars (over a billion dollars in modern money) The storm produced winds as high as 80 miles per hours, creating snow drifts as high as 52 feet.

Then there was the time in my lifetime in New York State around 1940 when we had a snowstorm in which we had to use snowshoes to get to town because the snowplows couldn't get to our house. And the time in Rensselaer, Indiana when we had so much snow we had to cancel church three weeks out of four because churches were inaccessible for weeks at a time. When we were first able to make our way to some of them we had to drive on single lane roads with snowbanks on the side almost twice the height of our car. In Kokomo, Indiana we had an occasion where we couldn't get from our apartment into town for several days and Joyce couldn't get to get job in Marion (fifty miles away) for a week.

But then there is the year 2012 - another record setting weather year. Not for snow and cold -- just the opposite - warmth. It's been a really mild winter. And now it's mid-March. I venture to say we are

having Spring a month early and here is where we are this first day of Spring.  I'll take it but we do that with big question - It's great this year -- but what about Winter 2013? We shall see - but like I say, it's wunnerful this year.

This was the morning that was

 

In case someone wonders, it is not all peace and tranquility back at the senior citizen ranch in good old Indianapolis. The above is a self portrait at around 9:30 this morning.

What it represents is my reaction to a smoke alarm going of in our apartment. I might expect it once in a while in the kitchen area when I have been incinerating a steak. Or maybe overcooking some of the good lady's favorite Brussels sprouts. (Let me correct that: LEAST favorite - it's me who has craved them ever since I had them for ten days straight in three Israeli hotels where they are a mainstay.)

At any rate, it was not a kitchen alarm that went off - it was a bedroom alarm and nothing I tried would cause it to stop screaming. Before anyone has any false illusions, we were far away when it sounded off so it wasn't anything we did - maybe forty years ago but not today.

Next thing we knew the phone rang - the manager downstairs wanted to know if we had a problem. Only an alarm that we couldn't shut off. Then the maintenance man showed up with three of the biggest and bravest firemen I've ever seen - all the way up to the second floor. Finally everyone agreed - a smoke sensor had malfunctioned  and had to be dissembled to stop the alarm. A few hours later a new sensor was installed and hopefully will continue to guard over us unless some dire (real) emergency occurs.

All this sounds like something not to big but in an apartment building like ours it affects every occupant in one way or another. Maybe it's that the building fire doors automatically close. Or maybe that a building-wide warning is sounded. So, though I really had nothing to do the problem, I got a lot of dubious looks when I went downstairs for the mail a little later. And a few questions as to what we had been up to in good old 227. The manager, bless her heart, said, it's happened several times the past few weeks because of failed parts and our friendly firemen have paid a courtesy call every time. Even last Tuesday when someone else's sensor sounded off at two in the morning.

Oh, well, things happen, and I'm glad the system is here - maybe sometime it will protect us when
something more serious happens. Meanwhile, enjoy the picture - it's pretty much where I was at the time.

And the Walls came Tumbling Down

One time, some years ago, Joyce and I were hiking through a Michigan woods not far from our home. It was a fairly dense woods and there were not any significant trails. She looked at me a couple of times and then, rather quietly asked, "Do you have any idea where we are going?" That is not the best question to ask a somewhat self-assured man, and of course my response was, "Of course I do, why do you ask?"  There was no response but a few minutes later she asked, "Do you REALLY know where we are going?" With a little impatience I responded, "Sure - we're headed east toward the river." She shook her head, evidencing some doubt but about five or ten minutes later we broke out of the woods at the shore of the Ausable River. I didn't say I told you so, but I must have had a smug look on face when she asked, "How did you know?" My answer, "I knew which way we were going by the direction of the sun." She looked satisfied but I thought to myself, "Thank goodness the woods wasn't as dense as some out west are, and I'm sure glad I knew the general direction of the river.

Which brings to mind that we often guide our directions by certain objects. In Seattle we might look for the Space Needle. In Paris our point of reference might be the Eiffel Tower. In London it might be the big Ferris wheel. In New York City it might be the Empire State Building. And in Kokomo, Indiana it was a gas tank.

When we would drive to Kokomo we would see the tank from miles away - long before we got to the outskirts of town. It had been built in the 1950's and was huge - almost four-hundred feet high. It served as a point of reference for anyone in the Kokomo area, even long-time residents.

But all things come to an end eventually - football stadiums, apartment houses, skyscrapers, old ships - and 387 foot tall gas tanks. As noted above, the walls of the tank came down by implosion in 2003. Having been gone from Kokomo for over twenty five years I wondered, when I drove into town this past week, where my key point of reference. Then I found it it wasn't there anymore. And I began to lose my sense of direction. I missed the old tank and so did a lot of people in Kokomo.

I guess it's consistent with the old saying, "Eventually, all things come to an end."  Even when it means that walls are coming down.

A new opera:Vigaro...Veegaro....VEE...GA...ROW!

My abject apologies to the great composer of the opera "The Barber of Seville" for my mangling of its reference to Figaro.

I simply could not think of any better way to give some credit where credit is due.

The picture above reflects something that needs recognition.

My wife has a unique gift of raising flowers. The one above is just a sample of her green thumb with plants. This particular specimen has been amazing. It was the runt of the litter for some time. Then, a little while ago, she moved it to a table away from our west-facing living room windows where it seemed logical to flourish in natural sunlight. But no, it seemed to struggle by the window. Now it is under a lamp with a regular lightbulb. We both wonder why it has flourished where it is now. It gets the same treatment as other plants in the same room. Same watering. Same plant food. Same sweet talk from those who enjoy flowers.

That's not to say the other plants aren't doing well - they look great but just not quite as spectacular  as the one above. Could it be the American Flag stuck in the pot with the plant?

Joyce has always had a gift of growing things. She's got a shamrock plant that never seems to give up. It's survived inumerable moves from cold country - to hot country - to cold country - from trailers to houses to condos to apartments. Oh, it's had its moments but somehow even when its existance seems near terminal it surges back better than ever with flocks of pretty flowers. But then, Joyce is of Irish descent so maybe it understands her loving care more than it would mine which likely would be a combination of Scottish and English cockney.

Some people are just naturals with plants. She always has had a knack with them. The only hiccup  in her gardening that I can remember was a veggie garden back in Missouri.

She planted carrots, beets, corn, beans, and more. Especially

Zucchini squash. Lots of Zuchini plants. Enough we could have supplied ample amounts through three or four surrounding counties. When I asked her why she planted so many Zuchini plants she said she thought there was only one squash per plant. I made some inane and inappropriate remark and she looked at me and calmly said, "How was I to know - I grew up in the city."  I mention this only because she has a real gift for growing plants and I have a Midas touch for growing things - hers do well and mine shrivel up and die.

A final note - she uses Miracle Gro - not Vigoro - I found no opera that I could parody in a title. I can just say - whenever she feeds her plants they do well. And whenever she feeds me I do well. What more could a man ask for?





A Flip of the Lid

If you go to Switzerland, you're apt to see one of these - a pretty hat with a white feather on it. You may find them in Germany and Austria as well.

This one was purchased at the intersection of three Swiss cog railroads at the base of the Jungfrau - one of the ever-snow and ice-covered mountains in the Alps. I thought it might help me to get motivated enough to yodel. No such luck at that - but it has earned a corner of my closet shelf. However, there remains a problem - a felt hat like this does not moisture. Somewhere in its lifetime it has been rained upon and it shrank. Originally it fit fairly well. When I try to wear it now it sits high on my head and looks a little funny. On second thought, maybe the hat has done well and it has been my head that has grown. Some people end up getting a swollen head over life accomplishments - but I hope that's not the case in my life. Makes me think about the country music song, "It's hard to be humble when you're perfect in every way." Sure, and I make chocolate sushi in the summertime.

Anyway, though the hat has shrunk the number of emblems on it has not. Each on of them reflects somewhere we've been. The majority of them reflect places we have been to in Switzerland. Places like Geneva, and Zermatt and Schiedegg (where  the hat was bought, and where I got the first pin.
There are other non-Swiss places represented - places like Heidelberg, Oberammergau, and Berchesgaden in Germany. There are pins from Jamaica, and Alaska, and even West Point.

Some might say, "So what - it's just a bunch of pins" on a hat I can hardly wear anymore. But the collection is more than that - every one of the emblems represented some place we have been. Each of them provides a bright memory of some time in life. Each of the has a back story of life and people we met or traveled with.

So, I keep the under-size hat with all of its pins and emblems on a corner of my computer room closet, not just to gather dust but rather to offer memories of some really good times with good friends in amazing parts of the world. As I sometimes say, along with Bob Hope, 'Thanks for the memories' - and things that bring back good memories from times gone by.