May 30, 1998

Just took "the guys" for a walk. I really feel sorry for Winston (He's the blond guy). Winston had two seizures in the last two days. He's so pitiful during those episodes, and afterwards--THE SMELL! The smell of the body fluids he has emitted after a seizure is almost enough for us to want to move out of the neighborhood. We survive though. He recovers. There's not much that can be done. These are the first seizures he has had for about six months. I had to cut the walk a little short. Fritz (the white guy) was doing fine, but Winston was tiring quickly.

I keep up with a few online journals. People sure lead interesting lives. I've always preferred fact over fiction. Real life incidents are hard to beat. A few things I've read lately have brought back memories.

One fellow wrote about cockroaches. He seemed to be amazed at the size they reach in California. Well, I'm from Oklahoma and I really don't like to give the State of Texas credit for much. But I will give them ample credit for having the BIGGEST cockroaches I have ever seen! ---There I was: Fourteen years old--- My sister moved to Houston in 1959. Some friends of hers, Rochelle Montgomery and Mildred Nauss, worked in Louisiana at Chenault Air Force Base in Lake Charles.

Mildred worked as Service Club director at the Air Base. New Years (1960) was coming and she planned a party at the service club. She asked my sister if she wouldn't mind coming to Lake Charles for New Years. Freda could spend New Years with them, and possibly meet some nice guys at the Service Club party. I was visiting my sister so I tagged along.

A few things stand out in my mind about that party. A non-alcoholic fruit punch was served, a alcohol was not allowed in the service club. This didn't discourage the flyboys, though. A young airman was parked outside the main entrance to the club in his jeep. On the floor of the jeep were at least ten bottles of Smirnoff Vodka. I was encouraged to take my fruit punch outside and fortify it with Vodka--the same as the servicemen were doing. Well folks, after about 5 or 6 of those I was really floating. It was the first time I had ever had hard liquor. It was the first time I had ever gotten drunk.

The next day I paid the price. I had an alergic reaction to the Vodka. My joints were swollen, red, and itchy. Some things you don't forget.

There are other things I haven't forgotten about Louisiana in those days. The blatant signs of bigotry were everywhere to be seen. Gas stations regularly had three restrooms. Each of the three restrooms was labeled prominently: White Men, White Women, and Colored People. Mildred told us of taking a Black serviceman to the bus station. He was going home to visit his family. Tickets had to be purchased in the White waiting room. After purchasing the tickets, they stood together in the White waiting room until the bus arrived. Apparently this was too much for some of the locals--a White woman with a Black man in the White waiting room.

Mildred related that for months after that incident her car was followed. The surveillance did not stop until she got new license tags.

Back at my sister's house in Houston (She was renting a room in a private home)I met up with that cockroach. My sister was getting ready to go to bed when she let out a scream. This lousy fresh cockroach was trying to crawl into bed with her! How big was it? It was larger than one of those colossol Medjool Dates--but about the same color. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm? Guess some folks might consider it the size of a large canape! Bleeeeeech!

To be continued in the next entry........

May 29, 1998

Did I say I "loved" yard work? If I didn't, that's what I usually say. Ummmmmmmmm?

Ah yes, well, this year working in the yard has given me something which brings back memories--Poison Ivy. Last time I had that I think I was about 16 or 17 years old. It was back when I had the cutest little Cocker Spaniel. He was blond and his name was Elmer. I didn't name him. He had belonged to a young girl named Jodie Hoffman. Her parents, Donna and Joel, were moving, and even though Jodie had had the dog only six months, they didn't want to take it with them. They were friends of the family, so they offerred us the dog.

Elmer was a cute dog, he was small, had short curly hair, and loved attention almost as much as he loved to eat. That's one thing I remember about him. He never seemed to get enough to eat. If we had fed him 24 hours a day, he would have eaten 24 hours a day--amazing. Elmer was an outside dog with ambitions to be a house dog. Although we provided him with a quite respectable dog house, he enjoyed sleeping on the back porch near the door.

Elmer loved to escape. During these escapades he would roam freely around the neighborhood. One of his favorite places to explore was the sewer. I remember many times he returned with some noxious substance smeared all over his back. Whether he had rolled in some slime or the remains of a dead animal, it didn't matter--he would just reek!

Now what does all this have to do with my poison ivy? Elmer liked to root around and roll on the ground and other places. I actually got the poison ivy from him. He had rolled on the vine, got the noxious oil on his fur, then cozied up to me for a scratch! I'll never forget the days of itching and discomfort. Do you think it is just coincidental that we got a Cocker Spaniel a year ago? I wonder?

Eventually Elmer's peregrinations got the best of him. While returning from a roam around the neighborhood, at the age of 13, he was hit by a car. No, he didn't die. He was laid up for a while, developed a nasty growth on his head, but lived for almost another 3 years. However, during those last years he was plagued by periodic seizures.

After a particularly severe and debilitating stroke, we had to end his suffering. We probably should have just buried him in the backyard, but we wanted to do something special. It was decided he should have a space in a pet cemetery--complete with his own personalized marker. It was nice, but the cemetery was a very long way from home. I wonder if he would have approved. I think he would have preferred being closer to home. Then again, he did like to wander.

May 27, 1998

Just want to say.......

Hey SIS! Your gift will be on it's way soon!

May 25, 1998

Memorial Day weekend. Lots of memories. I've been doing a lot of things this weekend that I like to do best. Most of Saturday I tended to the yard. I'm one of those folks who loves to mow and edge, weed and plant, prune and trim--totally wore myself out! This is the first weekend in quite a while that I have taken completely off. I even indulged my passion for books by visiting Borders with Jason. I purchased a large book on Romanesque Architecture Sculpture and Painting I have been eyeing for some time.

As far as my website is concerned, I have been trying to give it a more cohesive organization. As soon as that satisfies me I will begin a historical/biographical/genealogical section. There's a new quote on my Index page. You might want to check it out.

May 20, 1998

I am presenting a new Art Exhibit today. Henri Matisse is one of my favorite artists. Matisse was one of my earliest inspirations.

From the age of five until my high school years, I attended Art Classes. My first teacher was Maggie Gough. Maggie had been Art Director for the New York Public School System. She was an intense and passionate sort of person--she was the type of eccentric person my mother would dub "bohemian."

I remember Maggie's house. there was a large sofa with huge cushions. The fabric of the sofa had a painted pattern done in oil paint. The dining table was a redwood picnic table with matching benches. And on the wall beside the door was a work of singular beauty. It was a charcoal sketch of the upper torso of a female nude. This sketch was by Matisse.

I remember the story that Maggie told about that charcoal sketch. She had waited hours at the airport, knowing that Matisse was to visit New York. When he arrived, she thrust a tablet in front of him and begged him to draw "anything." He drew that free and vibrant sketch.

The art of Matisse is full of the joy of life. It is not surprising that he said, "I hope that however old we live to be, we shall die young."

May 16, 1998

I overhauled my Theatre Section. I'm rather happy with it. I'll expand it from time to time.

May 14, 1998

I've just been thinking about the lengths people go sometimes to avoid facing up to reality. Reminds me of a series of incidents that happened when I was operating my own restaurant.

Sherry (not her real name), worked as a waitress at my place (Peoria Station) from the time it opened until it closed. She was pretty intelligent. She had been majoring in Petroleum Engineering at The University of Tulsa, and had done quite well. But she grew tired of school, and decided to take a respite. She was very well organized and friendly--just the right type of person for the job.

Sherry had a boyfriend (I'll call him Mark). I'd be sort of embarrassed to see him--the few times he visited the restaurant. You see, Sherry used to share stories of their intimate relationship with me and other members of the crew. Not only that, apparently they liked to take nude photos of each other. Well, she passed those around too! (Not photos of herself, but photos of him) She took delight in telling me about the strange looks she got from the folks at the place where she took her photos to be developed. I'm not surprised!

During the first summer my restaurant was open, Sherry and Mark went to Chicago to visit her parents. They were gone about ten days. When Sherry came back she didn't have a whole lot to say about the trip, except that a good friend of hers was going to move to Tulsa soon. She asked if it wouldn't be possible for me to hire this friend.

Her friend's name was Vanessa (not her real name). Vanessa moved to Tulsa about 3 months later. I hired her. She normally worked evenings.

One day, about a month after returning from the Chicago trip, Sherry came to work in a very dark and somber mood. She didn't comment on anything in particular, but it was clear she was preoccupied. When I asked her what the problem was, she replied that her father had died. I immediately told her she would certainly be given leave to go home and attend the funeral. She replied that she didn't want to. She had recently seen her Dad, and wanted to remember him alive. Besides, "I can't afford to miss work," she said.

I thought this was pretty strange. But who was I to question what she did. It was her decision.

Three or four days later she came to work wearing a rather nice looking black dress. She seemed more dejected than ever. This was really disturbing. If she was that upset, she really shouldn't be at work. When I asked her why she was wearing the black dress, she told me that it was because her father's funeral was taking place that day. She said it was a family tradition that even if one were not able to attend the funeral of a loved one, proper mourning attire was to be worn on the day of the funeral. Who was I to question? I sure was glad when that day was over.

Nothing more was said about her father in the ensuing few months.

Sherry's friend Vanessa was a very nice person. Vanessa was a little more reserved than Sherry, but had a sly type of humor.

One evening, during a lull in business, Vanessa and I began to talk. The conversation came around to Sherry's dad. I commented that it was a shame he had died. Vanessa looked at me and said, "he's not dead!"

"What do you mean, he's not dead," I said. I then recounted the whole story about Sherry, the grieving, and the black dress.

Vanessa laughed and said, "well, he's not dead." "Sherry," she related, "was upset with her dad because her dad hated her boyfriend. She didn't want to tell Mark about it, so she just told everyone here that her dad was dead."

Usually when I relate this story to folks, I begin by saying it's a story about how one of my employees killed her father. What people won't do sometimes to maintain a relationship!

By the way, Sherry didn't marry Mark. They split up. Sherry met another fellow. They married, and now have two kids.

May 12, 1998

In the last few days I've been thinking about people. I've met a lot of good people on the Internet. Last night I was thumbing through the "Guide for the Perplexed" by Moses Maimonides, and came across this passage:

Folks like to be right, as well. I like to be right. Don't you like to be right?
Watching game shows on TV can be interesting. Remember Jeopardy? I liked that. I used to try to answer those questions before the contestants did. I usually did pretty well--except for sports related questions. It sure made me feel good to be right!
Ever get overcharged for something? Did you save the receipt? Did you go back to the place of purchase and present the evidence? Yep, it's good to be right!

There are instances, though, when it is not so satisfying to be right. I remember arguing with my brother when I was young. I always thought he was wrong and I was right. I love my brother. I really hated feeling I had to argue with him.
Ever had an argument with a friend? I don't know about you, but I love my friends. I really don't think a person can ever have enough friends. Sometimes the price of being right can mean losing a friendship, or what one thought was a friendship. Then the questioning begins. Was it worth it? I was right wasn't I? Was I really wrong? Being right doesn't seem so important when weighed against the loss of a friend or loved one.

It's usually easy to resolve differences with my wife. The advice given to us was "don't go to bed mad." 99% of the time I follow that advice. The other 1% of the time I wish I had. My wife and I have always been able to resolve our differences, but then, we've always kept the channels of communication open.

That's the problem with relatives and friends. In those types of situations it's much easier for communication to break down. Sometimes it can take years to heal the breach. Sometimes differences are never resolved.

May 10, 1998

Today is Mother’s Day. I won’t be able to see my Mother or give her a gift or any type of greeting today. It’s been a little over four years since her death.
I was very close to my Mother. Was it because I was the youngest child? Was it also because of the age difference between myself and my sister (11.5 yrs.) and brother (10 yrs.)? Was it because my dad died nearly 38 years ago when I was 15? Or is it because all children are close to their Mothers? Hard to say. I celebrated with her, laughed with her, cried with her, fought with her, and reminisced with her for over 48 years. Memories and memorabilia now fill the void left by her death.
She was born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin in 1906. Her name was Fannie, which she later changed to Fay. Her middle name was Ruth. Her parents, William R. Stein and Bertha Schwartz Stein, were not wealthy people. At an early age the family (she had 3 sisters and one brother) moved to Beaver Dam, Wisconsin. They lived a rather hard rural life until returning to Milwaukee when she was seventeen. It was there my father met her in 1929. They were married on January 1, 1930.
I was born in 1945. There are so many things to remember:
I remember a train trip to Washington, DC, when I was six. Went to visit my Aunt and Uncle (her sister and brother-in-law), and attend my cousin’s wedding. My mother, sister and I were traveling together. My father was in business for himself--so he seldom traveled anywhere. a self-assured fellow passenger sized the three of us up and said in relation to me: “Let me see. You’re the mother (referring to my sister who was 18 at the time), and you are the grandmother (my mother was 45). “ She always thought that was so funny.
On the same trip we visited many of the sights of the Capitol and vicinity. I especially remember the visit to Mount Vernon. I was so impressed with the methods of preservation and presentation demonstrated there. On one wall the successive layers of paint and wallpaper were shown to illustrate changes over the years. When I looked up at the chandelier in the foyer I was so impressed I blurted out “Oh how magnificent!” Guess I really shocked the grown-ups around me. My mother always talked about that incident.
I remember my Bar Mitzvah too. Mother rented a freezer to hold the many varieties of cookies she baked over a period of three or four months. I’ve got the recipes of my favorites. I made the same types for the Bar and Bat Mitzvahs of my own son and daughter.
I remember Passover. She had a special routine. Passover was the only time of year we kept strictly Kosher. Until I went to college I always enjoyed helping her get out the special pots and pans, dishes and silverware, set aside to use during that one week of the year. She would grate fresh horseradish, make her family renowned haroses, and whip up her famous Matzo Spice Sponge cake. She would always comment on the amount of wine used in the recipe. The whole family would gather for the seder. Those were wonderful and special times.
I remember all the volunteer work she did: Occupational therapy at St. John Medical Center, Sisterhood rummage sales, Hadassah, ORT, various senior’s groups, and as part of the sewing circle preparing bandages for cancer patients.
I remember her in the mornings, always working the crossword puzzle in the newspaper.
I remember the story of her and her sister sneaking through the bushes to their neighbor’s house in Beaver Dam, Wisconsin. They candle-waxed that neighbor’s windows one Halloween. This was in retaliation to that neighbor’s yearly practice of turning over neighborhood privies on October 31.
I remember all her help and encouragement. She was always such a positive person. She encouraged me to smile and laugh. Laughing would take away pain and sorrow. She would do anything she could to help her kids. I remember a great photograph of her and my brother and I, in 1961, at my Confirmation (I'm the one on the right in the robe).
She had an amazing filing system. She kept every bill for every repair or purchase associated with her house (we had moved in, in 1945). Those bills could be instantly produced to provide verification of the cost of any project.
I remember my daily visits and calls during her last years. I would walk in the front door, and there she would be sitting in her favorite chair. Her hair was white. Tubes providing oxygen circled her head. I would say, “How are you feeling.” She would raise her eyebrows and reply, “I’m here.”
I remember the terrible day I had to call 911. Her heart was failing, and she was having difficulty breathing. Her regular doctor was out of town. His associate was on call. At the hospital, after furtive efforts to help her breathing, I was told that she would die unless she was intubated (put on a breathing machine). I remembered those discussions we had with her doctor. No extraordinary measures were to be taken to keep her alive. But I never really expected to be asked to make that decision! I called my brother. He said I should order the assisted breathing. With relief I did. Her doctor was furious with me. I’ve never been sorry for that decision. She was with us for another eighteen months, and was able to attend my sons Bar Mitzvah--she died a little over two weeks later.
Luckily she was sharp and alert until the end. I never had to make the decision of whether or not she should move to a retirement center or nursing home. Between my help and St. Francis Hospital Home Health Care, she was able to remain in her own home.
There is more--a whole lifetime of memories. I love her, and I remember her.

May 7, 1998

I usually try to be pretty upbeat. I say "try," but it doesn't really take much effort. I just take a look at how fortunate I am. I'm alive, I've got a great family, I've got a wonderful group of co-workers, good friends, I enjoy my job, and I'm not a teenager! Does a person good to count their blessings!
A lot of folks also know that I love humor! I'm always getting mail which includes some pretty funny stories! It reminds me of the days when I owned my own business.
That was back in the mid-eighties. For economic reasons (Like: I couldn't find a teaching job!), I went into restaurant work (Taco Bell) after I got my MA. I rose quickly from Manager to Training Supervisor then District Operations Manager. For someone who had never had any previous management experience, it boggled my mind that I was able to more than double the sales volume at my restaurant and be ranked #2 nationally in the company. How did I do it? I was new to the business. I followed all the rules. I provided a quality product (at that time all food prep was done in-house), quick and friendly service. All of those things that the cynical folks don't bother about.
Over five years with a company and a person begins to feel comfortable in the job. But one cannot be complacent in the restaurant industry. The company I worked for sold their tulsa restaurants to a franchisee. No middle managers were retained (there is actually a little more to the story, but I don't want to write a book).
I wasn't about to take the company's offer of a position in St. Louis or Jacksonville. For economic and personal reasons I wanted to remain in Tulsa. Sooooo, I got a job with #1 (McDonald's). I call my tenure as a manager at McDonald's "Life in Hell."
Taco Bell had a very enlightened and well organized Management Training Program, McDonald's did not. At the McD I worked at, The Store Manager was a demoted supervisor, and the 1st Assistant Manager was a demoted Store Manager. Take note: This was the highest volume unit in the city! I couldn't believe all the bickering and infighting! Employees who had long service with the company, and did an excellent job, were targets for dismissal because novice workers could be hired for much less wages! Besides this, the enforcement of quality standards was severely lacking. Rules were routinely broken. If a person tried to follow the rules, they were told to work another station.
After two months of that, I knew I didn't want to stay.
Early in 1983, I opened "Peoria Station." It was fun starting one's own restaurant. I really enjoyed it. Learned a lot. One of the best aspects of the business was the clientele. I had a lot of regular customers. A few liked to trade jokes and stories. I was always hearing something humorous and passing it on from customer to customer. My E-mail correspondence reminds me of those days.
I've also met a lot of pretty nice folks on the Internet! Some of the most interesting and thoughtful are the young people. Most are knowledgeable and bright, but all remind me how good it is not to have to live those days over again.
I've updated my humor pages in the last few days. Hope you'll take a look.

May 5, 1998

Time for new beginnings? It would seem so. Vacuumed my car out on Sunday--a very rare occurrance! I even washed it. That may be why it decided to rain today (What! Me superstitious?!). Tragedy struck on Sunday--my Vivaldi cassette tape broke! Will have to find another! Interestingly enough, the classical station aired his Concerto for two horns in C. Very nice. It was followed by Mozart's Horn Concerto. Good to have some great music when driving 20 miles in the rain.
Just have a few things to say to some folks:
-Weida: "I promise I will get a round to it!"
-Cindy: "I've got to learn the words to that one!"
-Alan V.: "Uh, did you say I needed to get some real good photos this time?"
Semester is over. Will be turning in my grades this week. One of the finest classes I have ever had. I should teach on Saturday's more often. 8-A's, 1-B, 1-C; Good group. Lots of questions and discussion--a thoroughly enjoyable semester!

May 2, 1998

I've traveled around the Internet for something like two years. I've visited chat rooms, directories, and numerous personal sites. I've conversed, consoled, congratulated, discussed, and argued with a lot of folks I've never met in person. But only in the last month have I encountered any open hostility.
The first was from a history professor who apparently could not access a MIM file I had forwarded to him. I had met him briefly a year earlier, and had his E-mail address in my directory. I had forwarded less than 3 or four items (all of a humorous nature) to him in six months. Well, that was too much for him I suppose. Although, it could have been the stated frustration at the fact that he was unable to open the MIM file. In any case, he deemed the items I forwarded of "little or no interest." Needless to say, I removed him from my directory. Of course, I apologized for having inconvenienced him.
The second discouraging word came a couple of days ago. A fellow from Canada (with whom I had previously shared communications) apparently took exception to an entry listed in the guestbook on the homepage of a friend of his. I don't know if any folks who read this have ever filled out one of those guestbook forms on the internet. This particular one had preset answers (many humorous) to most of the items in the list. It's not my favorite type of form. The answer displayed for that item was something I would not have chosen, but neither were any of the other choices--c'est la vie! I didn't bother about it, just finished the rest of the form and figured it made little difference. But I guess some folks will always find a pretext to take offense. This person did, and sent a rather pointedly nasty E-mail to me.
What I find most bizarre is why he didn't just question me about the entry. Strange.

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