I am not handy. You have to be patient to be handy. I am not patient.
Nicholas, our grandson, who claims to be 32 years old, and his wife, Shirley, insisted on buying me a new mini iPad for Father’s Day. Nicholas had given me my first mini iPad several Christmases ago. Irene, who claims to be older than 32, insisted on buying me a case for my new toy.
The case is an Otter Box Defender. That’s what it says on the top of the box it came in. On the bottom of the box, there is the word “drop” and a + sign.
When I opened the box, there was a piece of plastic over part of the case. It looked unnecessary, so my 83-year-old hands tugged and pulled until I removed this un-neccessity. I am not handy. It turns out the clear plastic was the screen that would allow me—perhaps eventually—to push the buttons on my mini iPad while it was held tightly in the case.
This screw-up was not really my fault. No instructions came with the Otter Box Defender. None. Not even a hard to understand drawing somewhere on the box. The back of the box is populated by descriptions in both English and French of the attributes of the case. These include being subjected to “24+ tests, including thermal shock, abrasion and drop.” I believe Abrasion and Drop was one of the high-powered legal firms that turned down the chance to defend Donald J. Trump.
With no instructions on how to open the case, I called on Mr. Google for help. I watched approximately ten different videos, a couple of them 30-40 times, showing how to open the Otter Box Defender so a mini iPad may be inserted. None of them worked for me. I was too embarrassed to ask Nicholas or any of the other grandkids to have a go at this.
The smartest thing to do, I thought briefly, was to put on a disguise and go to Best Buy and ask for help from their Geek Squad. That would be humiliating, but I figured the folks at the Geek Squad need a good laugh every now and then.
I ended up taking the case to Best Buy dressed as myself, meaning dirty baseball cap, T-shirt and shorts. A person wearing a Geek Squad shirt, who may possibly be 14 on his next birthday, quickly opened the case with a practiced thumb. It took him, maybe, 90 seconds to take the case completely apart, slip in my mini iPad and put the blasted thing back together. Showoff.
This has been a learning experience. For one thing, I was unaware that otters made boxes. Does anyone know if they are also good at gift wrapping?
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FROM THE ROCKVILLE CENTRE PUBLIC LIBRARY
Local Authors Larry and Irene McCoy (In-person)
Sunday September 19, 2021
2:00 PM
After 61 years of marriage, Irene and Larry McCoy are still speaking to each other. The fact that they don’t hear as well as they once did may partially explain this phenomenon. The pair will give a humorous account of their lives together and read from their recently published books, Only Gypsies Move on Sunday and Grandma Told Me to Never Believe Anything Grandpa Says.
The Rockville Centre Public Library is at 211 North Village Avenue, about a half mile from the LIRR train station. Phone is 516-766-6257.
(Posted August 30, 2021)
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My Days In A Fraternity
(My mom’s mom is the only grandparent I really knew. She lived down the block from us, and when my parents moved just before my senior year in high school it was decided I would live with Charity Melissa Thornton Smith Alexander, my grandmother. I do not know if she said “yes” to this arrangement at the point of a gun. My dad owned several.
(I enjoyed sitting around her coal stove listening to her stories about my mom, the pneumonia I had as an infant, and Edward, one of her sons who drowned as a teenager. I wish I had asked her more questions about her life. A couple years ago I started writing pieces for our four grandkids about growing up in rural Indiana; how I loved high school and how my first couple of years in college were a struggle.)
I had never been in a sports car before. I was about to finish high school and was all of 17. It was a snug two-seater, maybe an MG, so low if you opened the door and put your hand down you could become a knuckle-dragger. I had been invited by Jim Rogers from my hometown of Frankfort to see if I wanted to pledge to his fraternity at Indiana University in Bloomington. (Excuse me if I’m not sure of the name of the fraternity. Our relationship, as you will see, was brief.)
The guy who owned the MG was a smooth-talker from Tennessee, and we drove in the rain to see “Blackboard Jungle,” a tough movie about a rookie teacher trying to maintain order in a New York City school. More than 65 years later I still think about driving to see that film when I’m out on the street on a rainy evening. I’m guessing that we also had something to eat. Whether this happened, before or after I was given a tour of the fraternity house I don’t remember.
I wasn’t really fraternity material. For some reason—and it took me a long time to get over this—I didn’t think I was as good, as smart, as good-looking as other guys. There were certain places I didn’t belong. It wasn’t until I was in my late 30s or early 40s and making decent money that I felt comfortable going into restaurants that were several notches above a diner. Still, before I had attended a single class at Indiana University, I ended up pledging to Phi Kappa Whatever.
It was a losing proposition from the start. I was going to be living at home and not sleeping or dining at the frat house. Plus I was working nights at the A&P and what little studying I did was either at the Gables, a coffee shop next to campus, or the university library. I rarely had time or inclination to be at the fraternity house. I remember hearing a complaint that I was “seldom there.” Well, duh. Yes.
I’m not sure I lasted even a month as a fraternity brother. One night at the fraternity the pledges were being ordered, amid much yelling of upper classmen, to run from the first floor of the house to the top and back again. Several times.
Surprisingly, this did not strike me as either a stimulating endeavor or necessary. I don’t recall how many times I ran up and down the %^&*(%^&*() stairs. What sticks in my mind is an act of honor and honesty. I went up to Jim Rogers, handed him my pledge pin, made some undoubtedly nasty comment about what the pledges were being told to do and said, in what I hope was a clear, calm voice, “Here’s your pin. Stick it up your ass.” No, I do not know if he did as I requested.
So instead of hanging around and BSing with the frat brothers I shared time, stocking shelves and mopping floors at the A&P, with the Armstrong brothers, Bloomington kids who introduced me to limestone quarries instead of sorority girls. I’ve never for a second regretted my decision to leave Krappa Dappa Du or whatever it was called. (Posted August 4,2021.)
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My Figured Out's Never Been More Confused
“My Figured Out’s Never Been More Confused” is a line borrowed from the lyrics of Eric Church
Wednesday, July 7th, 2021 was a typical day for this senior citizen. To start at the finish: When I went upstairs to brush my teeth before going to bed, a glance in the mirror showed there were two long brown streaks on my T-shirt—Hershey’s chocolate syrup from the ice cream eaten three hours earlier. I haven’t dared look at the living room couch, the site of the ice cream consumption. It is a brown couch but whether it is as dark as Mrs. Hershey’s syrup I don’t know.
Conversations with Irene have included the T-shirt but not the couch. I intend to keep it that way.
Before the ice cream, there was dinner—chicken sausage with broccoli and snap peas and pasta. We use a lot of olive oil, and “my figured out’s never been more confused” when I tried to open a new bottle. The 48-fluid ounce bottle of Pompeian Extra Virgin olive oil had an uncooperative top, a two-tier job with the upper tier supposed to screw off. (Author’s inquiry: Can “screw off” be used when talking about something labeled “extra virgin”?)
The skillet with the chicken sausage needed more olive oil, so I hurried, grabbing a pair of pliers and trying to use it to unscrew the top layer of the cap while holding the bottom layer with my hands. No luck.
I moved the skillet off the burner and searched for another tool. I found a silver thing with squeezable handles (later identified by Irene as a nut cracker). I took the pliers again, attached them to the bottom tier of the cap and used the silver thing to grab hold of the top tier.
Success! I was pleased, so pleased I had a Chrismasy feeling. All together: “Silver thing, silver thing. It’s olive oil time in the kitchen.”
Before this struggle with the Pompeian oil, I noticed I had missed a call on my cellphone, but there was a transcription. It began: “Good afternoon this is Dave_____from Chase bank and left the center I’m trying to contact Larry McCoy a mystical….’’ Eighty-four years old in a few weeks and suddenly I’m “a mystical.” Well, it’s about time.
The transcription went on to say Dave “is simply checking in to make sure all is well with the relationship here at 10 N. Phyllis….”
If Dave is a good banker, he appreciates the value of confidentiality, and I’m hoping he keeps his trap shut about the relationship I have with “N. Phyllis” and doesn’t find out there’s also something going on between me and “S. Phyllis”.
Who knows, if Dave calls me again in six months and I don’t answer, maybe the transcription will describe me as a saint. Should that happen then Chase bank really needs to find another transcription service.
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*The title is a line from an Eric Church song called “Mixed Drinks About Feelings.”
(Posted July 13, 2021)
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61st WEDDING ANNIVERSARY
Irene and I were married 61 years ago, July 2, 1960, in Whiting, Indiana, a town known for paying its teachers well and for, the only time I saw them, a high school football team that walked onto the field at game time
July 2, 2021
For you youngsters reading this, here’s a game plan for celebrating your 61st anniversary.
1. Get out of bed. I did. This is the way most good days start.
2. Scratch. (It is to be hoped your bride/groom is asleep or at least groggy enough that he/she doesn’t see this.)
3. Bathroom time.
4. Do your stretching exercises. In my household, these are done downstairs so no need to be tentative about scratching.
5. Have some water or Gatorade before or during stretching. Though Irene’s boss left us a bottle of Early Times at the Drake Hotel in Chicago on our wedding night, Early Times or other bourbons are not recommended as a substitute at this hour for water, Gatorade or orange juice. Besides we probably don’t have any ice.
6. Get dressed. Bring in The New York Times, glance at the front page and take that section with you to the gym along with a bottle of water and a tangerine.
7. Eat the tangerine in the car on the short drive to the gym, trying not to get any tangerine juice on your shorts as you do many mornings. It’s sort of embarrassing to get to the gym with wet shorts, and then everyone there you know asks, “Is that tangerine juice on your shorts?”
8. Clean off a recumbent bike and ride for 32 minutes. Your reading of The Times will be interrupted by one of the gym regulars, men not as old as you and who don’t read at the gym. These men have occasionally been told by you, “You know some people who come to the gym use the equipment.” They laugh and just keep talking.
9. Go into the stretching room and stretch some more and also grab a couple of five-pound weights. Do arm exercises with the weights, amazing yourself once again how pooped you get doing this in such a short time. Contemplate a dish of ice cream, a large dish, after supper.
10. Head to the usual place for a copy of Newsday and a dollar scratch off ticket.
11. Drive home, drink some more Gatorade, take your morning pills (all nine or ten of them), wash your face and head out to the Flour Shoppe, a neat bakery-cafe not far from your house.
12. Eat a large omelet with bacon, cheese and veggies. Have a taste of your bride’s blueberry pancakes.
13. Back home, resume reading of the front section of The Times before heading upstairs to your laptop to answer email and Facebook messages. Rest your eyes in between writing these answers. Wake up after a couple of sharp head snaps.
14. Head downstairs for lunch only three hours after you finished breakfast. It’s the usual for you—fruit yogurt that you load up with many helpings of unsalted peanuts and a piece of fruit. This day it was a tangerine, so if there is juice on your shorts it doesn’t matter this time.
15. While dining in the breakfast nook, turn on the telly. After brief looks at the three major so-called cable “news” channels, switch to TMC where “Crime School” is playing. This is a 1938 beauty with Leo Gorcey, Huntz Hall and Humphrey Bogart. Wonder out loud to your bride whether Bogey ever had drinks with Leo and Huntz and what their conversations would have been like.
16. Take a nap on the couch in the living rroom, covering yourself with a blanket because a certain person should have married an air conditioner salesman because she loves the AC. You do not say anything about the frigid temperature in the living room to the Bride of Nanook of the North, which is among the reasons you have been married 61 years.
17. Call one of your favorite restaurants to order dinner to be picked up at 6:45, 15 minutes before the start of the Yankees-Mets game. In answer to my question, the lady who took our order on the phone said they do not give refunds if the Yankees lose.
18. Make sure the lady knows your order includes two (2) brownies. I don’t give a damn how long you’ve been married, brownies are NEVER shared.
(Posted July 3, 2021)
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I'm Prepared For The Next Time
At 83 my memory isn’t as sharp as I thought it once was. (Or even twice was.) I recently got a Facebook Friend request from someone whose name sounded familiar from a newsroom I worked in decades ago. Soon after I said “yes” to the request I received a “how’s-it-going?” message.
I recounted to this new “friend” what I’ve been doing in recent years (books written, et cetera) and asked that he remind me how we knew each other. The response ignored the question and asked if I was aware of some program that would provide me up to $150,000. My answer could have been, “Yes, that seems to be about the going rate for ladies to keep quiet about having sex with Donald John Trump.” (“John” as a middle name really fits here.)
I ran the name by one of my former CBS News bosses and was told someone on Facebook was impersonating a person we knew and was involved in a scam.
Lesson learned, I hope. The next time I encounter something fishy on the internet, someone wanting to be buddy-buddy I’ll be ready. Not only ready, I’m going to have a little fun with it, making up stuff. Many politicians do that all the time, so why can’t I.
As a public service for others who may be faced with similar situations here are a few “starter” paragraphs to get you going on a snappy response to the “How’s it going” question from someone you suspect is up to no good. The goal is to get them to leave you the hell alone.
Dear xxxx,
Well, damn. It’s so good to hear from you. Florence and I are busy as hell, partly because she’s 23 years younger than I am and can’t keep her hands off me, and partly because we’re managers of a new rock group called Hot Car Stench. If you haven’t heard of them yet, trust me you will. And soon.
Oh, wow. Sorry I started this four days ago and never finished it. See what I mean about Florence?
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Yo, xxxx,
Look at that. You tracked me down. Good work. I’ve bounced around a lot in the last ten years. After that stint in London working for Boris Johnson—yes, it ended badly as most of my family said it would—I took some time off (or thought I was going to) to study for my CPA license. Then some weasel scoured the internet (get a life!) and found two outstanding warrants for me in East Eau Claire, and that CPA endeavor went down the drain. It’s serendipity that you got in touch. How are you fixed for cash, old friend? Large, fast cash?
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Hey xxxx,
Refresh my memory if you don’t mind. Did we work together at Ford Motors or are you the guy who borrowed my JetBlue credit card one night (with my permission) to buy five cans of whipped cream at some insane place in Louisiana. Right next to Trader Joe’s if memory serves. If you are Mr. Whipped Cream, what a night that was and no, you dummy, I didn’t give whatever her name was my phone number. Not even my real name for that matter. How she got your cell number, I don’t know. Don’t blame me.
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I’ve now blocked whoever it was trying to scam me on Facebook. I need to keep this essay short and get back to dealing with a fresh email from the government of Venezuela where the national bank has $3 million with my name on it if only I answer a few simple questions and do so my midnight tonight. Maybe I’ll send them the Boris Johnson business. (Posted June 8, 2021)
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A BIRTHDAY WEEK
Irene, my wife, turned 83 in April and, feeling bold after being fully vaccinated, we went to the Berkshires for one night. We stayed at a small bed and breakfast, so small there were only two units for rent. It was dark when we came back from dinner, and, thanks to multiple coaching sessions by one of our granddaughters, I was able to activate the light on my cellphone, helping me see where to put the key. It took some jiggling of the key to get the door to open.
Before leaving the next morning, I could not find the key, and, since it was daylight, I didn’t think activating the light on my cellphone would help any. I looked in pants pockets, jacket pockets, on the desk and ledges in our unit. No key. After several minutes of searching, I glanced out the glass door and there was the key. It had spent the night outdoors. In the lock.
A day later, Irene’s birthday, the two of us had dinner at a favorite restaurant in our town and then went home for ice cream and cake. Our guests for dessert included Rachel, our oldest granddaughter. After the singing of Happy Birthday, Rachel was drafted to cut the cake, and I went to the kitchen and grabbed a couple of utensils for the job. When it comes to cake-cutting, Rachel has followed the example of her grandmother; the pieces she cuts are approximately the size of Boston. Once she completed this task she held up one of the tools I had brought out of the kitchen and explained that it was a cheese cutter not something used to cut cake. I did what all smart men do when reprimanded by a woman: I shrugged.
Just before we had left for the restaurant, the phone rang and amazingly it was not a robo call. It was my dermatologist. He explained how to treat a patch of skin on my right temple. He recommended an over-the-counter ointment with what sounded like seven or eight syllables in its name. I was going to ask him how to spell the damn thing when he had a coughing spasm. Before I could make a wisecrack suggesting he see a doctor, the dermatologist said, “That’s what happens when you try to talk and eat a cookie at the same time.” At the time there was one piece of birthday cake left, and I wondered if he would like it.
(Posted May 15)
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TEXTS, TEARS AND SMILES
(This has just been published in ESCAPE, CAW Anthology Spring 2021.)
After decades of churning out prose as a journalist, I began writing poetry for the first time nearly a year ago as a way to keep in touch with two young granddaughters.
My wife and I skipped the 16th birthday party of one of the girls because of COVID-19 and our ages, early 80s. We felt guilty about missing Daniella’s big day, but Irene and I were scared of contracting the virus and seldom left the house. I went to the supermarket, got morning coffee and a newspaper and that was about it.
I probably shouldn’t use the word “poetry” to describe the texts I sent to the girls. They’re silly “roses are red, violets are blue” fluff. An example:
“Roses are red, violets are blue.
“I swallowed a golf ball.
“Now what do I do?”
Cristiana, 12, quickly answered: “Lol you talk to a doctor.”
Another early effort:
“Roses are red, violets are blue.
“If you owned a train,
“You could drive a choo-choo.”
Daniella provided a cheeky reply: “Look at those rhymes.”
Many of the girls’ responses were entertaining and were unencumbered by what people my age call punctuation. At my suggestion, they wrote their own poems one day:
Cristiana: “Roses are red, violets are blue I miss the old days cause I really miss you. But only happy vibes will make us thrive ….”
Daniella: “Roses are red, violets are blue we had dinner last night, good thing we didn’t have stew. For dessert we had ice cream and cake, and when it melted it was a lake.”
Things changed in all our lives in late June, 2020 when Cristiana’s headaches and vomiting, originally diagnosed as a bad ear infection, turned out to be a brain tumor.
She had five operations and spent 47 out of 58 days in a hospital or a rehab center. Although the tumor was benign, Cristiana had a long road ahead of her, beginning with learning to walk again.
Twice, after setbacks, I stopped sending the poems but then resumed, hoping they might help me and Daniella keep our spirits up and maybe even Cristiana’s on days when she felt strong enough to check her cellphone.
Trying to make the texts more interesting, I started including cellphone pictures, most of them taken on my morning walk in a park. After a while, I became so good at this that several of the pictures did not include my thumb.
Because of my ineptitude with devices, I jokingly call myself the Craftsman. After taking a picture of two seagulls, I sent a very unpoetic text:
“Good morning. Roses are red, violins are brown. (Just seeing if you are paying attention.) These two seagulls asked the Craftsman to take their graduation picture. He did. They said they would send the money later. Can seagulls be trusted? Enjoy today. Love and mucho hugs.”
Cristiana hadn’t lost her sense of humor, even in a pediatric ICU: “Lol I don’t think ur getting that money I had to wake up early for a cat scan.”
Daniella showed little respect: “I love your shadow in the photo.”
Another day only one seagull was in the picture:
“Roses are red, violets are blue. Good morning to you two. (If you were sheep, it would be good morning to you two ewes.) A seagull begins her day at Bay Park. No therapy to do. No homework. But no apple pie. Life is full of trade-offs. How are we today? Love….”
That set off an exchange with Cristiana:
“Lol! Last night sucked I’m gonna try to take some naps today”
“You couldn’t sleep or?”
“I just didn’t feel good and was scared I was gonna throw up again”
“But you didn’t?”
“No Not at night at least idk (I don’t know) if anyone told you but I threw up yesterday before dinner”
“Yes. We heard. It’s good it was only once. Keep smiling.”
“I will, it’s just I’m really sick of it and I want all this medical stuff to end”
“Understand. We all do!....”
Only her parents were allowed to see her. Her days were full of MRIs, cat scans, and COVID-19 tests. It was exhausting for the entire family. Occasionally we would have a brief chat on the phone, but it was hard to know what to say to a young girl who asked her parents before one operation, “Am I going to die?” (All these months later typing that question is still painful.)
Despite a feeling of helplessness, I didn’t stop sending texts, thinking they might give her a few seconds of diversion, something to take her mind off recurring questions, asked out loud to mom and dad: “Why is this happening to me?” And “what did I do to deserve this?” Assurances were given that she hadn’t done anything wrong. The tumor just happened, and that it was good it was found before things got worse.
I kept on texting: “Roses are red, violets are blue. Today is sunny. Money, bunny, honey and funny all rhyme with sunny. In a perfect world, someone named Bunny would have money and honey and be funny. You can run out of money. Try not to run out of funny. ”
The responses from the girls made that one a home run to me.
Cristiana: “Lol Thank you these make me smile”
Daniella: “That was a tongue twister.”
One day, apparently having nothing else to occupy my time, I sent a note:
“Question: Should I send five roses are red poems a day?”
Daniella was the first to respond, “Maybe not,” followed by Cristiana “That’s a lot. Save your intelligence.”
Smart girls. Their parents aren’t raising any dummies.
Cristiana came home, for good we hope, in August. She’s been doing extensive therapy, going to virtual school, and still receiving poems from me and, I’m pretty sure, rolling her eyes at the really bad ones. Atta girl.
(Posted May 2, 2021)
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ESCAPE, CAW Anthology Spring 2021 is a volume of poems, short stories, essays and other works produced by the Calling All Writers group. It’s now available on Amazon.
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AM I DONE WITH SKIING?
(This appeared in the April 4, 2021 edition of Newsday.)
THINK I MAY BE AT THE END OF MY SLOPE
After 46 years ago of skiing and thousands of wonderful moments, it may be time for this octogenarian to stop. It’s hard for many of us to know when we are no longer capable of handling something we love to do, be it play or work.
With the COVID-19 pandemic creating complications, I hadn’t skied a lick this season until my son, Jack, and I went to Camelback Mountain in Pennsylvania recently. Assuming I would be tired after this outing, I emailed the leader of a Long Island writing group that I wouldn’t make a video session scheduled for that evening.
She responded: “As you swoosh down the mountain, I hope a new essay will occur to you for us to hear next time! Have fun!”
There was no swooshing, no fun, but you’re reading a new essay.
Perhaps I should have known this was not to be my day when just before we got on a chairlift I realized my goggles were attached upside down to my helmet. Once this was corrected, Jack and I rode the chairlift up, and I skied maybe 20 yards before taking a hard fall, landing on my left side. Good heavens, this was level land, and I couldn’t deal with it.
When Jack saw I was down, he yelled, “Are you okay?” My left side hurt and the tumble had scared me. “No,” I replied. He climbed up to me and demanded that I take the chairlift back down. I said “no.” He said we were done for the day.
I wanted to keep going and insisted I would ski down. When we got to the bottom of the run, we went to the first aid office where a young medic pressed on my left rib cage and had me breathe. I was in pain but not agony. He didn’t think anything was broken but suggested a chest x-ray when we got home.
Jack handed me the car keys and ordered me to go there while he took one run. My condition became clearer to me at the car. I couldn’t bend comfortably to take my boots off and had to ask Jack to do it for me.
As we headed home, he called his mother. After several sighs and “oh Lords,” Irene looked up the phone number for a radiology place in Lynbrook. I got an appointment for an x-ray later that day.
During the drive back to Long Island, Jack talked of how long we had skied together, skiing that included trips with his two young daughters. He made it clear he thought I should stop. I was done.
I naturally advanced the illusion that I would spend the rest of the year working on my balance, and when the snows came again I would be back out there. He wasn’t buying that nor was another frequent ski buddy, Nicholas, our grandson, when he talked to me later in the day.
The x-ray showed “a nondisplaced fracture of the left sixth rib.” Later tests showed I had also broken two pelvic bones and torn a hamstring.
In all my years of playing football in high school and pickup basketball into my 70s, I had never broken a bone.
Although my brain is telling me enough is probably enough, I’m sure my pride will be lobbying for one more chance when the 2021-2022 ski season starts.
While I was at the radiology facility, Jack texted me, asking what was going on. I tried to type “waiting to be x-rayed” but twice the message came out “waiting to be crated.”
Aren’t we all.
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(Jack took the picture several years while we were skiing (upright skiing) at Beaver Creek, Colorado. His work may be seen at https://jackmccoyphotography.com/)
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SALUTE TO ANTON LINDNER
One of the best men I ever met died this week. Anton Lindner worked at Radio Free Europe and was very helpful (and patient) with me when we first moved to Munich more than half a century ago. We played tennis at clay courts across from RFE, and it was Toni who relayed a suggestion from the management that I wear something more appropriate than high top basketball shoes and blue shorts.
He took me and my daughter Julie sledding in Westendorf, Austria—a day I remember because Toni’s idea of a sled wasn’t mine. I was used to American Flyer sleds that had a handle to steer. The sleds of Westendorf had no handles. You allegedly steered and controlled your speed with your feet. Right. I ran at great speed, feet-first into a barn door. No, I didn’t think it was funny then, but I do now.
Toni spoke and wrote excellent English at work and in letters. In one of his last emails, he sent a joke circulating in Germany about what George Bush, Barack Obama and Donald Trump say when they meet God.
He recommended places newcomers to Europe could visit. He went with us to Melk, Austria, along the Danube River, a lovely area we liked so much that we took my folks there when they came to see us. Toni had an assortment of ties, which, of course, I made fun of. One night when our shift in the newsroom was almost over I told Toni I would give him 10 marks for his tie. He handed it over and I cut it up and distributed the pieces to others in the newsroom.
Forty one years after we came back to the States we were still in touch. He sent the best Christmas cards with inviting pictures of winter in Munich. In the years when my son, grandson (Jack and Nicholas) and I were able to go skiing in Austria, it was Toni who volunteered to make reservations for us and other RFEers at the Augustiner Keller in Munich, where we spent the night before heading home. (Editor’s notes: A portion of the night was spent in a Munich hotel not the beer hall. The picture shows Toni on the phone at the Augustiner to Irene back on Long Island.)
A month or so after one of these outings Toni would send a collection of pictures from the evening, which got the juices going for another visit the following year.
He was a generous man and sent a substantial wedding gift to Nicholas and his wife, Shirley Cruz.
Everyone liked him. When told of the news about Toni, another buddy from my days at RFE said “such a sweetheart.” He sure as hell was.
(Posted March 20, 2021)
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One Down, One To Go
Most of the seniors I know can’t shut up about Covid-19 vaccinations—whether they have had any shots or whether they are still struggling to get an appointment.
After many hours of frustrating internet searches and phone calls, I secured appointments for my wife and me, but they were at different locations and weeks away. Then a call from the Bronx, more than 20 miles from our home on Long Island, asked if Irene and I were available for shots in four days. Were we ever. We got our shots on a Sunday afternoon and were impressed by the organization and efficiency of the procedure at the St. Barnabas Health and Wellness Center.
Our son, Jack, who drove us there, won’t stop teasing me about how excited I was when the call came from St. Barnabas. In an email to the family, all I put in the subject line was “Jackpot!” I hope he doesn’t find out that when the young-sounding man on the phone confirmed all the information he needed I said, “You know, I love you.”
Although setting up appointments was an exasperating experience, it was also a learning one. My prowling of the internet included logging on to a medical site I seldom use. I was informed that I would be asked three security questions to confirm my identity. I got no further than “Question 1 of 3: What was the name of your first stuffed animal?”
I am not making this up. I’ve never had a stuffed animal, which is a good thing because with my temper any such creature in my possession would quickly become unstuffed. At a loss how to respond to the question, I entered “none.” That was the wrong answer and I was denied access to the site. Usually when I’m asked to pick security questions, I go for the simple stuff: grade school attended; hometown; and year married. What could the second and third security questions have been? Maybe (2) Why aren’t you speaking to your younger brother? And (3) why do you feel you owe an apology to all your former bosses?
All my site browsing and clicking made me realize I have way too many different passwords. The sites, ranging from ABC Reunion (as in ABC News) to Zwanger-Pesiri, (a radiology outfit), are listed on an eight-page printout. The experts say you should change your passwords every six months. It would not be fun trying to think up new passwords for all those addresses. What if I simply used one password for every site? Something like Clueless@83. That could easily be changed six months later to Clueless@83andahalf and easily updated from then on.
Most of the time when I was on the New York State website all the locations within 40 miles of us had “no appointments available currently.” On the Covid vaccination phone line, when there was an availability the process bogged down because the schedulers had to read legal disclaimers. All the people I dealt with apologized before reading the disclaimer, which must have taken four minutes, start to finish.
If government lawyers insisted this be done, couldn’t a recorded version have been read by a celebrity? I mean are Scarlett Johansson and Brad Pitt so busy they couldn’t have voiced the disclaimers? This octogenarian asks what guy wouldn’t want to say “yes” to Scarlett Johansson?
(Posted March 9, 2021)
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EARLY 2021 QUESTIONS
If Kentucky can’t elect anyone more qualified to sit in the U.S. Senate than Mitch McConnell and Rand Paul, should its two seats be taken away and given to Washington, D.C.? After all, there are more people in the Washington metro area than in Kentucky.
If Trump had won a second term, would Uber Eats have morphed into Uber Alles?
In filling out the New York State eligibility form for Covid vaccinations, am I the only one who had to look up “non-binary,” one of the choices along with male and female?
I recently had four medical visits scheduled in one week and was seen at two of the sessions by nurse practitioners. Could I be classified as a patient practitioner?
What are the chances the NFL would scrub the frequently ridiculous half-time show at the Super Bowl and instead let two competitive football teams take the field to fill that time?
Is the Republican Party going to be another one of those entities Donald John Trump puts out of business à la Trump Airlines, Trump Steaks, Trump University and on and on?
Should that happen, will you have a frowny face?
Is there a newspaper in the United States with a worse sports section than The New York Times? Say what? I don’t believe you.
If Rachel Maddow didn’t say everything 15 times, 14 different ways would her show on MSNBC be only ten minutes long?
Did I smile when I opened a Christmas card from friends in Germany that included the sentence, “We were happy to see Donald Duck crash”?
What is it about Black conservatives that drives white liberals nuts?
Was Lindsey Graham buried with John McCain and the goofball running around now is an imposter?
Are Josh Hawley (Yale) and Ted Cruz (Harvard) living proof of the failure of the U.S. education system?
On the off and sad chance that Donald John Trump wins the Nobel Peace Prize, should the United States immediately invade both Norway and Sweden?
If all the current Republican members of Congress had been serving during the Nixon Administration, would there have been no visit to the White House to tell him he had to go?
When Rudy Giuliani’s name is mentioned, what is the first thing that comes into your head? Is the first thing the same as the second and third and fourth things? Could any of these things be said in front of young children?
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Mornings With The "Regulars"
Since I stopped going to the gym last March, I walk six mornings a week in Bay Park in East Rockaway on Long Island. Like the gym, the park has a group of regulars.
One of them is Barry, a slight man from Missouri who walks at a much faster pace than I do, so we have stationary conversations. At age 66, he just became a grandfather for the first time. When he told me, I did my usual mumbling about what a great experience that would be, that I was a grandfather when I was 52, more than three decades ago.
Two couples who live near the park—a sprawling place with a golf course, tennis and basketball courts, boat ramps, fishing piers, a playground, fields for baseball and soccer and a dog run—are also there nearly every day. One of the men frequently rides a unicycle while his partner walks. He must be in his early 60s. I’ve teased him about trying to juggle, perhaps flaming torches, while on his unicycle. The woman in this couple has been by herself recently, and I asked where the guy was.
“He has broken ribs.”
“Did he fall off his unicycle?”
“No, off a ladder.”
Later I regretted not reminding her of the dangers of ladders, especially if you get on one to try to fix something around the house. There are people, smart people, who are paid to do such things. I did express hope for the man’s quick recovery and wished her a Happy New Year.
Another couple shows up most mornings, walking their dog. It’s a small dog, hardly longer than a can of Alpo. The first time I talked to the man, Charles, it was about a sign at the entrance to a police station at the edge of the park. The sign reads:
Do Not
Police Only
Enter
I told him the sign could mean that everyone was welcome to enter the police station parking lot, not just police. In responding, he used the word “dichotomy” to which I said “you don’t normally hear that word before breakfast.” The next time I saw Charles I again mentioned I was impressed with hearing “dichotomy” and from his lips out popped the word “obfuscation.” I said if he kept this up I was going to have to come to the park with a dictionary.
In a recent chat, I learned he’s a retired airline captain who grew up in Kansas. This transplanted Hoosier recalled that when he first moved to New York he was surprised by how little some folks here knew about the rest of the country. A landlady once asked me if Indiana was on the way to Florida. I suppose it is if you don’t care how long it takes you to get there.
The former pilot said on a flight from New York to San Juan a passenger asked him which side of the plane to sit on to get the best view of the Grand Canyon. I don’t remember what Charles told the passenger, but I would have suggested either side will do, and you’ll need a really strong pair of binoculars to appreciate the full splendor of that magnificent site.
Shortly before New Year’s Eve, there was a woman in the park I had never seen before. She stood out because she had an enormous purse over her arm, something unusual for ladies out for a morning walk. I wonder if she was on her way to see the guy with the rich vocabulary, and, before leaving her home, stuffed the biggest dictionary she could find in her purse.
# (Posted January 20, 2021)
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Some Things Won't Be Different in 2021
While many of us are hoping for a change in tone from the White House in 2021, let’s face it—there probably won’t be any change at all in our quotidian* existence, especially for those of us in our 80s.
In my case that means:
--I will go into the downstairs bathroom to brush my teeth and reach first for the stick deodorant instead of the toothpaste. I wonder if Old Spice is bad for your teeth.
--Opening Listerine bottles will still require concentration and patience. There are arrows on the cap but pushing down and twisting counterclockwise (or is it clockwise?) requires a lot of coordination and seldom do I get all the required steps right on the first try. Caps and tops on all sorts of necessities, including pill and spice bottles, are built to resist easy opening and who ever designed them should get a raise.
--My rush to pop my morning pills down my gullet won’t abate. This means a pill occasionally misses its mark, disappearing onto the kitchen floor where it is not spotted until a week later near the dishwasher.
--I must also eat breakfast in a hurry, judging by the droppings on the floor in the breakfast nook. When the urge hits me or Irene to sweep up the bits of egg, toast and other debris, there is one constant: somewhere in a hard to reach area under the table will be a lone Cheerio. “From out of the past, come the thundering hoof beats of the great horse Silver, the Lone Cheerio hides again.”
--My accuracy from plate to mouth doesn’t improve at dinner. I’ve taken to wearing an apron for my evening meal, saving sweaters and shirts from tomato sauce and chocolate syrup, especially the latter.
--Cleaning up after supper, I will occasionally save a small amount of food. Sometimes Irene has it for lunch the following day. More often it stays in the fridge until …Until you know what.
--I will continue to wear on special occasions—defined as a dinner eaten at the dining room table instead of in front of the TV—a favorite LL Bean shirt, a button-down that has the tiniest button holes in the collar. On Christmas Eve, I spent five to seven minutes on each collar, coaxing my fingers to force each button through the hole. I’m not suspicious by nature, but someone at a shirt factory in Sri Lanka could have decided to have a little fun with an uppity American, and I just happened to be that uppity American.
--Our bedroom has a glow. (Sorry, I hate to brag.) The glow is from various pieces of electrical equipment—a heart monitor for me, a hearing aid charger for Irene. To glow is healthy. When I get up at 4:30 or 1:30 to do what old men do at 4:30 or 1:30 (or both), I don’t need to turn on a light to see my way to the bathroom. The glow from the devices provides just enough light for me to feel my way to and from bed. Those mornings when I make the trip back and forth with my slippers on the wrong feet doesn’t strike me as a big deal.
--In cold and/or snowy weather I will put on my LL Bean winter boots and realize ten minutes later on my morning walk that one lace has come undone. It doesn’t matter how tight I tie the shoe laces one of them is going to get loose.
--While backing the VW Tiguan out of our driveway, I’ll brush a wrong button or two, setting the back windshield wiper flapping away or muting the radio. Recovery time to restore things to normal will take approximately one minute. While I always think all the neighbors saw this display of clumsiness, I tell myself, at least I didn’t set off the horn.
--I’ll continue to have days when I’m stumped by my smartphone or laptop. Although my episodes of butt dialing a kid or grandkid have declined, I’ve developed a habit of not disconnecting the phone properly after a call. One of the younger family members will send a text to point out this failure. As for my laptop, sometimes when I do a Google search every letter I write is duplicated. A search line might read ”iiss iitt ppoossiibbllee tthhaatt GGeeoorrggee SSoorrooss iiss rreessppoonnssiibbllee ffoorr eevveerryytthhiinngg bbaadd iinn tthhee wwoorrlldd?”
--The last thing I do before heading upstairs to bed is to go to the kitchen to turn out a light. There’s really no reason the light was left on, but turning it off gives me an opportunity to grab a handful of peanuts before nightly flossing or to scrounge for something chocolaty—a cookie, a chocolate bar, or even semi-sweet chocolate chips in the fridge, the little devils meant for baking in cookies. Some clichés are true. Old people can never stop talking about food.
Welcome aboard, 2021. Only a few more days before the 2024 campaign for the White House begins. Goody, goody.
*Author’s note: In my many years of writing news copy, essays and letters, I have never written the word quotidian before. I’ve always wanted to and am very proud of myself now.
(Posted January 4, 2021)
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