Pearl Harbor Day

I was almost six years old, my father had just turned 32.  It was mid-afternoon on an early December day, 1941, cool but no snow yet.  An annual fall practice in those days, I was helping my father to rake up the last of the leaves that had fallen for two months into our yard from our neighbor's huge maple trees.  We raked the leaves, all dead and brown now, towards the street curb, then over the curb and into the street, where they lay in a huge pile.  Then he set them on fire, part of the fall ritual; everyone did it, there were a lot of trees on our block in Oakmont (now renamed Havertown), a Philadelphia suburb.

The smell of those burning dead leaves is something I will never forget, though I have not sensed it for at least fifty years now.  An earthy smell.  (Coincidently, somewhat like the air in LA today with the brush fires northwest of us.)

A neighbor ran out of his house and shouted something about "being attacked by the Japanese".   I am sure we must have gone into the house and turned on the radio (no TV yet) to get the news.  It could have been this broadcast by one Robert Eisenbach on NBC.  (His daughter, Barbara Heitz, a distant relative of Nadine, lives in Los Angeles.)

http://www.otr.com/ra/PH/first_bulletin_red.mp3

The next day, FDR went to a rousing ovation by the Congress and declared war on the Empire of Japan.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lK8gYGg0dkE

My father's father, Felix Colla, died on New Years Day, 1942.  A few months later, my father finally got one doctor to pass him on a physical so he could enlist as a Navy officer.  (Apparently he had flat feet, and several doctors had said "no".)  He was gone most of the time for the next 3+ years.

Book Review: "Fire and Ashes"

Micheal Ignatieff wrote "Fire and Ashes, Success and Failure in Politics".  It's a short book, 183 smallish pages.

Ignatieff's great-grandfather was an ambassador and later Minister of Interior in Czarist Russian.  His grandfather rose to be the Minister of Education under the last Czar, Nicholas II.  They left Russia at the time of the 1917 revolution, and ended up in Canada.  His father worked for the Canadian government office in London during WWII, and after the war, in the Foreign Service.  One can not help but think that this family history of public service and political background had a great influence on Ignatieff.  He says that it was in his blood.  As a young man, he was an admirer of both Jack Kennedy and Pierre Trudeau.  He went to graduate school at Harvard, was a fellow there, and later joined the faculty in political science.  But he never became a  American citizen.

In 2004, he was asked by some members of the Liberal Party in Canada to return home and run for a seat in the Parliament, as a prelude to becoming that party's leader.  He decided to do so.  Much like Obama, his political star rose as a result of an electrifying speech at a Liberal Party convention.  In 2008, he became Liberal party leader.

But his ex-pat background came to be a significant political liability later; he was pounded for it by the Conservatives.  And in 2011, after losing his seat in Parliament in a Conservative landslide, he left Canadian politics for good.  He was only the third leader of the Liberal Party in its entire history to not serve as Prime Minister of Canada.  He is now on the faculty at both Harvard and the University of Toronto.

I found this book full of insights and meditations on what it takes to succeed in politics, and what can (and did) go wrong.  The Canadian political system is different in many ways from the US system, but there are also many similarities.  Ignatieff makes interesting observations about both Bill Clinton and Barack Obama.  He also offers a look into what happens internally to a person who steps into the political arena, how friends become adversaries, and how compromises are made...or not made.  I recommend this book as an interesting and personal look inside the life of one contemporary thoughtful politician in a vibrant democracy, the one geographically closest to us Americans.

"Dying: a Memoir", by Cory Taylor

I can't say I "loved" this book: "Dying: a Memoir", by Cory Taylor.  It's hard to say that of a book about dying, one with much sadness and sad memories and anger.  But I found it personal, interesting and compelling.  It's a short book of 141 small pages...not a long read.  The author is dying from a ten-year battle with incurable melanoma; her book was first published in Australia in 2016, a couple of months before she died.  It is also filled with gratitude and acceptance. She surveys her life, especially the impact on it from her mother and her father.  She debates suicide, pros and cons, with herself, and makes  preparations for it.  Not long before her death, she gives her answers (on a radio program) to questions such as am I scared? do I have a bucket list? and what will I miss the most?  She describes her life-long passion for writing, starting with the magic of penmanship practice in elementary school.  And some individuals who tried to help her through the last phases of her life.  I am glad to have encountered Cory Taylor, and her personal reflections as her life was coming to its close.

Another Bad Word

After I related my "Three Bad Words" story to my son, Elliott, he recalled this story.  I had no memory of it (a not uncommon event with me), but I trust his version, which follows:

About age six, Elliott was out on the street playing with some friends  his age.  There were some older boys there, and they were taunting another boy, yelling "Georgie, Georgie, King of the Boners! Georgie, Georgie, King of the Boners!"

Elliott came into the house, and asked me what a "boner" was.

Of course, my first response was a demanding: "Who told you that word?"

He said he heard it on the street from some older boys he did not know.

Then, I told him a "boner" was a mental error.  For instance, in baseball, a dumb play might be called a "bonehead play".

However, it soon became clear (not sure how) that this what not the meaning that the older boys on the street were using.

So, I told Elliott that sometimes for a male adult, they can get excited, and then their penis gets very large and very hard, and that is a "boner".

Elliott, age six, said he found this explanation to be totally incomprehensible, as in "I have no idea what my father is talking about?"

Three Bad Words

This is a true story, as true as the memory of this 81-year-old can be.

-----------------------------------------------

In early September, Nadine and I visited Nadine's son Adam and his family. They have recently relocated to Richmond, British Columbia (a suburb of Vancouver).  Adam and Judith have two children, Elior, a seven-year-old boy,  and Na'amah, a three-year-old girl. The kids refer to us as Bubbie and Zayde.

One day Elior and I were walking home alone from a nearby park. We were about a block from Elior's house when the following conversation began:

Elior: Zayde, I know three bad words.
Me: Oh, really! What are they?
Elior: the N-word, the B-word, and the F-word.

Then he continued:

Elior: Zayde, what does the N-word mean?
Me: The N-word is a very bad and very hurtful word. You should never use it. I'm not going to tell you what it means. I think you should discuss it with your father and mother. Would you do that?

Elior shook his head, signifying that he was not willing to do that.
I thought about it some more. I know what the F-word is, and I know what the N-word is, but what's the B-word, I wondered?  I better check.

Me: Elior, is the B-word "bitch"?
Elior:  Yes. What does it mean?
Me: A bitch is a female dog.

We didn't go any further exploring why the B-word is a bad word.
A few moments later.....

Elior: Zayde, tell me some more bad words.
Me: Elior, I am not going to tell you anymore bad words.
Elior:  Then, Zayde, how will I learn more bad words?
Me:  Elior, you'll learn them from your friends.
Elior:  Zayde, how will they learn them?
Me: They'll learn them from their older brothers and sisters.

By this time, we had arrived at Elior's house.  We never got around to the F-word.

-----------------------------------------------

Later, I wondered: if a "bitch" is a female dog, what is word for male dog?  I Googled it and found the word for male dog is just "dog".  After the dog and the bitch have offspring, he is a "sire" and she is a "dam". So, technically, no canine can be a son-of-a-bitch...he is a son-of-a-dam.

Paying too much attention to the President??

I have to write this, just to blow off some steam that has been building for months.

First, with whom to be disappointed?  
Some prominent possible choices are: Donald Trump, Trump family members, the approx 1/4 of the US electorate who voted for Trump  the approx 1/2 of the US electorate who did not vote, and, finally, the "institution" of the US electoral college.

- Trump? No. I never expected anything good from him.
- His family members? No. That they would moderate his tendencies was a fantasy promoted by some, I suppose out of desperation and grief.
- Those who voted for Trump? Probably.  I'm tempted to say to them now: "How's that working out for ya?"  But most of them probably think it's fine.  And they have one vote each, more or less, just like me.
- Those who did not vote? Yes!!  If more Americans do not get involved, I can see clearly where the nation is headed.  Young people, minorities, the poor, the less educated: where were you on election day?  Do you care?
- The electoral college? Yes!!  This is hardly an "institution", but more just a set of rules, but a set of rules that are unfair (at least in a democracy).  This antiquated relic of a political compromise, over 200 years old, has now burnt progressive Americans twice in the last 16 years, and we can see the negative consequences: Iraq war, Trump, etc.  Could it be changed? Yes.  Will it be changed? Very unlikely in my opinion, since it currently favors the right, and why would they be willing to participate in changing it, and their participation would be required.

Second, "Trump approvals".  
As usual, we watched to the PBS NewsHour Friday night, which on Fridays includes a session of the political analysis and commentary of Brooks and Shields (except this time it was Brooks and Marcus).  David Brooks is the more conservative of the two.  They were commenting on Trump's European trip, including his speech in Warsaw and his meeting with Putin in Hamburg as part of the G20 meeting.

Regarding the Warsaw speech, Brooks gave Trump some good marks, especially on his comments about "Western civilization".  I can not concur.  To suppose that Trump is a defender of Western civilization is ludicrous.  I doubt that without a teleprompter, Trump could speak at any length about what Western civilization is, or what is good about it.  When prompted, he may say nice things about it, it may say that he is here to defend it, etc.  But his actions are just the opposite.

A clock that is not running is still correct twice a day.  But to say that "the clock is correct sometimes" is a very misleading statement.  I am not comparing Trump to Hitler, but even Hitler probably did some good things for Germany; made the trains run on time, maybe?  That does not mean that we should speak approvingly of his speeches about German culture or civilization.  Likewise to complement Trump because he made a few positive (or even true) remarks is like approving the child who did not study for his test, but got some of the answers right.

David Brooks has a strong moral component to his thinking, and he thinks in the long term, traits which I admire. Part of my disappointment with Brooks goes way back the the days of "W", when Brooks admired Bush's "strategic vision".  Bush had no strategic vision.  Whatever drove his foreign policy it was not a strategic vision.  It may have been revenge, it may have been the influence of Cheney and/or Rumsfeld, but it was not any strategic vision arrived at on his own.  He may have been a interesting guy to have a beer with, but not to discuss long-term visions or strategies.  Bush and Trump share at least one common trait: they were both born on 3rd base, and think they got there by hitting a triple.

Brooks also made some positive remarks about Trump's strategic thinking.  Again, just because someone gets a few things right,  does not make him a role model or a strategic thinker to be admired or complimented.   For many persons, being complimented on a good deed or utterance, might reinforce more of the same behavior.  I don't think it works that way with Trump.

Trump is being treated often in the media the way Bush was, as a simple, not-very-deep thinker, who is to be praised when he says or does something seemingly profound or good.  This dumbing-down of expectations is what many seem to be worried about.

Lastly, unending analysis and discussion about Trump and what he says or Tweets.
As with many other issues and incidents, there has been almost unending commentary in the media in the last two days about Trump's meeting with Putin: who said what, what did they mean, that there were no notes taken, who won or lost as a result of the meeting, who is up/who is down, what's the spin afterwards, etc, ad infinitum.

So much energy and time is being spent in the media parsing what Trump says or Tweets, what his motivations are, as though there was a glimmer of intelligence there.  Psychiatrists debate whether or not they should speak out about Trump; thanks, but I don't need your professional opinion to decide what I think about Trump!  We now know all we need to know.  He is self-centered, unfeeling, insensitive, and preoccupied with his public perception and "winning".  The worst thing for Trump is not negative press, but NO press; "call me anything but just don't call me late for dinner."  Claiming the press as his adversary is a gift to himself.

Could we dial-down the coverage?  For sure, let's focus on what Trump and his administration actually do; what concrete actions do they take, of which there have been many.  But let's ease up on the reporting and analysis of what he says.  For we know that Trump is never confined or invested in what he has said.  If it still works for him, then it's still good; if not, then it's not what he meant, or he never really said that, or it's "fake news", or all of the above.  There will be no end to chasing after meaning or information in what he utters.

After saying all this, I realize how unreasonable it is.  David Brooks and all the media make their living by writing and saying things that will be read in papers, watched on TV, or listened to on the radio.  Much of the public, and especially many who voted for Trump, love this stuff; it replaces the soap operas and reality TV; it is the new reality TV, filled with drama.  Therefore, it must be reported.

There is a small glimmer of  hope in our personal realms.  Recently, on several occasions, Nadine and I have gone to lunch or dinner with friends, and I have requested, as we sat down together, that we not discuss Trump for the duration of the meal, typically between one and two hours long. The first time I asked this, the immediate reaction, after a small pause, was "OK".  The next statement, somewhat jokingly, was "So, what will we talk about?"  But we did manage to talk about a lot of other things.  So refreshing and freeing!!  Am I hiding my head in the sand.  Maybe, but at times I need that.

Thanks for listening.  I feel a little bit better for having gotten these thoughts off my chest.

People leaving our lives

We have had two "losses" in recent days, of people we interacted with frequently, who we probably will never see again.  Nadine and I both feel sad about this.

Angela worked at Peet's coffee, at 3rd and Fairfax, just across the street from Farmer's Market.  Nadine, a coffee maven, will only go to Peet's for coffee, except in extreme duress.  I'm more relaxed about where I get my coffee, but liked Peet's a lot, and the staff that work there.  We are in there about two or three times a week.  We know them, and they know us.  Angela was always cheerful, happy to see us, and interested.  This week she is leaving for a year to go to Japan.  Not sure exactly what she will be doing there.  First heard she would be back for some goodbyes on July 2, but now are told by other staff members that she has already left.  We will miss her, and miss having the chance to say good-bye to Angela.

Yesterday, we went to a local restaurant, Fiddlers, for breakfast with Nadine's cousin Natalie.  There was a handwritten sign posted on the door with special hours for the day, but we did not pay much attention to it.  (It's a holiday weekend).  After getting seated in a booth, asked the waiter (who was new to us) if he could clean up a spill on the floor near our booth.  "No one here who can do that".  Asked for hot tea, while waiting for Nat to arrive; it never came; he seemed annoyed by our presence.

After Natalie arrived, one of the regular servers, Pam, came and took our orders.  Ours included pancakes.  Shortly thereafter, Pam came back and told us that there "no pancakes today".  It was clear we were startled by this, and then Pam told us that it was the last day, that Fiddlers was closing, that she thought we already knew, until it became clear to her that we did not know what was going on.

The staff only got one week's notice.  And of course no severance package; it's a small business.  Pam, Vivian and Joey were our regular servers at Fiddlers.  Pam has worked there 17 years.  Vivian used to be our neighbor, when we lived in the garden apartment in Park La Brea.  (She moved before we did.)  Joey always wore the same hat at work.  Now, we will probably never see them again. Feels sad.

We wish them all well.

Stream of Conscious

My mind is hard at work much of the time, reliving the past, often with regrets and sadness, or planning for the future.  (Overall, my mind spends more the future than in the past.)  Our meditation teacher, Diana Winston, says wouldn't it be interesting if we had loudspeakers mounted on our foreheads, that broadcast all the thoughts going thru our minds. It would be chaotic to be in a group of people like that.  Here is a little of my stream of consciousness from this morning.

Nadine came out while I was having breakfast and reading the paper.  Because Nadine was born in Pittsburgh, I told her that Pittsburgh had won the Stanley Cup.  She thought it was given to an individual.  I explained it was given to the team that won the NHL title.  Pittsburgh has now won two years in a row.

Later, at the SOVA food pantry, I was telling this to a co-volunteer, Walter.  Walter told me that his ex-wife was from Pittsburgh.  Of course, from the Squirrel Hill neighborhood; that's were all the Jews lived then, and many still do.  I asked if they ever went back to Pittsburgh; they did not.

Nadine and I went back to Pittsburgh once, when our cousin Morgan graduated from Carnegie-Mellon.  It was the only time she ever went back; her family left Pittsburgh when Nadine was about five, shortly after WWII.  (Walter is about my age; he said that his ex-wife also left Pittsburgh when she was a little girl.)

While we were in Pittsburgh, we visited cousins on both sides of Nadine's family.  We went to dinner with some of her father's, Charlie's, family.  I sat next to Charlie's younger brother, Max, who was then in his eighties.  Max didn't look a lot like Charlie, but I remember that there was something very familiar feeling, as though Charlie was sitting there, in Max's seat.  Maybe Charlie and Max had some of the same aura about them; maybe it was the same old Pittsburgh accent; maybe something else.  There is so much of my experiences that is not thought, but just felt.  We know a lot, but much is hidden from the "knowing" part of our minds.

Parking Is Risky

My friend Alan is in his 70's, and in a long-term committed straight relationship.  Recently, he drove to pick up a male friend.  Alan found a parking place at the curb across the street from his friend's building, and waited for his friend to come out.

Someone opened the rear door on the driver's side of his car, got in, and sat down.  The lady was young and quite attractive.  She asked if it was  "OK" for her to bring her dog, "Princess",  a small white dog which she held in her arms.

Alan deduced quickly what just happened, and said "I'm sorry, but I'm not your Uber car."

The young woman apologized, and started to step out of the car.

Just then, Alan's friend showed up, to see the attractive young thing exiting Alan's car.  Alan had some explaining to do.

What is a "Four-Door"?

When I was a adolescent (early 1950s), a "four-door" was an automobile, a sedan.

Now (2017), it's a refrigerator.  See below, recent ad for "4-door refrigerators" starting at $1,111, and new refrigerator at friends who just remodeled their kitchen.  Actually, this is a 2-door and 2-drawer model.

Interestingly, the prices are about the same.  A Ford sedan in 1950 cost about $1,700, and I guess the refrigerator below was about the same.

Radiation Waiting Room

Over the past six weeks, I have spent a lot of time in the Radiation waiting area at the Cedars-Sinai Medical Center.  (This is my first prolonged exposure to cancer treatment in my life.  My paternal grandmother, Anna Park Colla, died of cancer, but I was only about ten at that time, and barely aware that she was ill.  She lived in Connecticut; we were in Philadelphia).

Patients come to the Radiation Center, usually for an extended series of treatments.  In Nadine’s’ case, it was every weekday for six weeks.  Some come alone, but many come escorted by family members or friends, who wait with them, and then wait alone while the patient has his or her treatment.  It usually takes about 25 minutes from the time the patient goes into one of the radiation treatment rooms, until they come back out.  Often they are on schedule, but sometimes late, so we can end up in the waiting area for an hour or more.  Some just sit, others read, and others are using their smart phones.  Some strike up conversations with others.

Most of the patients are on a regular daily schedule.  In our case, it was 10:30AM, every weekday.  So, I often got to see the same patients and the same escorts on many days.  I was struck by the variety of people who are undergoing radiation for cancer: old mostly, but young too; one little girl is seven.  Rich and middle class and poor.  Tall and short, heavy and skinny.  Male and female. White, black, Hispanic, and Asian.  Some come with canes or walkers or wheelchairs, or in gurneys.  The one thing they all have in common is radiation treatments for cancer.

One older man was getting extra “VIP" attention.  There is a Cedars employee whose job it to see that these patients get whatever they need.  When I joked if it was OK that he flirted with the nurse, he explained that “his wife was on the Board”.  

Another older man, Boris, was born in Kiev; his family fled to Kyrgyzstan during WWII, then came back.  Boris speaks very limited English, mostly just single words.  We found out we could have a conversation, of sorts, using the Translate app on my iPhone.  It translates spoken speech in both directions, spitting out the spoken sentence in the other language.  The various patient information posters on the walls are often in English, Spanish, Russian and Farsi.

Many are quiet and stoic, reading their papers or looking at their smart phone screens.

Some are optimistic and cheerful.  One man was is finishing his treatments during our last week there, and retiring the same day, and is looking forward to moving to San Diego County with his wife.  

Some are annoying and self-centered.  Cell phones are the instrument to exhibit their problems to us all.  One man was having a long and loud conversation on his cell phone: “She is trying to get me to marry her, and she is after my money”.  The rest of us began to smile at each other, as he was disturbing us all.  I finally turned to him and putting my forefinger to my lips, and uttered a “Shhh”.  He barked out at me: “I’m deaf”, pointing to his ear.  Finally the waiting room attendant came and asked him to move to a remote corner of the area.  A middle-aged lady argued on her cell phone with a retailer.  “I have been a good customer for years, and I will not be treated this way.”  Again, this was a very loud conversation that we all could hear.

The seven-year-old girl was a breath of fresh air, talking and running around and trying to engage with the adults, most of whom are quiet, often looking at their cell phones or tablets.

The one thing they all have in common is radiation treatments for cancer.

Tina's Daughter

It was around the year 2000, because that year the Chinese movie "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon" was released. I was working in the IT organization at an aerospace company in the San Fernando Valley; Tina was a programmer there. We worked in different groups, but often met at the coffee machine.  Tina and I had several conversations about Chinese movies during that period.

Tina's background was interesting. Her family was Chinese. During what we called the Vietnam War, her family was living in Saigon when it became clear that the Communists were going to take over the country. Her father was a gem broker who dealt in precious stones. Her family fled Vietnam on a refugee boat with the clothes on their back.  I think her father carried a sack full of diamonds. 

Tina arrived in the United States at the age of ten or eleven, and was thrust into public school knowing very little English. Of course, she graduated, got educated, learned computer programming, married a Caucasian-American, and had a family.

During that time, Nadine and I had seen several Chinese movies, sometimes with the beautiful actress Gong Li. I first befriended Tina over our common interest in Chinese movies. She explained some of the nuances in the movies that I did not understand, knowing very little about the Chinese language and culture. 

Eventually Tina told me a little bit about her family. At that time her son was about twelve years old, was in public middle school, and was struggling somewhat academically. Tina and her husband were sending him to a Chinese language and cultural school on Saturdays so we could learn about that part of his heritage. A public school teacher told Tina that she thought that this separate academic activity was causing him some of the confusion and problems that he was experiencing. I told Tina that I strongly disagreed with this and hoped they would keep up his Chinese education. 

Sometime later, one day I was walking down the hall, and I saw Tina up ahead talking with another friend, Stacy who also worked in IT. As I approached, Tina beckoned to me and said "Coleman, come and see my daughter". Immediately, a soft warning bell went off in my head; Tina and I had talked at some length about Tina's son, but she had never mentioned to me that she had a daughter. I came up to them, and Tina showed me a picture cute 6-year-old Chinese girl. I looked at the picture, and then looked at Tina.  Despite the soft warning, I blurted out "Tina, she is very pretty and looks just like you"!

Off to the side, I heard Stacy giggle. Next, Stacy and Tina both broke out into laughter. Then Tina told me the story; she and her husband had decided to adopt a girl from a Chinese orphanage.  They had already made one trip to China and met a candidate child, and they were going back the next week to formally adopt the girl and bring her to the United States. 

I apologized for my faux-pas. Tina wasn't offended, and thought it was more humorous than anything else. 

About six months went by, when I ran into Tina again in the hall. I asked her how her daughter was doing, learning English and so forth. She told me that her English was very proficient, that she was a gang leader in her first grade class, and was sassing back to Tina now in very proficient Valley-Girl English.  I said it was too bad that she had not retained more of the traditional Chinese culture of respect for her parents.

More about Chinese female immigrants at another time.

Where I was born, and first lived

Going thru some family papers.  Have to get birth certificates so Nadine and I can apply for new passport books, so we can immigrate to Canada (or at least visit Adam and family there).  Our old passport books have expired, and the passport cards we got in 2013 to drive with Stan and Judi to Quebec are not valid for air travel to Vancouver.

Came across an envelope (January 1936; 3 cent stamp), which was used by the hospital to mail my birth certificate to my mother.

Pretty amazing; if you use Google Maps, you can find pictures of both these places: 

• Episcopal Hospital where I was born: First Street and Lehigh Avenue, Philadelphia
• Stonehurst Court where my family first lived: Upper Darby, PA

Facebook

I tried Facebook about two years ago.  I made some posts which I thought were clever or funny or meaningful or whatever.

Then I would check back in a day or two, to find out how many people "liked" my posts.  I would feel good if there were a few or a lot of likes, and bad if there were none.

I got bored searching thru all the posts of my "friends",  most of which were about people I did not know, or activities in which I had no real interest.  It became a real time killer for me.

Then I realized that the undertaking was mostly my ego trip, and I stopped.

Where are you now, Emily Menifee?

My cousin Ada is ten months older than me.  During several of our grade school years, she lived four blocks away from me with our grandparents, and right across the trolley tracks from our elementary school, Oakmont School.  We went to 3rd, 4th and 5th grade together in that school. Then my grandfather retired, and they all moved to Luray, Virginia. 

Recently our friend Cyrice invited us to meet her at a new coffee shop, HyperSlow,  a few blocks from where we live. This being Los Angeles, the coffee shop is also a yoga and meditation studio.

Cyrice introduced us to one of the owners named Emily. We met and chatted for a few minutes. Then, I remembered the first “Emily" in my life.

After Ada moved to Luray, her best friend, Emily Menefee, lived down the street. We always went down to Virginia for a few weeks in the summer, my mother and me and my brother. Once summer when we were there (I was probably about 12), Ada and  I went down the street to play with Emily at her house. She lived in a very large house with a very large front yard.

We were playing a game at a card table, I think it was Monopoly, or maybe a card name game. Emily Menefee started playing “footsie" with me under the card table.  She must have instigated it. I've always been awkward with girls (and women). 


Remembering all this, I wrote to Ada and told her of this recollection. She emailed back and said, humorously, that she was surprised to hear I was playing footsie with her best friend. I replied and asked her if she knew whatever happened to Emily Menifee. 

Ada responded. Emily Menefee married a pediatrician, and moved to Richmond Virginia. 

Household Languages

A real conversation, overheard this morning, by two males acquaintances:

First man: I have been reading that it is now established, by social research, that children who grow up in homes where two languages are spoken, are better at learning additional languages later in their lives!

Second man: That's great!  I grew up in a home where two languages were spoken: One by my father, and another by my mother!

Laundry Responsibility

One of the things I am aware of now is how our married children (5) deal with giving responsibilities to our grandchildren (9). It varies from family to family; It's just interesting to observe the differences.

One are the things my first wife did with our children was that she had each of them doing their own laundry by age eleven.  When we separated and she moved out of our family house, I was left at home with responsibility for three children, ages 11 to 17, for the immediate future. One of the things that made it easier for me was that, by that point in time, each child was doing his or her own laundry.

This got me thinking about my laundry situation when I went away to Dartmouth. I had never done any laundry in my life.  My mother brought me to Hanover, and left me with a shipping container, made out of sturdy fiberboard, with two web straps around the outside.  About once a week, I would put my dirty underwear and socks into this, go down to the post office, and mail it home (Buffalo, NY).  My mother would do the laundry, put it back into the container, and send it back to me.  Then the cycle would repeat.  Talk about being tied to your mother’s apron strings!  

It’s hard to imagine this process being used today,  I’m wondering if any classmates used this system when they came to Dartmouth, or was I the only one?

Abortion and Personhood

Just finished reading "Our Only World", ten essays by Wendell Berry, given to me by Elliott and Nadia for my recent birthday.  Very much enjoyed it.

In essay number six, he discusses his thoughts re (1)abortion, and (2)gay marriage. While Berry is personally opposed to abortion, he comes down to this position: the government should not be involved. The decision should be left to the woman, her family and her doctor.

One of the arguments against abortion is that it takes away the rights of the fetus, which may regarded as a person. Berry says: "The legal definition of a person evaporated when the Supreme Court defined a corporation as a person. If a corporation is a person… then personhood can be conferred upon virtually anything merely by decree." For me, Berry nails the idiocy of that court decision

Book of Job

Yesterday, in Rabbi Wolpe's Torah study class, he began the discussion of the book of Job. We have been urging him to teach Job for at least two years.  He seemed reluctant, I'm not sure why.

In the first verse, the narrator describes Job as "blameless and upright, fearing God and shunning evil".  In verse 8, God describes Job in exactly the same words.

The primary issue is: does God allow bad things to happen to good people, and if so, why. I am looking forward to the classes that are to follow.

2017 Breakthru

Met with some old (in both senses of the word) male friends today for lunch.  Talked for over two hours, and, as far as I can remember, not one of us uttered the word "election" nor the word "Trump".  This is a 2017 breakthrough moment.
Enjoy while it lasts....probably not too long.

Movies and my Bladder

I never imagined that there would be such a strong connection between my bladder and my movie viewing experiences.  But they are now very linked.

I wait until just minutes before the movie is to start, then visit the men's room for a final emptying.
If the movie is less than 2 hours long, there is a good chance I will make it always thru without a pit stop.  If it's over 2 hours long, the chances are slim to none.  Last movie we say, "Paterson", I just made it to the end, then rushed out of the theatre.  Paterson is 1 hour and 58 minutes long; over 2 hours including trailers.

About 3 years ago, I talked Nadine into going to the Lone Ranger movie, with Army Archer and Johnny Depp.  It was a farce; the Lone Ranger riding Silver on top of a moving freight train, etc.  But I did it mostly to see the iconic final scene on the radio: The townswoman says "Pa, who was the masked man", and her husband says "Why, Ma, don't you know, that was the Lone Ranger".  The Lone Ranger shouts "Hi Ho Silver", we hear the hoof beats, and the orchestra breaks into the William Tell overture.

The movie was more than 2 hours.  Pressure was mounting, but I wanted to see the final scene.  Finally, I rushed out to the men's room, did my business, and rushed back to my seat.  The movie was still playing; I had made it. They never did that final scene; the movie ended without it.  I should have asked for my money back!!