Insomnia, Somnambulism and Plaid Dreams!

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:           Insomnia, Somnambulism and Plaid Dreams!

As one firmly ensconced, more like inextricably mired, in the challenging Age of GeezerHood -- a time in which simple facial blemishes become permanent purple blotches on a once devilishly handsome mug -- peaceful and uninterrupted sleep has become a kind of illusion!  Let me elucidate...

While some of us can fall asleep during root canals and children's school concerts that sound more like conventions of screech owls, SweetHeart has a lifelong battle with insomnia, and on a nightly basis.  There are, however, lighter moments in her quest for sleep.  I recall one evening, long ago.  She often uses television as a kind of sleep-inducing medium.  We happened upon a sermonette in which the clergy person was doing an excellent imitation of Boris Karloff:

"Sleep is your friend," he began.  "But one mustn't wallow in sleep, nor use it as an escape from our sacred duties, the performance of good works.  Sleep is merely an interlude between acts of charity and kindness toward our less privileged brethren.  Rise up and contemplate what you will next do to give purpose to your life in full wakefulness...!"

 

As "Boris" droned and prattled on interminably, we chuckled somewhat mirthlessly as we threw socks and shoes at the screen.  (Television screens were more solid and durable in the 1970s, you see!)   In spite of his amusing exhortations, sleep, on that particular night, was another elusive shadow as we both lay wide-eyed, tossed, re-adjusted our bodies, pillows and blankets in feckless efforts to fall into a well of peaceful slumber.  I think I dropped off about 2:30AM, while SweetHeart's turn came at about 4:00AM!

As a younger man, following my time in the military, I experienced strange periods of somnambulism.  On an evening in the late 1960s, in mid-autumn and durning my often-drunken college years, I was briefly billeted at the home of my parents.  I entered the upstairs bathroom, filled my mouth with water, then, according my my mother's account, scratched at her bedroom door.  When she opened said door with considerable irritation in the middle of that strange night, I spat the mouthful in her face.  Mother was displeased, to put it mildly.  I apparently walked back to whatever unoccupied bed I happened to find and slept quietly, and without further perambulation...  at least I think so...!  

There were other episodes of sleep walking.  One of them ending at a kitchen table where perhaps I was planning a late-night snack or a breakfast of eggs and toast.  There was physical evidence to support both probable choices of foodstuffs.  (SweetHeart's father -- in his own GeezerHood -- once

awoke while eating eggs.  He had no idea where he was, how he got there, or who prepared the eggs!)

My dreams in the Age of Geezerhood, are remarkably odd.  I'm a barrister in an old sports car, driving while seated on a bent-wood kitchen chair.  I'm working on a newsletter or a manifesto, searching for an old edition from which I can cut and paste.  I'm pounding on an ancient typewriter, manually flipping the carriage so vigorously that it sails out a window.  Sometimes I can fly!  I soar over a cityscape scouting for evildoers.  Or I'm fretting over an upcoming examination for which I failed to read any of the required philosophy tomes.  (Or was it theology?) 

And gunmen!  Often I'm fleeing from villains wildly shooting their pistols, obviously with intent to do me a grievous injury, or worse!  I fall down stairways and into sewers.  Sometimes I'm on roller-skates or skateboards, neither of which I cannot now nor have ever mastered!  If I'm honest, sometimes I'm the aggressor.  I'm often playing volleyball in my dreams, or football...!    

Most recently, I dreamt in Plaid!  Each dreamscape mostly obliterated as I attempted to see through a tartan kilt or a Scotsman's earasaid or tonnag.  I can't make out the scenes behind the annoying plaids.  I could be in mortal danger, but I can't see clearly through the fabric.   Are they Piper's plaids or Drummer's?  What the hell difference does that make?  The whole business is terribly strange...   Sometimes patterns change in mid dream!...  

Oh, and one more result of ridiculous dreams.  I sometimes scratch myself and draw blood.  What does that mean?  Too much violence in dreams, I suppose.  Perhaps the answer is a machine that makes soothing sounds, like ocean waves or a gentle breeze to lull a person into a more peaceful realm of slumber...  Wait a minute; I have one of those!  Ach!  It's all too bizarre...     

Hmmm...  Perhaps what the nation really needs is a Department of Dream Interpretations! Maybe get rid of one of the less effective departments, and replace it with one staffed by competent interpreters of dreams; and perhaps add staffers or a sub-department that can assist with other sleep-centered disorders -- insomnia and of course somnambulism!  Yeah...   That's the Ticket!!  (I know people who claim they interact routinely with celebrities in dreamland; I find that a bit hard to accept!  I'm happy if occasionally my dreams are inhabited by dead people, relatives and friends alike!  Always delightful to see them!!)   

Humbly Submitted, 11-30-2021...  By Joel K.   

      

  

    

Our Passage to Istanbul... Adventures and Minor Revolutions!

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:       Our Passage to Istanbul...  Adventures and Minor Revolutions!

It was a Tuesday, or maybe not...  Might have been a Thursday, even a Friday!  Trouble is, when you work shifts -- Days, Swings, Midnights -- the days not working became blurs of memory, blending or crashing into one another as if becoming single, enormous knots.  The year was 1962 or maybe 1963?  We were in the military, the US Air Force to be accurate, assigned to the USAF Security Service, stationed near the town of Karamursel, Turkey at an Air Force Station on the shores of the beautiful Sea of Marmara.  

This is a tale told not during the era of GeezerHood.  But recollected stories and memories recently shared have a way of insisting, inserting themselves into our consciousness, demanding that we put ink to paper and recall adventures frozen in a still-functioning psyche!  

The station was some 20 KM from the city or town of Yalova, a ferry port on the aforementioned sea.  We'd ride a bus, about a 45 minute to one hour trip.  We'd drink Raki, a licorice-flavored and highly potent spirit the Turks would pass around to those of us brave or stupid enough to take large swallows from the omni-present jugs that always traveled with us on the bumping blue busses.  

The Port of Yalova

Never entirely inebriated, but close, we'd step off the bus and walk the short distance to the ferry terminal, purchase our low-cost tickets, and cruise the 90-or-so minutes from Yalova to Istanbul.  We'd drink "Vodka-Lemones" or more Raki, crack their shells and consume large quantities of pistachios.  Sometimes the Marmara would be angrywould bounce the ferry vigorously aided by large swells delivering to passengers near the rails stormy showers of salty and cold sea water.

We'd sail past Buyuk Ada and Heybeli Ada, the former the island home of some Armenian - Turkish friends, the latter the site of a Turkish naval base and a branch of its naval academy.  

Turkish men would approach our table or chairs or, if we were standing, directly to our ears, in any circumstance, about an inch or two away, and state loudly, emphatically, "Deniz, Chok Fenah."  (Two of the words are printed phonetically for ease of pronunciation!). The phrase is translated, "The sea is very bad."  

We would respond, "Evet, effendum, chok fenah "  Meaning, "Yes sir."  Optionally, "Evet, akadaash."  Meaning "Yes, friend," always repeating or affirming the "very bad" addendum to emphasize and acknowledge our understanding.  And then we'd continue to drink the refreshing Vodka Lemones, or the more powerful and quicker-acting Raki.  

The ferry would enter the gorgeous port of Istanbul, past the Tower of Leander, finally into the quayside, depositing its complement of passengers who always rushed off, as if on missions of great import.  We, too, were eager to begin our days of leisure and entertainment.  We'd drink in the beauty of the Blue Mosque, the Hagia Sofia and Topkapi Palace.  We'd board taxis or busses and head for the Pavion district  (possibly "Paveon," meaning tavern or bar or inn that sells spirits!) or other neighborhoods with which we had become enamored and intimate.  Some would aim their sights on the "Red Light" district, where "women of the evening" would pose seductively in what seemed like large-windowed "Store Fronts" to attract their clientele.

Leander's Tower

On one of our Istanbul forays, in a popular pavion district, a small revolution was gathering strength, the perpetrators "Young Turks" of student or military issue, displeased with the current ruling body at the time, and hoping to encourage more of the like-minded citizenry to join them in attempting to overthrow the government, or at least to demonstrate extreme antipathy.  We were trapped in the middle of the crushing throng.  A Turkish man, recognizing and regarding us as unlikeable or evil Americans -- or so we thought in retrospect -- thrust a knife, but was happily restrained and managed only to penetrate a shirt front slightly and cause a small wound in the soft flesh of the belly of one of us.

In the end, everyone survived.  As day surrendered to night, and traffic -- particularly taxi traffic -- increased dramatically, we walked the narrow streets to a favorite haunt.  Trying to cross a street, the feet of one of us were run over by a taxi cab.  They travel so fast, as if in a race, as if competing for a lucrative fare, as they all in fact were doing, all of the

time and everywhere in that great city. 

Miraculously -- most likely a memory drenched in a bit of hyperbole -- the feet were uninjured, owing perhaps to soft tires or the non-feeling result of strong drink.  In the pavion (or paveon), we spent the better part of the evening consuming more Turkish beer, raki and other boozy potables.  Eventually, we wandered the late-night and early-morning streets of Istanbul, scoring pills and cannabis along the way.  

One of us was "treated" to a bit of LSD, mostly ignorant of its often gruesome affects on both the human body and brain.  The rather bold if stupid half of a drunken duo took the LSD, experiencing the terror of being devoured by a giant cartoon rodent.  The other half of the duo wisely demurred, and would not sample his portion of the nasty potion that resembled, we remembered, a frozen dot of raki, at least in color.  

The Galata Bridge, spanning
the Bosphorus!

We woke in the morning in our respective beds at a clean but inexpensive hotel, ravenous and exceptionally hung-over.  Over a delicious breakfast of cheese, tomatoes, eggs, cucumbers, jam, honey, kaymak, sucuk (a spicy Turkish sausage), pishi (a kind of fried dough) and soup, having met up with our fellow travelers, we discussed the revolution, the stabbing, the taxi's attempt to assassinate one of us, and our collective adventures.  No one talked about the LSD incident.  

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

Why the obscure use of "we" and "us," rather than identifying specific victims, fools and buffoons, we can only point to the cerebrum and memory draining effects of alcohol, and its extreme and often completely foolhardy misuse.  However, on balance, young men in military service, trying valiantly to experience every manner of frenzied and half-crazed behavior before death overtakes them, are often known to engage in activities that they'd never care to share with a mother or a father or a confessor, or any other sentient being with a working brain.  

What fun we had, though.  What adventures we can now share!  Long after the facts of them, of course -- with equally demented friends of similar, shared experience, grown children, perhaps even with grandchildren and grandnieces and nephews of appropriate ages, intelligence and temperaments.  But only if they'll listen, only if they're even moderately interested in the odd if true ravings of a Wizened Geezer!  

(Special Note of Dedication:    for Tad KM who listened so politely to my latest "historical blather," and encouraged the writer to fashion a posting or two on various topics, this one included...  I think?!...  The extraordinary young man, a superb writer himself, urged me to "write it all down..." for future generations and, of course, posterity.  As such, I was naturally compelled!  Thank You, Tad!).  

Humbly Submitted, 10-08-2021 -- By Joel K.          

 

   

 

  

Travels to the "Door"... another Grand Adventure!

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:      Travels to the "Door"...   Another Grand Adventure!

As a privileged white geezer male citizen of the planet we currently inhabit, I am additionally privileged to be afforded opportunities to abandon the rigors of daily toil in order to engage in a bit of holiday time...  you know, vacations, time off, periods of leisure activity...  (Slothfulness?...  Nah!)

Somewhat recently, my wife, SweetHeart, our beautiful daughter, Bethie, and two of our incomparable grandchildren, Seany and Phi Phi, journeyed north to savor the delights of Door County (hereinafter referred to as "DC" in this writing!), that remarkable region at the tip of Wisconsin's geological "Thumb." 

My own father and mother took their children to DC when the writer was just 8, perhaps 10 years old.  (I can't rightly recall, but perhaps my elder brother will remember our ages at the time of our inaugural visit.).  My father, having been a Special Agent in the FBI, and having spent much of his illustrious career as a trainer of police and sheriff's departments (and their inhabitants, of course!) throughout the Midwest, was often feted by commercial and civic mavens in the form of special rates on such things as lodgings, to cite a single example.  

I've enjoyed the flavors of DC since early childhood.  SweetHeart and I have been reprising our "concerts" in and to the Door for more than 40 years, that is, whenever time and finances allow us to do so.  

On our most recent expedition, we witnessed and ascended the newly-constructed, truly magnificent Eagle Tower in Peninsula State Park, a park that is to many residents and tourists alike the jewel of Wisconsin's State Park system.  With the readers' kind indulgence, a brief history of the new tower and its construction:

Members of the Friends of Peninsula State Park raised $750,000 to rebuild the tower after deconstruction of the old tower was announced in 2015.  (The actual cost was ultimately significantly higher!)

The DNR closed the tower in May of 2015 due to structural and safety concerns.  After an unsuccessful fight to save the tower it was deconstructed in September of 2016, leaving a hole at the top of Eagle Bluff, and in the hearts of generations of park visitors.  But the FOPSP quickly turned eyes to the future, launching a fundraising campaign to raise necessary funds to rebuild the tower. That was the first estimate for the cost of reconstruction.  (Aerial view of ramp and tower, at left!)

The DNR determined that if a new tower was going to be built it had to comply with the *Americans with Disabilities Act, calling for a new design that would provide equal access to all individuals. That sent designs in a drastically different direction.  Hence the spectacular RAMP system (partially pictured above, right)!  

New signage (soon to be installed) will remind people of the long journey to build the third, 60-foot tall and 95-step version of Eagle Tower (the first was built in 1914, the second in 1932), and one of many features that makes this park truly special.  But the heart of the Eagle Tower experience still comes at the top, one that requires no interpretation.  (Readers are encouraged to experience the climb and the view themselves!)

No journey or expedition is complete, nor worth its possibly tedious recounting, without a bit of pictorial foolishness!  (But that may come a bit later in these proceedings...  if we can discover whose camera was used to make the photographs!  Oh, wait, look to the left...  SweetHeart helps already exhausted husband climb the first of 95 steps...  made to the 2nd step prior to taking a short nap!  It's Geezerhood, you see!)

Bethie generously provided the cost of this year's lodgings -- The Open Hearth Lodge in "rural" Sister Bay.   (YoYo the dog was one of our companions, and the owners and staff made him quite welcome!)  In addition, she engaged a power boat from a rental service in Sister Bay.  Bethie performed superbly on the wake board, leaping gracefully into the skies from the churning wake!, while Seany did equally superbly on water skis.  After a couple of aborted attempts, PhiPhi rose from the waters of Ellison Bay on the wake board and also performed beautifully.   I piloted the vessel for all three aquatic athletes, something I hadn't done for many years previous to this occasion.  (It comes back to one, sort of like riding a scooter, or falling off a two-wheeler!)

Once again, during this visit, we dined and feasted lavishly...  Wild Tomato for pizza and salad, Julie's at the Park, a fish boil at The Postoffice in Ephraim, not to mention ice cream from Wilson's, gelato from The Creamery, breakfast and great coffee from Blue Horse in Fish Creek.   (Where's LeRoy??)  

Oh yes, lest one forgets!  We saw a live theatre play at Northern Sky Theatre in the aforementioned park.  It was not a particularly memorable performance of Whatever Happened to...  (someone's name or some such like that...).  Some of us, perhaps all of us,  enjoyed certain parts ofthe performance, and it's always interesting to witness live theatre, in spite of its content and story line.  Could have benefitted from some stage props, etc.  E.g.  An image of the fancy green car owned and driven by the eponymous but unseen character, perhaps a bit of football paraphernalia, maybe an image of a tavern, a farm scene...   All could have been accomplished via posters or projected images...  just a thought...  I don't claim to be a playwright or set designer, just an unschooled and erstwhile critic of the non-professional ilk!  

[That's a very fine image of Seany, Bethie and PhiPhi at right (along with perhaps an odd passer-by / interloper)!  At the play, there were two people just behind a foursome photo of SweetHeart, Bethie and Grandkids (not shown in this piece), but the pair seemed interested in being immortalized on film!  If they inquire, I'll send them a copy for a modest fee, plus postage, of course!...  These things aren't cheap!!]

(* A Special Note:   Our beautiful daughter, Alie, she a PhD professor at Marquette University, was and is a great supporter of the Americans with Disabilities Act.  Alie worked with her and our dear friend, wheelchair user Larry Keller, to investigate first-hand if various features of the Act were being appropriately interpreted and placed into common practice!  Prior to earning her PhD degree from the University of Wisconsin - Madison, she played a major leading role at a prominent disabilities organization during the time the ADA Amendments Act was being developed; the act was passed in 2008!).  

(Please Note:   One hopes to be back soon-ish with another edition of "Memoirs of a Geezer."  Many of our revered readers may wish to keep eyes on the site in rabid anticipation of the next remarkably fine posting, chronicling the amazing adventures of the perpetrator and his beloved companions!  The gorgeous photo exemplifying the notion of "being back," was created by the superb eye of ace photographer, SweetHeart!)

Humbly Submitted, 08-30-2021 --  Joel K.

THE UBER BOOK... "Travels in the 'Dining Car' "...

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:       THE UBER BOOK...   (Working Title, now Correctly Entitled):

                                 Travels in the "Dining Car"...   (With an Appropriate Subtitle:)   

From Chapter One --
"Revelation"!

    Some few years ago, SweetHeart and I decided to take on a new career, a fresh if unexpected challenge in the annals of Geezerhood.  Not at all to pocket extra coinage for frivolous gambols and playthings, but owing to financial exigency.  I would not presume to suggest it hasn't been fun; we have each other's enjoyable company, and we listen to good books and often talk like truckers,  berating obnoxious fellow motorists as we ply our toothsome trade!

Yes, dear friends, readers and devotees, we became food delivery drivers back in 2017 (at least I think that's when it started!?...), and here in 2021, a year or so removed from the onset of the great "Damnpenic," we continue to deliver food products from a great variety of purveyors, restaurant "partners" of the parent company for which we labor so sedulously, mostly flawlessly...  Honest! 

"Talkin' Like Truckers"!

Getting Aboard...  Starting Out!

As one result of our endeavors -- now in our fifth (I think?!) year -- we thought it important to share our activities, our assigned tasks, with the masses, by telling the story of our adventures in print.  Our book is entitled...
Travels in the "Dining Car"...  (subtitle) The Adventures of Uber Eats Food Delivery Drivers! 

So who the hell cares, one might justifiably inquire of the authors, or to no one in particular, perhaps someone stumbling upon this bit of blog writing, sitting by oneself and exclaiming loudly to a vacuum of space!  

Who cares?!  Those who have been cast into the abyss of unemployment or underemployment, loss of income, ageism, redundancy, tossed onto the scrap heap of "downsizing" and "economic cut-backs."  All those damn euphemisms concocted by the rich in order to excuse themselves for acts of unspeakable litter -- otherwise known as what they consider"discarding human detritus."  Hurling their castoffs onto the mean streets of

Anxiety Dominated at
the Outset!

want, exploiting tragedy to rid themselves of the need to pay wages and salaries while stuffing more and more wealth into their own bulging bank accounts and mattresses.  Jerks!!  Unconscionable swine!!      

Getting back to the question (if you've forgotten the question -- it's, "Who Cares?"):  One need only be aware of the fairly newly minted "Gig Economy," in which so many of our fellow citizens find themselves...  yourselves...  ourselves!  (See paragraph above to determine if you qualify under the broad heading of "Gig Economy" or wholesale disenfranchisement!)

What to do?  Get angry, make a statement, protest in your own manner, write a book perhaps...

Ours is neither a grim complaint nor a diatribe, but rather a humorous, fun and funny dissertation on what it's like to embark on a wholly new career with modest compensation, unlike the professions of our illustrious pasts.  Sort of an amusing meditation on being launched, unwillingly, into the dark waters of the gig economy!  

Because of its delightful flavors, its both sweet and savory explorations of social and

"I'm Sending You Out
with Angels..."

cultural interactions with a huge variety of personality types, we think, nay, we know!...  Our tale will resonate...  It's empathetic.  People will love it!  All we need now is a literary agent who will don a bib sporting a silly graphic and simply tuck in!! 

As the word count piled up, 15 Chapters and an Appendix into the process, SweetHeart wisely suggested we include illustrations.  Thanks to eager and talented granddaughters, we can incorporate gorgeous, evocative and emotive depictions of the diverse feelings we experience as we discovered and now continue to plod on into economic travels, both unknown and startlingly new!

Would you like a teaser?  Of course you would.  Here's a brief passage from Chapter Fourteen, describing "Strange Delivery Instructions, etc....."  

"The Hunt"

       "...We enter the building. It’s really tall; it contains a great     many apartments. The key pad is an alphabetized conundrum that   requires the visitor to use an “A to Z” button. It lists only last names with first initials. The Uber Eats application lists only first names with last initials. We try to match the “F” family name to the first initial, the “M” for Muriel, needless to say. That almost never works. We spend way too much time trying to decipher the alpha-numeric keypad.

       Often, they don’t work at all. The one we’re staring at is no exception. We curse the architect and the person who or the contractor company that allegedly designed the “easy-to-use” alpha-numeric keypad feature. We stomp impatient feet and call them all bubbleheads, including the food recipient who failed to provide intelligible instructions, cursing vigorously all the while!..."

    A few of the brilliant illustrations are included herein, while most of the text, meaning the story itself, will have to be read by fans and devotees once the book has been published...  in one fashion or another...  I have a plan, sort of...  Please be patient, and thank you for your rapt attention to this brief, um...  well, I guess "introduction" is as good a descriptor as any!  Thank you again!  Stay safe, get vaccinated, and think seriously about telling your own stories, sharing them with others!  

(A Brief Note of Dedication and Gratitude:   Thank you, Lucy, and thank you, PhiPhi for your beautiful artwork, for your talent, your generosity and your diligence.  This writing is dedicated to you, beautiful and extraordinary young women, priceless treasures in the lives of authors and tireless workers who know too well who and what are truly of greatest value!) 

   

Noxious Nellie: The Amusing Maze of Street Names and Directions that Could Lead to Trouble...

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:        Noxious Nellie:  The Amusing Maze of Street Names

                             and Directions that Could Lead to Trouble...

                                                  (and often does!!) 

As dedicated and courageous Food Delivery Drivers for...   well, that doesn't really matter.  Suffice to say we are kind of "mostly reluctant road merchants," caught in the web of the Gig Economy, on

the road of necessity to earn a buck or two.  As we pursue our craft, our trade, we follow "The Voice," and go where it commands!

The Voice belongs to Noxious Nellie.  That's what we've dubbed her, she who utters the mechanical words that propel us to the homes or businesses of food delivery customers...  The hungry and most often unseen masses, those whose dancing fingers manipulate "Apps" to summon sustenance from dozens, perhaps hundreds, of purveyors throughout a specific geographical territory.

Unseen masses?  I should explain, that in these perilous times of the "Viral Scourge," the "Damnpenic," as some prefer, deliveries are made to doorways and lobbies, requiring photo evidence that the delivery was actually accomplished successfully.  Smartphones with cameras are a necessity, perhaps needless to add.

We collect food from various shops, stores and restaurants, place sacks of sealed and protected edibles into insulated carry containers, and then follow Nellie's guidance to designated destinations.  It's a reasonably simple process, usually, but sometimes, only if you happen to know where you're going!

We've often pondered, my noble and capable partner, SweetHeart and I, if a driver happens to be new to a certain community or neighborhood, Nellie's sometimes peculiar pronunciations, street names and directions, could drive a newcomer to become utterly confused, if not entirely lost.  The result could be unpleasant -- hot food losing its desired temperature, frozen beverages a puddle of sticky slop, delivery drivers scratching their heads in frustration, getting out of their vehicles, turning, twirling themselves 360 degrees, becoming dizzy and disoriented in the process.  A telephone call to the headquarters company, or the customer, possibly becoming the only remaining option or solution.

"Where am I?  Where am I going?  Where the hell is Bumbuckle Street!!??  NELLIE!!..."

Now then...  I'm sure you'd like to have some examples.  I mean, isn't that what you're hoping for, what you've been impatiently waiting for, longingly, if you've actually read the first six paragraphs??  Well, dear friends and devotees, here they are...  a short list for your further reading enjoyment...  (Comments and Questions always welcome!):

        1.  Clybourn Street in Milwaukee is pronounced, “Cly (accent on the first syllable) born.  Nellie says, “Cli (“i” as in it) burn.”  

2.  Belleview is properly pronounced “Bell” (accent on the first syllable) “view.”  Nellie chooses

instead, “Believe You.”  Is it possible she believes in us, and everything we say, stand for and do?

3.  Emulating Millie, introduced in a previous chapter, Teutonia, according to Nellie also, is “Toy-a-tone-ee-ah.”  Correctly pronounced by most Milwaukeeans, “Two Tone Yah,” accent on the second syllable.  (Apparently, both Nellie and Millie studied under the same electronic computer tutor!)

4.  Meinecke Street is correctly pronounced, “Mine A Key,” accent first syllable.  Nellie prefers “Mean Eck,” accent first syllable.

5.  Then there’s Becher Street, correctly pronounced by most of us, “Beach-Er,” accent first syllable.  We’ve heard, “Becker,” “Beaker” and “Betch-Yer,” among other butchered options!  (Interesting that two syllables can be mis-uttered in so many different ways!)

6.  Consider Dr. Martin Luther King, Junior Drive.   Nellie’s take is, “Drive Martin Luther King Junior Drive.”

7.  A street that contains an outstanding bar and restaurant is Saint Paul Avenue.  Sobelmans is the restaurant, and serves, in the opinion of many burger gourmets, the best hamburger in the City of Milwaukee and surrounding suburbs.  To come to the point, Nellie prefers, “Street Paul Avenue.”  

8.  Another interesting mispronunciation is that of Cramer Street, correctly pronounced “Cra-(“a” as in able) mer.  Nellie seems to prefer “Cra- (“a” as in bam) mer, accent, of course, on the first syllable.        

8.  And lest we ignore our Latino brothers and sisters, Cesar E. Chavez Drive in Milwaukee becomes, in Nellie’s vernacular, “Cesar East Chavez Drive.”  (We suppose some of the Nellie oddities are explainable, given her mechanical persona, and translations programmed into her by a computer with an apparently keen sense of humor!)

9.  We couldn’t let this one pass, and it happened very recently.  We were making a delivery on the south side of Milwaukee, with voice instructions from Nellie to turn left onto a street she announced as “E-Jere-ten,” accent on the second syllable.  The street, to most Milwaukeeans, is correctly pronounced, “Edge-er-ton,” accent on the first syllable.  Once again, Nellie provided us with a short but welcome bit of amusement.

10.  Sometimes Nellie eliminates street names entirely, and simply states, “Turn right,” or “Turn left,” completely ignoring the street name or number.  Perhaps she forgets street names and numbers in the midst of her directional instructions, brain lapses possibly.   Or could she be on a
coffee or lunch break?!  It does get a bit confusing at times.  Luckily we know the city and its surrounding suburbs quite well, and we almost always navigate to the food recipient successfully!   

When absolutely necessary, if truly confused and lost (very rarely!), we telephone the customer and ask, “Where exactly are you?….  Um, excuse me, where…?” 

(Special Note of Dedication:    SweetHeart keeps a mental, often a written log, of amusing "Nellie" and "Millie" pronunciations and unwitting comedic pauses perpetrated by the aforementioned duo.  This writing is dedicated with great thanks, love and more gratitude to SweetHeart for remembering...  when I don't!)  

Humbly Submitted 04-17-21 -- Joel K.