We Miss YOU Already... Um... Let Me Explain, She Just Moved Away!

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

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

This Episode:      We Miss YOU Already...  

                   Um...  Let me Explain, She Just Moved Away!

An aircraft arrived, one of its passengers returning home from Israel.  We weren't aware of it, of course, or its impact upon our lives, not until Fred arrived at our door to suggest we wait a bit, wait for his good friend.  "She'll be here very soon.  She'll stay at the Astor until her furniture and piano arrive, a baby grand piano."   

"Wait?" SweetHeart and I asked, sort of in unison.  We were poised to rent our upper flat to an interested couple eager to submit payment and then schedule a move.  

"Hmmm..." SweetHeart mused, an index finger pressed along her jaw line.  "A baby grand piano!  She'll probably live here for a very long time!  That's a good thing."  She remained our very best tenant, becoming a best friend in the process, for 23 years.  We've long referred to her, to Joan, as "The One Above."  That piano gave us sweet music for many of those years as it sang, its black and white notes and chords penetrating through hardwood floor boards and a high ceiling.      

"She'll be the best tenant you could ever have," Fred stated with emphasis, quite insistently, his hand and arm gestures a convincing argument.   "I guess we'll wait," I said in reply, or maybe SweetHeart did.  "I mean, all the way from Israel to rent OUR upstairs flat."  That last remark was definitely hers.    

"She used to live on this street, north of here.  She loves the neighborhood.  You won't regret it for a moment...  best tenant you'll ever have," Fred repeated with even greater emphasis, his warm smile a reassuring promise, a kind of excursus or a codicil to his testament.  

The herald, Fred, arrived at our door in April of 2000.  The "best tenant," Joan, took up residence in June of the same year, or perhaps it was earlier in the year, April or May.  I can't find a record to verify the exact time.  Not terribly vital to this narrative, I suppose.

Don't know if it's a kind of phenomenon, as perhaps not all landlords / landladies and their tenants become friends.   So often, we're told by others, those relationships become more adversarial rather than warm and fuzzy and friendly, with cultural and social interaction mixed into the recipe.   But, after all, 23 years with the "best tenant..."  As landlords, we've been exceptionally fortunate.  

She became our surrogate "Auntie," sharing our cell phone provider, for example.  For 23 years, we've backed her car into her side of the garage.  Joan was never very good at backing.  Didn't matter.  I casually mentioned to her family, a son and two daughters, other relatives and friends, "I've driven Joan's cars for 23 years, but only backwards."  She's had three different automobiles over the years, the first was blue, one green, the current motor, a compact, is silver-grey.

Of course, there were a few challenges in our relationship.  Joan was, still is, an ardent devotee of The New York Times.  For quite a long period of time, the paper arrived sometime between 5:00 and 6:00AM.  It arrived with a resounding thud against the wall of our porch, as if hurled by a beefy shot-putter with great muscular arms.  The wall was just outside our bedroom, the noise of its arrival nearly catapulting us out of our warm bed. We spoke to Joan.  She spoke to the delivery people.  In a couple of years' worth of newspaper arrival explosions we forgot all about it.  (Or was it three years?  I probably exaggerate a bit!)

Joan has been, in the main, a quiet and considerate tenant, neighbor and great friend.  Except when she dances.  Or is it clogging?  Old houses tend to magnify sound, from floors through ceiling to the ears of downstairs denizens.   Things that fall or drop have contributed, over time, to certain evidence that Joan is in residence.  

Only once was there a sort of atomic blast, when a huge mirror dislodged itself from the single nail that held it in place.  We had trouble identifying the source, wondering if an aircraft had crashed into the neighbor's attic.  Glass and debris covered the floor of Joan's bedroom.  She was traveling to visit her daughter in Minnesota.  SweetHeart and I helped clean up the shattered glass and other resultantly exploded material, books and artifacts!  The mirror has not been replaced.

SweetHeart has helped Joan over the years with eyedrops, television issues, cell phone and land-line-phone matters, physical challenges.  I've carried up her groceries and other supplies over the years -- all of the above simply labors of love!  Keeps one in shape, of course, so not a complaint, you understand.  Repairs, too, of course...  plunging and plumbing, paint, knobs that come loose, carrying up, supplying and moving of chairs, leaking downspouts, outdoor umbrellas, luggage, spring and winter window manipulations...  But all of that goes with property-owning territory.  Mustn't grumble...  Exercise is beneficial...     

At 90 years of age, soon to be 91, Joan is moving into an apartment that does not require her to climb stairs, something she's done with grace and, recently, somewhat decreasing ease.  Her new place has an elevator and gorgeous views of Lake Michigan, watercraft and surrounding structures, grassland, the traffic that crawls or speeds along Lincoln

Memorial Drive.  The "crawlers" are cruisers looking for fun and places to park.  The "speeders" are eager to get home or to the tavern, a restaurant or shops, using the Drive as a kind of unintended expressway, unless, at times, when sirens and their official user-occupants intervene. 

We'll miss her terribly, that is, the proximity of her, of Joan, the ease with which we can see her and follow her activities, her travels, her wonderful poetry.  She has published volumes attesting to her poetic talents.  Joan is a rabid reader.  Her books, a mountain of them, will leave with her, or find homes with other avid readers.  Joan is very generous, kind and thoughtful, and funny, too.  She has a terrific sense of humor!  

Happily, she's not moving far.  We'll visit; we'll see her whenever we can, whenever she feels up to hosting her former lower-flat neighbors and friends.  We'll make plans to collect her for a trip to one of our favorite coffee houses, or for a spot of breakfast or lunch.  Errands perhaps, possibly a visit to our local bookseller.  Joan never forgets our birthdays and wedding anniversaries, gifts and treats of breakfast or lunch always part of the celebrations.   

We've grown to love Joan.  To be accurate, or to be honest, we grew to love her almost from the start of what "initial-ists" termed "Y2K."  It only took us a day, maybe two at the most.  She's easy to love, attested to by her many friends, her family, her grandchildren and great grandchildren, her poetry and Shakespeare groups, neighbors and so many others.  Stay well, Joan.  Settle in.  Enjoy your new digs.  We'll see you again in a couple of days!    

Humbly Submitted 12-08-2022...  Joel K.  

   

  

  

 

 

Collecting Characters with Character!

Memoirs of a Geezer!

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth 

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:      Collecting Characters with Character...!

Certain collections cannot easily be given a definable value, such as the remarkably interesting characters met and "collected" along one's personal "La Strada."  Unlike precious coins or stamps, we store them in a vault of memory, and bring them out to brighten a mood or relive a funny moment in time.  (Laughter is sweet music!)         

The above is an ersatz
illustration of a man
shaving his ears!

A few Illustrations:    In spite of the punishing effects of strong drink, Mac was a fine-looking man who always dressed well, and kept himself groomed right up to shaving his ears regularly.  His essential diet consisted of bourbon and an occasional imported beer.  Those who knew him rarely saw him actually consume food.  On one occasion, with a group of friends having dinner at a fine restaurant, he ordered an enormous steak, held it aloft on his fork and announced, "Now isn't that is a beautiful thing to behold."  He put it down on his plate, never touched it again, turned to his right and boomed, "Garcon, more whiskey for Table Six."  

One of his companions belched, shoved his plate to one side -- it consisting only of the juice of his own former slab of porterhouse and some terrified-looking bones -- and asked, "Gonna eat that thing, Mac?"  The insatiable companion then devoured another enormous cut of meat as Mac looked on in admiration. 

"You're like a pack of wild dogs," said Mac.  He beamed at the man and added, "Save me a

Not exactly a "pack" of wild dogs...
but maybe you get the idea, eh?! 

bone! I got a big animal at home."  

In geezerhood, I think about the characters I know and those I've met.  Often I consider the taverns I frequented and "collected" over time, extraordinary characters "collected" as well.  Some during the hard drinking days of my youth and robust middle age, some of more recent vintage. The aforementioned "Mac" was part of that earlier collection.  As was Bill H. A group of us drank frequently at his home on an Air Force base near Tacoma, WA. When the table became crowded with empty beer and booze bottles, he'd order his patient wife,  Flo, "Un-ass this rig!"  (He had served in the Navy prior to making the Air Force his final career choice, always spoke like a sailor...  or a pirate, maybe!)  She ignored him saying, "Billy, you and the boys emptied 'em, you haul 'em to the bin." He'd grin at her affectionately, and dump down another beer.  Bill had an exceptional sense of funny; he shared his gift generously.
"Jere The Hair," lived in a complex that had a large swimming pool.  He and the manager were not good chums. They'd frequently had words! About to change lodgings, "The Hair" decided he would break every rule posted on the pool's gate, and he'd do it all in one remarkable gesture of defiance...  at midnight. "The Hair" dressed in full golf regalia, including plus-fours and two-tone cleated golf shoes, a glass of whiskey and a liverwurst sandwich in hand, a golf bag full of ancient clubs on his back.  "Fore," he yelled at the very top of his voice and jumped into the pool swinging a mashie niblick as he leapt.  The manager appeared, his face a purple mask of rage, and ordered "The Hair" to vacate his apartment without delay, to which my friend replied, "I'm already packed, you miserable cesspool of a...!" (The actual language Jere included, following the initial insult, has been omitted for the sake of propriety!)

This is not the saloon of which I write,
but it's a fair representation of
"The Shootin' Star"!

There was a great saloon in a small Western town frequented by two wonderful characters -- King Arthur and Kid Shimmel, both self-proclaimed "real cowboys."  King Arthur would enter each day and hand the bartender a brown paper sack.  The "King" would drink himself into another level of consciousness, and then proclaim, "Dod a'mighty, I had me a accident." ' The "King" would retrieve his paper sack.  He'd wobble to the men's room, clean himself up, change his underwear and then return to the bar for more of the nectar that carried him away, until he, himself, was carried away by his "fellow cowboys."
  
Kid Shimmel owned the oldest pickup truck anyone ever imagined could still function.  One memorable day, driving into town for supplies, "The Kid" stopped at a school crossing.  He didn't urge the pickup forward for what seemed like half an hour.  Finally, filled with irritation he stuck his head out the side window and shouted, "Get the hell outta the road, ya damn fool kid!" The "damn fool kid," as it happened, was an inanimate "Safety Susie" stop sign used at many school crossings.  When laughter subsided after someone told of the incident, one of the saloon's fellow habitues suggested that "The Kid" might want to consider prescription glasses,

Possibly an image of "The Kid's"
Pickup truck!  (Possibly not!)

even better, public transportation. 

I want to make it clear that I use the term "character" not in any pejorative sense, but in the most respectful of ways.  I love and admire interesting and colorful people...  characters! My own parents and those of my wife were characters -- fun, colorful, ideosyncratic, eccentric. Our lives, today, are filled with marvelous characters.  We no longer "collect" them from saloons, but rather from coffee houses, private homes, movie palaces and other personal and "cultural" enclaves.     Examples!?...

See how happy the broccoli is!
I like to eat broccoli (but in
smaller chunks)!

SwH makes me laugh like almost no one I've ever known. We're dining in a fine Italian restaurant. I'm enjoying minestrone, an Italian vegetable soup that has a large portion of broccoli floating on top.  I like broccoli.  I try to cut it into pieces to enjoy with, not just one, but a few mouths-full of soup.  I use my spoon to hold the thing in place, a standard butter knife to cut. She watches me, a look on her face that suggests, "Are you a completely ineffectual buffoon?" I don't succeed in severing the mass of broccoli.  She stabs it with her fork and stuffs it into my mouth. I'm laughing so hard the patrons on either side begin to cringe away from us. I fear they'll summon the management.  Oh...  and she has a way of doing funny weird things to my ears!  It tickles! 

Alie is among the funniest, goofiest persons I've ever known.  She finds humor in nearly every conceivable thing, person, event and circumstance, no matter how mundane. We're sitting in a coffee house discussing "Buff-Colored 'White-Out' " and possible alternatives.  A friend just had a book of poetry printed on tan or ecru or buff-colored paper, and sadly found typos in the copies.  We offer to help, and try to find a product to obliterate the errors.  Our quest includes a

spirited discussion as to the exact color of the paper; it also includes a visit to our local art supply store, having been told they might offer a "buff-colored" paint-marker or some other product for our purpose. They didn't. SwH and I were walking homeward; Alie was driving. She arrived at our home ahead of us having had to pick up something she'd left there.  Upon our arrival we find the house papered with sticky notes, each carrying a message or object lesson suggestive of the elusive poetry-book paper color.  Hours later we're still finding sticky notes!...  "This is possibly ecru... This might be pale lemon... This could be a shade of light camel, or possibly timid tan...  This hat has a hue of pale gold-ey yellow..." and on and on... 

I feel I must add Rob C. and Bill W. to the list of our favorite characters.  Both have brilliant
minds. Rob is largely self-taught, a voracious reader and consumer of information, obscure and otherwise.  I ask him, to cite an example, about crisscrossed, overhead electrical cables perched over a rural roadway.  I receive an astonishing dissertation on "dirty grids," efficient rural usage of power distribution and much more!  Bill collects films, currently films that feature

Rob knows about Power and
Electrical Stuff...  like Dirty Grids!

mirrors and reflection.  He's a scholar on many levels, and happily shares his world view and esoteric ideas with those of us in his spheres of influence.  Apart from being smart beyond my poor level of comprehension, both men are exceptionally funny.  

Time to bring this edition to a close!  I'll save others for subsequent entries in these memoir postings. Here's the point: Characters -- whether or not one likes the use of the word or accepts it as complimentary and affectionate -- color, edify, brighten, even strengthen our lives.  We need them to populate our experience, to broaden our vision.  In my callow youth, I collected bars and taverns and their often rum-affected denizens whose words and deeds delighted me, though unfortunately I recall too little of their banter and behavior.  

Today, mired in robust if hoary "geezerhood," I'm grateful for those with whom I happily interact and whose company I thoroughly enjoy.  This episode is merely an homage to those delightful and colorful characters whom I hope to continue to enjoy and benefit from as I wander deeper into advancing spheres of consciousness.  Suggestions for future topics are always welcome.  Oh, and I have a book in print...  just in case you're interested!!  Thank you, and good day or good morrow or good night!                 
Special Note:  This episode of "Memoirs of a Geezer" is dedicated to...  well, is a kind of homage to marvelous characters, especially those of exceptional character as well.  With apologies, only a very few were able to be sketched herein, but future entries may well include others who have made lasting impressions on the perpetrator.  I'll try to warn you in advance, and will endeavor to use fictitious names to avoid embarrassment and lawsuits!  Thank you!  Oh...  and Good Night to All...

Humbly Submitted 05-23-16 -- Joel K.

        

             



     



       

An Homage: A Great Friend, a True Champion!

Memoirs of a Geezer!

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth 

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:    An Homage to a Great Friend, a True Champion!

Whenever I was privileged to be with him, I knew I was in the Company of a Champion.  My much-loved, lifelong, richly cherished, marvelously talented friend, Stephen F. Johnstone, slipped away on September 8th.  Far too young, far too soon!  Over the course of two or so years, Steve wrote a manuscript about his great passion -- gate-crashing.  It's entitled, In the Company of Champions, and chronicles his longtime adventure, something at which he was the true master, the greatest champion ever to gain entry, surreptitiously, into varied iconic events, those into which lesser mortals might only project their longings and their dreams.

Steve and his son Joel

Steve with daughter Shannon

Steve entered the hospital last Monday, the 1st of September, Labor Day.  About three or four weeks ago, it became obvious he had been assaulted by a form of cancer so aggressive, so virulent, that it claimed him just one week after entering Froedtert Memorial Hospital in Milwaukee County.  His family members and Connie gathered round him.  Happily for Steve, most were able to speak with him, hold his hand, express their love.  It seems they turned away for a moment, and he was gone.  As Mary, my wife, suggested, "He gave us yet another gate-crashing moment, almost a mystical performance, the consumate phantom charmed his way along a bright pathway in pursuit of a far more desirable destination."

Reading with Gina's daughter,
Granddaughter Juliana

 

I hope it's not an irreverence, but I have an image of Steve appearing at the Heavenly Gate, speaking briefly with the temp on duty, presenting credentials, being asked, "Do you have your entry ticket?"  And then he's gone.  He's made his way to the Throne where God is smiling broadly, then seizing him in a warm embrace, announcing to his minions, "Steve's here!  He may have snuck in, but I couldn't be happier to have him in the Circle."  

At the Kentucky Derby

The man who, both in callow youth and maturity, spent more time in the Kentucky Derby Winners Circle than any winning owner, trainer or jockey, made it into the greatest Circle achievable.  Along the way, he witnessed extraordinary sporting and cultural events, too numerous to detail.  I am honored to have had Steve in my life.  He was in my wife's and my wedding.  He was one of our original volleyball teammates, an original is so many other ways as well, a first edition in every sense.

My brother, Kris, and I met Steve and his brother, Jimmy, when we were all just 8 or 9 years old.  We bonded -- like tubes of super glue colliding -- almost instantly, forging a lifelong friendship that never wavered, grew stronger with time, seamless, a treasure among the gems of a good and satisfying life.  Even cribbage -- with its extravagant boasts, its wins and losses, battles and tournaments -- couldn't lessen our friendship and our affection for one another.  

Steve (at right) with Joel and Mary,
Gina, Alie (Kriofske) and Shannon

Steve was generous beyond imagination, loving and kind, a truly outstanding friend, father, brother and grandfather.  He gave us -- all who knew him -- the remarkable gift of himself, his time, love and friendship.  I'll miss him far more than I could ever express in mere words, as will we all.  

I hope for Steve that his afterlife includes all of the celebrated figures encountered throughout his magnificent career and his remarkable life, that they'll gather with him to ruminate, laugh and embellish, and to re-live their happiest moments, their greatest triumphs.

I'm finding it difficult to end this tribute, as I can't stop remembering and thinking about him.  I find it hard to put aside my anger that someone so extraordinary, so special, could be wrenched from us with such seeming cruelly, so prematurely.  But everything ends, and so I'll put this passage to rest with his own words.  Steve's beautiful writing included many poems, such as this one, entitled...

WANDERING

The world's a big place  
Blanket it with deeds and seeds
To embrace your place 

Humbly Submitted, 09-10-14 by Joel K.