Spending Time Wisely... Pondering Identity, Sometimes Our Own, Sometimes that of Others!

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

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

This Episode:             Spending Time Wisely...  Pondering Identity,

                    Sometimes Our Own, Sometimes that of Others!

Deep in the mists of geezerhood, with all of its obscurity, challenges, wonders and expectations -- ever Closer to surrendering the Illusion of Immortality -- in an effort to escape the clutter and cluster of urban smog and dust-scape, we tend to wander...  Where?  Somewhere!  Anywhere...  perhaps north, sometimes in other directions?!

At the beginning of a recent such brief odyssey, we were delighted to spy two BlueJays, each a buzz of glorious color.  As if the pair -- blurred but unable to conceal themselves entirely -- were speed painting their 

primary hues, spreading then onto the contrasting green of flora, some of it incipient, some in the full explosion of spring beauty and color!  

Heading south toward the river, SweetHeart and I were attempting to discover the oddly narrow stream of what we believed to be a tail of the river and how it joined its larger body.  In the end, thwarted by a power pole and impassible shrubbery, we were compelled to cross to the other side.  To no avail, we could not bend our vision to follow its path and the probable junction of a small thread to a larger skein! 

Having crossed, we found ourselves on a flag-bedecked vision of various contours of field and meadow, a greensward, bordered by vestigial woodlands, still spare, just budding in the nascent burst of early springtime.   

In the clubhouse on that purposely limited expanse of greenery, on which a number of combatants were attempting to strike dimpled white spheres, we donated one such found object to a surprised and grateful young woman about to participate in that very same campaign.  So many of them!   Swinging, striking, missing!  Possibly cursing!  What has happened, I wondered, to American productivity.  "Doesn't anyone work anymore?" Perhaps owing to fear and frustration, a feeling of ennui and hopelessness, the absurdities and lunacy of a political landscape populated by feckless buffoons whose aims and language many fail to fathom, perhaps never will!

Never mind all that.  We move on!  I suppose some would question our own dedication to the betterment of the nation's economic health.  We are old, yes, but we continue to work as much as we're able.  Being older, or historic, as our grandson describes us, we sometimes seize moments when industry fails to beckon, and thus we wander.  Our attempts to find joy in simple pursuits, to spend time in peaceful reflection, visions of wings, the undulating and constant movement of water, gorgeous vistas of green, purple, pink, lavender, sepia, emerald and sage!  Dazzled often by its variety, complexity, beauty and memory!  

Our wanderings do take us, or perhaps lead us inexorably, to destinations comprised of those aforementioned joys, miracles and colors, where ospreys soar and dive and capture

river fish with which to feed their young and themselves.  Until late summer when offspring begin to fledge, testing courage and wing strength, ability and that ancient, instinctively-rediscovered route to winter feeding grounds far to the South. 

We often wish that our forte, our primary bread-winning focus, were educative travel, leading followers to distant shores, exotic cities and towns, to far-away places, fascinating ideas, customs and faces!  (The word "forte" -- by the by -- contains a Silent "E" and is pronounced "Fort," and means one's strength, one's matier, one's principal gift or talent, one's "Thing," so to speak!)

Alas, at least for now, we wander in limited scope and distance, but we can and do dream of greater escapes.  Well, to be honest and accurate, we've both traveled somewhat

extensively, in our distant past -- to France, Spain, Morocco, Italy, Estonia, Turkey, Mexico, Canada, England, Finland -- and to many destinations in our own country.  Mustn't grumble, but still we long to wander further afield, and oftener!  

Meanwhile, we have our Great Lake, the Confluence of Three Rivers, our namesake river and other bodies of water in which big ships plow their way to ports and harbors and depositories.  Many offloading their goods and their essential cargoes from great, cavernous holds, or collecting commodities to ferry to other faraway places, ports and harbors, many great vessels with self-discharging structures aboard, destined for as many ports with enormous collection canyons and conveying contrivances on their shores!

As we steer our course toward oblivion, or a pleasant terminus in the realm of wander, I suppose we do at times tend to consider our own identities.  Who are we, what is our aim or purpose in life?  Do we continuously ponder our identities, what we're intended to do or be.  Our friend, Bill, cares deeply about such inponderables.  We, on the other hand, do not, or usually we do not.  We do, however, care about how to spend our time enjoyably and profitably, meaning profitable in terms of happy enterprise.  And we will, I hope, continue to do so when time and tide enable us to wander leisurely, even aimlessly, through the often bewildering mists of GeezerHood!  

(Special Note of Dedication:   For SweetHeart and all of our good chums and relatives who have been elevated to the status and the state of Wisdom!  I note that aristocrats speak of being "Elevated to the Purple," that is, achieving a position of royalty.  Those of us not of the peerage or royal lineage achieve veneration through the process of aging gracefully, and should therefore be accorded great respect and admiration...  possibly purple garments too!)  

Humbly submitted 05-13-25 -- Joel K.

  

  

 

    

       

 

What Was That I Said?...

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

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:

What Was That I Said?  or, One's Brilliant (mis-) Understanding of Foreign Tongues!...   More Travels / Overseas Edition!

Heartburn and other stomach disorders are not exclusively the province of the elderly, or those of us currently experiencing the joys of GeezerHood!  

SweetHeart was at one point in her various superb careers, a Flight Attendant.  She flew for United Airlines.  As such, in our early years of marriage, we could fly like pelicans, unfettered by such impediments as airfares...  well, practically!

On our honeymoon -- that was prior to the onset of GeezerHood, but, after all, one can still recall those blissful days of callow youth -- we decided to jet off to Greece, or Hellas, visit the glories of Athens, as well a few of the Greek Islands.  What the heck does that have to do with HeartBurn??  Well...   lemme explain.

Athens is replete with what I call "Sidewalk Emporiums," at which one can purchase an array of necessaries, including remedies for the body.  On a particular evening, out for dinner and a stroll near the Acropolis, I had a nasty bout with heartburn.   Never traveling without my handy language guides, including a Berlitz Book of Greek, on this occasion, perhaps needless to add, I looked up "heartburn."  No listing.  I then paged to the index to find "antacids."  No listing.  Trying a few other obtuse combinations of Greek words, I finally settled upon the words, "Heart" and "Fire."  

I announced in my finest baritone broadcast voice, hand over my left chest, "Heartfire"!  The young woman who staffed the emporium looked at me as if I were making an unwanted romantic overture, her face a mask of shock and discomfort.  SweetHeart yanked me by the arm and hustled me away from the young woman and her sidewalk shop.  "She has to think you're some kind of crazed masher," said SweetHeart.  "Let's get the heck away

from here before she calls the local police!"  We departed briskly.

 On a subsequent evening, enjoying an "Athens By Night" adventure, along with an international throng of fellow visitors to that ancient land, we told the story of "Heartfire," with many translations and belated laughter arcing and echoing through the crowd.  As the merriment began to diminish, an English couple approached SweetHeart and me, and deposited several antacids into my open and grateful palm.

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Our elder daughter spent a couple of years in Estonia during her Peace Corps tenure.  We visited her in the month of February, early in the 2000's.  Estonia was not in full bloom at the time, but seeing our wonderful daughter, a photogravure palette of grey and a continuous whispy snowfall made the entire experience delightful and beautiful, an artwork of muted color.  

We settled into Saaremaa, the island off the west coast of Estonia, in the Baltic Sea, where our daughter was based.  She taught, sang and volunteered her time and talent generously for young and old alike, anyone in need.  After seeing the sights and delights of the Island, we ferried ourselves to the mainland, rented a vehicle and motored off to see her fellow Peace Corps friends in Tartu and Tallinn.

On the road, we passed through a small village, a bit too fast, and were halted in our progress by an Estonian policeman who "waved" us down using a long pole, at the end of which was a circular symbol.  I believe the symbol indicated excessive haste!  I did not have a phrase book of Estonian.  No one spoke.  Using a kind of friendly sign language, the policeman and I, that is, I agreed not to speed anymore while the nice official agreed not to assess an enormous fine!  It was the first time in my driving experience that I was "pulled over" by a standing policeman armed with a long pole and a sign at the top!  

Pannenkoeken!  Oh, and Berries!

Our daughter, Bethie, was with SweetHeart, our Peace Corps daughter, Alie, and me.  Bethie made a great and loving impression on everyone we encountered, building relationships and friendships that have endured, even today, nearly 20 years after the fact!  We met Alie's wonderful and talented friends, learned a bit of Estonian, had a kind of pizza in Tartu and generally enjoyed a delicious and highly memorable adventure.  Oh, and "pannenkoeken"! A kind of bread-y pancake-y treat that's found everywhere in Estonia...  (The Netherlands, too, we're reliably told!)  And, we met Alie's Estonian host family.  Wonderful people who enjoyed Alie, her sense of humor and her sometimes stumbling efforts to learn the Estonian language, something she eventually mastered, still uses speaking with native Estonian friends. 

I should mention that Alie was in Estonia and Saaremaa during the "Nine-Eleven" crisis, and was told to "maintain a low profile," as Americans were thought to be in peril during that period of time.  She didn't.  She wrote and recorded her own compositions, including a couple of Estonian folk ballads, and created a wonderful CD of songs.  She was interviewed and landed on the front page of certain Estonian newspapers.  Not exactly a low profile, but she achieved well-deserved fame and praise, donating the proceeds from the sales of her CD to the Estonian Children's Fund. 

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Sometime in the mid 2000's, following her time in the Peace Corps, Alie and her now husband, Tad (a remarkably fine man, I have to admit!), decided to cross the Atlantic and visit her various Peace Corps veteran friends.  She had a place to stay everywhere they went, except for France, where the friend, living with parents, did not have suitable accommodations to house

her family.  She asked if we might be interested in a trip to France, specifically the Dordogne Region, the "Smile of France," demarcated slendidly by the river of the same name.  We billeted in an old bakery building, containing an enormous fireplace, lots of bedrooms for all of us, and even a swimming pool in the back garden.  The "all" included grandson, Coen, at the time not quite three years old, and a terrific traveling companion! 

We, SweetHeart and I, took a few basic lessons in French before departing on our journey.  The airline lost all of our luggage, or most of it, necessitating a shopping episode in Paris.  Thanks to the lessons, we navigated rather successfully through the shops and markets.  At one large department store, we stopped to purchase...   Well, I asked a clerk, "Avez vous une costume du plage?"  To which the patient shop attendant responded in perfect English, "You know, we do have a word for bathing suit, monsieur."  

"Uh, " said I, a bit red in the face, "Ou est le cabine d'essayage?"  I don't think she was impressed, but pointed me to the "fitting room."  I also found the underwear department, with a little help from my phrase book!  "Vetements pour ma femme?...   Tout coton, s'il vous plait!"      

And...   a very memorable occasion on which the use of the French language bore sweet fruit:  SweetHeart drew a warm hug from an older woman in Tremolat, asking first, "Do you speak any English?"  The woman shook her head, confused.  Then, SweetHeart asked in perfect French, "Ou est le bibliotheque la plus proche?"  The old woman beamed, and embraced SweetHeart as if she, SweetHeart, were a long-lost daughter!  (The small village did not have a library, however!). Such are the rewards and wonders of attempting to communicate with native people in their own language, especially meaningful and important when in their own lands!!  The village of Tremolat, by the by,  had some of the most delectable baked goods we'd ever tasted!  "Ou est encore cette le boulangerie?"

(Special Note of Dedication:   To all the good and gracious people of countries visited over the seas whose patience and understanding made our travels so satisfying, gratifying and edifying...  We thank you most sincerely!  You enriched the experiences far more than we can adequately express!) 

Humbly Submitted, 12-07-19 -- Joel K.  

             

Turkish Delights! A Brief, Personal Travelog... Adventures, Too!

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

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:        Turkish Delights:   Ne zaman geliyorsun?  Arkaya bak, Genç adam!


Among the proclivities of those of us gazing dreamily through the autumnal mist of GeezerHood, is the beckoning wraith of semi-conscious retrospection.  That is to say, we tend often to stare backward into the fading light of memory, to recall unashamedly the adventures of another time, perhaps a distant incarnation!

Turkey!  Wonderful!!...  No, not the fat bird of a holiday in November, but the country, the adventures and joys of being there!  I spent some 18 months in that marvelous land during my time in military service.  And there are many treasures still buried deep in my psyche, like images on a Viewmaster.  Click...  click...  Oh, I remember that one, and that one, and that place, too..!

Upon our arrival, back in 1961, a lifetime ago, a wormy little man, the gnome who welcomed us as we crawled off the commuter plane (or was it a bus?), arriving in the airport town of Yeşilköy, some 11 kilometers west of Istanbul, announced excitedly, "You will love the 'fah-cil-eee-tees!'"  That's how he pronounced the word, facilities.  He referred to the US Air Force station to which we were assigned, namely,  Karamürsel.  

Both the town in which we first landed, and the site of the AF base were beautifully situated on the Sea of Marmara!  The facilities were spare, but some of us, myself included, loved the place.  We were billeted that first night in the gorgeous and elegant Hotel Cinar.     

Behind the base were colorful hills that wanted to be mountains, almost were in height and width.  Base officials, including officers and civilian workers, warned us not to venture into the hills.  "Too dangerous...  don't you know what's living up there?...  Big wild boars with tusks..."  A companion and I didn't need any further encouragement.  On a day off, we headed for the hills.  We spied one wild boar, but it didn't charge, and appeared to be occupied with foraging and showed no particular interest in us.  The best encounter:  We met a family of quasi-nomads who lived in a combination cave and lean-to.  They welcomed us into their home, offered us food and çay (pronounced Chi)  (traditional Turkish tea) and extraordinary hospitality and friendship.  We stayed with them for some three hours, conversing, learning about their lives.  We conducted our conversation in a combination of Turkish and English, with the help of a Turkish language and phrase book.  


With the same companion, in Istanbul, at the Bosporus, we boarded the Litva -- uninvited, of course -- a Black Sea pleasure liner.  We wandered throughout the ship, eventually entering the bridge where we fiddled with controls including the water-tight doors.  It seemed the ship listed a bit.  Ship's crew members, wide-eyed and seemingly angry, caused us to scamper from the bridge, running to find our way out and off of the vessel.  I was more anxious than my companion.  

"Why should we be concerned?  I mean," he continued, "What danger is there from a bunch of Greek crew members?"  

"Uh," I began, "This is a Russian ship, a Soviet Russian ship.  You must have mis-interpreted the script on both cabin posters and signage on the bridge.  We're American GIs," I continued, "with sensitive information in our heads.  Wouldn't have been a good idea to have them detain us..."  My friend's face lost its color, as he nodded, finally, in tacit agreement.

Being young and perpetually "thirsty," another great friend and frequent companion and I often frequented Istanbul's many "pavions," nightclubs, often combination inns and taverns.  The aforementioned friend and I had access to and stayed in a basement apartment in the heart of Istanbul, waking to the shouts of "Sicak, sicak," meaning hot and pronounced "see-jak."  We'd head outside to purchase delicious street food, including ground lamb seasoned with powdered salt and pepper served on huge portions of Ekmek, traditional Turkish bread. 

Street drugs were plentiful, and seemingly far too available, but that's another story entirely.  The "Black Market" in Istanbul was a lucrative allure.  A carton of American cigarettes could fetch up to $50.00, often much more.  A box of American laundry detergent, the giant size, could net the seller up to $100.00.  And U.S.-made denim jeans?...  a small fortune!  There were Turkish friends whom we came to know well, and who would or could become valued contacts in the Black Market trade.  That too is another story...   um, perhaps for another time!

The Island of Buyulada is truly a "Beautiful Island,"
complete with lavish homes, many occupied by
wealthy Turks.  Friends had a summer "cottage" on
the island with a view of the sea!

Through a contact that my father knew who had relatives living in Turkey, I had the good fortune to meet and spend a good deal of time with a family of Armenian Turks.  The family had an apartment in Istanbul, but more attractively, a holiday home on Büyükada, an island in the Sea of Marmara, the name meaning "Beautiful Island."  We gathered there on several occasions.  The mother was a superb cook and often served us spectacular seafood dishes, including swordfish steaks, Midye (mussels) and Levrek (sea bass). 

Ferry boats ran regularly from the port of Yalova, about 20 kilometers from Karamursel, to Istanbul, stopping at Buyukada and also Heybeli Ada where the Turkish naval academy was

based.  On one occasion, a Turkish submarine raised it periscope accidentally under a ferry, punching a hole in its hull and nearly causing a disaster.  No one died, we were reliably told, but

The Turkish Island of
Heybeli features many
beautiful, traditional homes!

some got a bit wet, probably crew members in the Engine rooms!!

The ferry trips to Istanbul were always enjoyable, even when the sea was less than hospitable... Deniz, c(h)ok fena!  However, frequent consumption of Vodka-Lemones  and pistachio nuts made it all completely bearable!   

Turkey is rich with history...  an understatement.  Izmir, Ephesus and Troy.  Remarkable sites such as the mosque Hagia Sophia, the fabulous Blue Mosque, Topkapi Palace and Kapali Carsi (pronounced "Sharshi," owing to the cedilla symbol under the "C"), meaning Istanbul's Grand Bazaar, a labyrinth of 61 covered streets and more than 4000 shops!  There's also the beautiful district of Uskudar on Istanbul's Asian side.   Too much, too many fabulous places and landmarks to enumerate...  

The Galata Bridge in the heart of Istanbul!

One additional aspect of knowing my Armenian-Turkish friends.  An uncle of theirs owned a fleet of taxi cabs that prowled the streets of Istanbul.  People could jump in if the cab were heading in a favorable direction.  On one occasion when I had asked to drive, a man jumped in and ordered me to take him somewhere in that vast city.  My knowledge of Turkish was rudimentary at best.  The angry man exited the cab at his first opportunity, shouting at me and using language best misunderstood!  I received retribution on a few occasions when taxi cabs ran over my feet!  But, inebriation helped measurably to numb the pain!!  Generally, taxi drivers did not stop to apologize, but instead would shout at victims to "get the hell out of the road!..."

We eventually spent a pleasant day picnicking, swimming and generally enjoying the waters of the Bosporus!  What a time it all was for a young man seeking adventure and the kind of education only travel can provide.

Oh, did I mention "Belly Dancing," originally termed Danse du Ventre, or dance of the stomach?  Turkey is famous for its version of the tradition.  Many outstanding practitioners perform the dance in various venues, in pavions and at special events and social gatherings.  Oh yeah, my wife, SweetHeart, and I -- she at the time a new bride -- spent our honeymoon in Athens and other parts of Greece.  An "Athens By Night" event included a "famous Turkish Belly Dancer," but not one I knew from my youth!  (A close call, maybe...!)

(Special Note of Gratitude and Dedication:  The people of Turkey and Armenia whose friendship and hospitality are legendary, particularly to those of us who served in Turkey during our US military terms of duty.  Thank you, and...  Sonra gorusuruz ve volun acik olsum! 

Humbly Submitted, 07-14-19 -- Joel K.

    

     



    

Chapter Three: Into the West...

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

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:    A Possible Murder Mystery...  Just Trying it Out, Sort of...

Chapter Three – Into the West…. But First, a Ritual

        The auditorium was packed with gowned men and women, different groups of them in different colors, a glorious array of distinctive regalia and insignia.  Everyone wore the requisite graduation cap.  On the heads of most of the graduates in the assemblage, square caps with their colorful tassels abounded.  As he sat there waiting for the remaining graduates to file into the cavernous hall, Jack Rosnov thought how those massed square caps resembled a vast, undulating sea, as heads bobbed and turned in conversation or observation.  He amused himself by thinking that if one of the caps were removed from one of the heads, would it seem as though a great sea suddenly drained, as if a plug were pulled from its floor deep below the surface, causing a great swarm of bodies to rush helplessly into an unseen drain and disappear forever into a great, bottomless trench.

Hating the wait, not wanting to be a part of the pageantry of graduation day, Jack was cursing vigorously under his breath, fuming, expecting his head to blow up in rage at any moment, like a bomb, a mine in an enemy harbor accidentally struck by an invading ship.  And then, finally, everyone was seated on the main floor of the auditorium.  Various university dignitaries trooped in, taking their seats at the long table facing the audience of graduates and their families, mothers and fathers and other relatives seated further back, beaming with pride, situated behind the graduating seniors, masters and PhD candidates.  The ritual commenced, at last.  The university president rose and gave lengthy introductions, finally presenting the prominent guest speaker upon whom an honorary degree would be conferred sometime during the proceedings.

Jack did not hear the name of the commencement speaker as the latter was introduced, nor did Jack really care.  Though he knew he could look up the speaker’s name in the commencement program, he had no real interest, at least not at that moment.  He did notice, however, that the speech was quite good.  He thought he remembered that the speaker was a professor of anthropology or history or, perhaps, social sciences.  The man talked about humankind’s propensity for violent behavior, and tried to make the case that human beings, at least in part, were not responsible for “inventing” its own base, cruel and too often outrageously violent behavior.  

“After all, it was a great ape who took up a club and struck another member of the ape family long before homo sapiens began fashioning weaponry.”  At least that’s what Jack thought the dignitary said.  In the end, the speaker’s message made the point that human beings have the intellectual power to reverse the backward evolutionary slide.  “We have the means to resolve conflicts by using our brain power, vs. using the destructive power of guns, knives, bombs and other more destructive weapons.”  It was that point, that snippet from the commencement address that stuck in Jack’s head, in his memory.

Following the ceremony and the private family party that saw many friends and family members gather in the basement recreation room of the Rosnov family home, Jack took a job, briefly, as a bartender in a tavern at which he had previously worked, “Mario’s on Mason.”  Tending bar was a profession he had used as a funding mechanism for part of his college education, and would use again to bankroll his soon-to-commence, he reassured himself, travels throughout the western United States.  The memory of that commencement gathering occupied a permanent etching in his brain.  It was during that happy celebration at which he once again enjoyed a long conversation and pleasant visit with the young woman who would eventually become his wife.   That event, the future marriage, was, at the time, unforeseen, and several years and a number of adventures removed from the graduation celebration that was happily unfolding, a tapestry of merriment, laughter, story-telling and free-flowing alcohol.

At Mario’s, Jack continued to concoct drinks and draw beers for the faithful patrons who considered the place their club, for many a refuge, for others a place they seemed to regard as home, at least until asked to leave or ejected at 2:00 in the morning, standard weekday closing time.  Mario’s was a kind of legendary east side Milwaukee bar, a “character lounge,” a hangout, a place of careless revelry for local celebrities, an occasional national celebrity and for those who simply wanted “to be somebody.”  Often feeling they succeeded, as into the procession of nights, they absorbed too much alcohol and felt themselves genuinely amusing and interesting, not merely boring drunks given to tiresome jokes and too much loud and forced laughter.  

Mario’s would provide the bankroll that Jack needed to make his escape, extend his empirical reach into the vast, beautifully wild and romanticized west.  Within the space of two months’ time, more or less, Jack and his possessions were packed into the older but serviceable convertible, and then finally on the road.  The odometer would eventually tick off some 180,000 miles before the red Chevy’s engine would burn itself out in a chaotic soup of blackened and co-mingled oil and water, becoming a bulk of fried and unusable scrap.  Jack and a friend would hitchhike home from the old Chevy’s final resting place, a service garage and junkyard in central Wisconsin.

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Navigating the nation's highways with a mixture of giddy anticipation and anxiety, he enjoyed being on his own, driving the Interstate but retreating frequently to back country roads, drinking in the pleasures of summer landscapes and the faces of rural America.  It was a journey of pure joy, of freedom.  Jack knew he’d eventually wind up in Washington State, but savored the unhurried pace with frequent stops, collecting ideas and odd characters and memories of things seen and experienced, jotted into a spiral bound notebook.  Its pages would become smudged and bubbled, a kind of ski slope of moguls in miniature.  He had no camera but never regretted the decision not to carry one with him.

Eventually, two or three weeks into the odyssey, past stone sentries that lined the highway of a western landscape location he wouldn’t later recall, past hills, rivers, mountains, small towns and too many watering holes of a different sort, Jack arrived.  He landed in Tacoma, Washington, the suburb of Ruston to be accurate, near a scenic park bordering Puget Sound, Point Defiance.

Jack would soon reconnect with friends he met while serving in the armed forces, a bit more than four years prior to this “homecoming.”   Some of whom were residents of long standing, and still made Tacoma or its nearby communities their home.  Jerry Smythe was his first contact, closest among the friends with whom he’d soon reunite.  Those who knew him well called him “Jere the Hare,” owing to a bald pate rimmed by what remained of fair-colored fringe, his proud head always termed by his friends, female and male alike, a “perfectly-shaped cranium.”  

One of Jerry’s procession of paramours — Louise — had often announced, “He has a beautifully-shaped dome, and if anyone says otherwise, I’ll bonk his head with a skillet!”  Jerry often regretted ending his relationship with Louise.  “She was the best cook of them all,” he insisted.  The remark a bit cryptic, as he would not discuss nor reveal the nature of his relationships with “all” of the women in his past.  Or, perhaps, if a “serious love affair” had ended badly, crippling forever any need or wish to commit himself to just one of the  women who populated his longings.  Jack would shortly be introduced to the latest in Jere the Hair’s parade of lovers, a Latino named Magdalena whom Jerry called, not surprisingly, "Maggie."

(Special Note:   Next Chapter, if there is to be one!:    "A Grim Discovery!"  Stay Tuned, and thank you for your rapt attention...  Inattention?  Complete Disinterest??!!)

Humbly Submitted, 10-23-18 -- Joel K.