Newspaper Chronicles -- The Many Labors of a Young Reporter!

Memoirs of a Geezer!

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

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:    Newspaper Chronicles -- The Many Labors of a Young Reporter!

The roadway was impossibly dark and twisted.  Headlamps reflected blazing green-eyed beasts at every turn, causing electric shocks of panic and frenzied braking.  Once even a specter, bald and wrinkled, walking in the middle of the endless blacktop.  Each a brief slap of awakening from dangerous exhaustion.  Monolithic sentries cast their stony glances of disapproval on the lone traveler.  Or were they being protective, eyes intent and guiding?  Seeing, at last, a turnoff, I pulled over and slept.  Some hours later, a brilliant rising sun re-ignited the odyssey, and I moved on, obsessively eager to reach a destination both frightening and alluring.  

Next morning -- it was sometime in the very late 1960's -- I arrived at the offices of The Southwest Gawker Talker!  It's masthead proudly announced, The Only Newspaper in the World that Gives a Hoot about Our Portion of the Metroplex! The owner and publisher, Ferd Fozzlefinger, bade me sit.  I sat.  I produced my credentials, including a bound diploma attesting to a BA degree in Journalism, along with my Honorable Discharge from the US Armed Forces, something upon which Ferd insisted.  The interview lasted maybe five minutes.  Ferd looked pleased; I offered silent thanks to the Colorado Press Association.

"Can you start today?" Ferd Fozzlefinger asked.  

"You mean like right now?

"Yes, today, right now.  Can you do it?" Ferd asked with emphasis.

"Sure.  I guess so."  

"Good," said Ferd,  "You're hired."

"Where's the rest of the staff?" I inquired.

"You're it," said Ferd.  "Well, naturally we have our typesetter and graphic artist, Gimel Sneedby.  You'll like him.  He's good, real professional.  Also too, you'll be editor and head writer of The Big Bugle, a Legion Post newspaper.  I own that one also too."  (I enjoyed "total staff" status on that one "also too"!)

I met Gimel in the typesetting and reporting office.  Ferd showed me to a small desk, and I had my first real newspaper job.  Ferd provided a set of verbal instructions, including how to cover my daily beat, whom to call upon for advertising revenue, a listing of advertising prospects, addresses and directions for the local police department, fire house, municipal offices,

Young reporters must always keep
eyes wide open for big doings and
scoops (free ice cream and
important breaking news!)

area elementary and high schools, snitches, neighborhood people he termed "sources for anything of importance that's going on in our portion of the region."  So much to learn, so quickly.  I frowned purposely for dramatic effect, making sure my eyebrows were contorted with anxiety, my forehead a plowed field!    

"Don't worry," said Ferd.  "I'll be with you every step of the way."  I never saw him again.  Gimel and I -- he told me to call him "Gibby" -- became an effective team, collaborators, even great pals.  He operated a kind of photo-headline-making machine, a typesetting device that created neat columns of newsprint and something flat that whirred quietly and applied adhesive to strips of newsprint.  I was enthralled.  Page templates, chart packs, adhesive dingbats and black lines, "Press-Type" and sharp little picks with protective corks for placing graphic elements on the page.  This was newspaper compositor technology at its zenith!  

We did everything, just the two of us, to produce fine weekly editions of The Southwest Gawker Talker.  Eventually I established a beat, discovered news sources; I acquired some advertising contracts, got to know a police sergeant who became my primary source for crime news, an assistant fire chief, grocers, school officials, a pharmacist, city personnel, backyard gossips, a plumber, malcontents, neighborhood politicos, a guy who chased stray dogs and cats and told me he once roped a coyote in an urban public park.  And, of course, "Guttural Gus," my personal "rat-stoolie" who somehow collected vast material on sexual peccadilloes and nefarious tittle-tattle.  (More about "Gus" in a future edition, perhaps!) 

After a period of time had passed, I asked Gibby, "I mean, is there compensation involved with these fine career positions of ours?  Are there, like, paydays?"  

"Hey, don't worry," said Gibby.  " 'Ferdy the Finger' -- that's our pet name for the boss -- sends checks to the office.  He's not real consistent, but we get paid, ya know, like kind of regularly."  

"When?" I asked

"Lemme see...  I think we can expect some pay, well, something like next Wednesday," said Gibby.  "I'll make a note to call 'The Finger.'  He listens to me when I threaten to walk out.  I'll threaten for you too!"

"Good," I said.  "My room is small and cheap, but the landlady expects rent occasionally.  And food," I continued.  "I find that I must eat occasionally too."  Gibby thought this amusing.  He chuckled, raised a hand to his face and smeared his mouth with printer's ink.

As time passed, Gibby and I decided that we'd become, among our other duties, "Auntie Muriel," the advice columnist.  "We have to have a little fun around here," he insisted.  I agreed.  And thus we re-launched a column that, he said, "had been too long dormant, and it's an essential feature of the weekly newspaper format."  What a hoot, it was, and we loved writing or editing it, some entries real, most fictitious.  Here's an example:

Dear Auntie Muriel...  I don't do work, you see.  It's an agreement my lady friend of 12 years and I have.  She likes to work.  I distain work; I find it demeaning and undignified, and I have gout, I think.  I'd like to marry the woman, my dear lady friend of 12 years, but I worry she's a bit flighty and can't seem to commit herself to a single job for any purposeful length of time.  I worry a lot about this, and I try to tell her we need stability, money.  I mean, let me elucidate:  she's been a shrubbery trimmer, a gandy dancer, a coal dock worker, a governess, a butcher's apprentice, an underwear designer, a saloon keeper, a taxidermist, a rubber chicken packer, a mahout, a mob assassin, a tweedy wife of the drunken vicar of Islington, a deep sea diver, a communist infiltrator, an exterminator, an attorney, a garage door installer...  I could go on.  I once even threatened to purchase a girdle and become the tweedy wife of a drunken vicar myself.  Nothing works.  I'm a fine companion, after all.  A frightfully decent sort of chap.  I clean our living spaces at least bi-monthly, well, sort of.  I dress nice; I own a selection of handsome argyle sweater vests.  I once in a while cook excellent frozen dinners on aluminum platters.  I buy her the finest cleaning supplies.  Metal buckets, powders and self-squeezing mops.  I leave detailed instructions for her cooking assignments.  Recipes too; I clip them out neatly for her.  What can I do, Auntie Muriel, how can I convince my lady friend to find a position of permanence with real good pay?  (Signed)...

   Agonized in Argyle!

Dear Agonized in Argyle...  Shut up!  Whiney, obtuse fool!  Go out and get a job of work, you supercilious gnat-brained buffoon!  I obscenitize in the soured milk of your impotence!  I'm astonished the woman didn't leave you eleven and a-half years ago!  She's either a saint or an idiot.  You're certainly an idiot!  Give the woman some time to discover her true self, her real identity, her joie de vivre, her forte (the "e" is silent, you contemptible snot-nosed baboon!), her metier, her bag, man!  Instead of whining about your lady friend and her magnificent achievements, her attainment of varied, extraordinary skills, you should be on your knobbly knees in adoration of such a remarkable woman whom you clearly don't deserve.  You should bury your needy, reedy and haughty nose in the want ads, or at least get on relief, you brick-headed issue of a dung beetle.  (Don't take offense -- merely constructive criticism)...  But I believe you ought to take some responsibility for the economic sustenance of the relationship.  Jerk!  Thanks for your interesting and nicely-composed letter!  (Signed)...  Auntie Muriel!

The two Aunties Muriel discuss
Advice over greenery, biscuits
and booze (the latter pretending
to be weak tea!)  

Among letters actually published?  Whether or not is up to you, gentle reader.  Gibby and I enjoyed our "Auntie Muriel" correspondence enormously, both the real and the manufactured.  Over time, he and I produced a significant number of weekly editions of our newspaper; I edited and helped produce only two issues of The Big Bugle.  We received erratic payments from Ferb, but I never again saw him in the flesh.  Once he Fax'ed us a photo of himself eating snails in a French bistro, greasy dribble on his chin.  

Eventually, in the passage of journalistic time, I was lured to Cheyenne, Wyoming and a daily newspaper for which I served as general assignment reporter and erstwhile sportswriter and editor, all for the princely sum of $75.00 a week.  I covered and photographed a rodeo from a barrel...  (that, too, is a story for another time).  Other newspaper, broadcast journalism assignments as well, were 
joined like boxcars to my resume whenever the itch and unexplored geography beckoned.  

The weekly newspaper is, or was, an exceptionally good training ground for a young journalist.  That is, for a young reporter who worked in the field some 40 or more years ago.  Being long removed, one is not now an authority on the present status of the weekly press.  Never quite achieving fame or fortune in my journalistic career, I am lavishly enriched by the overall experience, having gained a treasure of knowledge and adventure, now zealously guarded in a cerebral vault, that I'll keep and cherish -- brain function willing -- all the way to the tomb.

(Special Note of Attribution and Gratitude:   The perpetrator of this Blog extends enormous thanks to his great friend, teacher and mentor, Larry Lorenz, a man of exceptional talent in the written word, author, broadcaster, educator, whose love of the profession of journalism and the power of the printed word is an enduring gift to all who have benefitted from his wisdom and intellectual generosity.  Thank you, my friend, for your most valued influence, and for sharing ideas, at least one of which led me to recall and recount some adventures in newspaper journalism!) 

Humbly Submitted 11-05-14 -- Joel K.                    

     

              

Grandparenting, or "Be the Helicopter..."

Memoirs of a Geezer!

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

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:    Grandparenting, or "Be the Helicopter" and Other Personae Dramatis!

In late summer, some 11 years ago, we first assumed the roles of grandparents, my wife and I.  It has been a truly remarkable and loving experience, but not without its challenges.  We now have four beautiful grandchildren, each with his or her own astonishing personality and behavioral characteristics.  

Coen (foreground) and Seany
(wearing glasses)  examine gifts during
Coey's 11th birthday celebration!

The first of them, Coen -- I call him Coey -- adopted an expression that we find irresistible, and use ourselves, constantly:  "Not Doin' It."  A laconic expression -- sometimes but not always effective -- relating to something that merits one's reluctance or disaffection.  Coen has been fascinated, variously, with volcanoes, planets, caves, electronic game creations and their odd beeping and pulsing...  He has become an accomplished juggler, a self-taught diversion learned recently at a camping-concert event in West Virginia!  

His sister, Lucy -- often we call her LuLu -- now almost 7 years old, invented her own delightful remonstrance:  "It's good, but it's not the best!"  On trips in the automobile, Lucy offers us three choices:  "...Play 'I Spy', or you may sing a song, or you can tell a story."  She challenges us to flex our creativity, all the time!  Coey and Lucy are the extraordinary and brilliant issue of our own first-born.  They are bright and funny, at times disarming, surprising, always delightful companions.

Lucy and Papa in an
inflatable tube.  Earlier
we played in Lake Erie!

Lucy (left) and Coey at Sea!
(Uh...  maybe Lake Michigan?!)

Our second-born produced two equally accomplished and beautiful children, ages 7 and 4 (the latter nearly 5).  Sean -- I call him Seany -- is the older of the pair.  In his pre-school era, my wife and I would report to his home in the middle of the night (about 6:30 or 7:00 AM) and perform childcare and play activities prior to school drop-off time, enabling his educator parents to get to their respective classrooms at an hour their contracts demanded.  On many of those occasions, Seany would stand on my feet, facing frontwards, instruct me to position my hands in a certain fashion, and then announce that I was to be his helicopter.  "Up, helicopter," he'd command...  

I would then ambulate for the two of us, following the path in which my hands and fingers -- the craft's "controls" -- were wrenched, um...  that is, directed.  We'd climb several stairs to his bedroom and I'd then be placed in his closet, the hanger.  If I chanced to inquire, "How long must I remain in the 'hanger'?"  The answer arrived quickly:  "Shush, Papa...  Quiet! Helicopters don't talk."  And he'd shut the "hanger's" louvered doors until the helicopter was next required.

Phia (Sophia) is older now, but
this picture of her is a favorite!

For granddaughter, Sophia -- she prefers Phia or Phi Phi...  Angel Face is also acceptable -- both my wife and I are frequently engaged in play pageants.  We become water tigers, water squirrels, parental mice, doggies, kitty cats, dolphins and other creatures.  We're instructed as to the rules and progression of play, often asked to comment on the hatching of a little water squirrel's egg.  Apparently all creatures begin as eggs, usually quite shiny, purple and pink ones!

For Coey and Lucy, we've enjoyed soccer and baseball games for the former, dance recitals for the latter, in addition to swim lessons, coaster-wagon-pulling walks to the coffee house for cinnamon rolls (the children), coffee ("Baba and Papa").  There have been some most enjoyable travel holidays as well, including trips to sunny beaches, islands, a windmill house, a giraffe, bison and goat sanctuary...  

The July 3rd Fireworks Family
Picnic is a fine opportunity to
 sit on Papa and choke him!

Seany is an accomplished soccer player, a star among his peers.  He currently plays in a much vaunted club league.  We attend lots of matches, and have done so through the years.  Phia is just beginning to discover her interests, and has participated in "itty bitty" soccer; whether she'll continue or gravitate to other sporting or artistic pursuits remains to be determined.

And, oh yes, we have a sweet cousin who owns a condo in Florida that she generously allows us to use in the off-season at most attractive "family" rate.  When we're there, I become a kind of elevator for the grandchildren, conveying them to the bottom of the pool and up again.  Sometimes I'm a submarine...  Sometimes I'm gasping for air! 

Don't know what those things are in
my ears, but apparently we bought
them for two of the grandkids!
(But no help with noise abatement!)

In all of its eclectic roles and incarnations, grandparentlng is an exhilarating, exhausting, perplexing, delightful, even sort of mystical labor of great joy and loving wonder.  

Seany (left) and Phi Phi become
cows at the Wisconsin State Fair!

We're reliably told a child's fascination, even adoration of a grandparent is an ephemeral experience, as age 12 or so marks the end of the magic, when grandchildren's peers begin to dominate both time and energy.  But, we're also reliably told that when the "age of the amusement park" ends for a grandparent, another, a more cerebral interrelationship era, begins.  Ah, well...  However these things play out, we look forward to the next chapter in the book of grandparenting.  "What's that?"  Sorry, have to dash...  Lucy's calling; she wants to count to 1,000 for us before we hear her read a chapter from Beezus and Ramona!                      

    

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.

    

           

  

Perhaps not "The," but... "A Beautiful Game!" -- VOLLEYBALL!!

Memoirs of a Geezer!

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

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:    Perhaps not "The," but...  "A Beautiful Game!" -- VOLLEYBALL!!

It's not futbol, or Euro football or soccer.  The net's quite high, about 8 feet tall, and smack in the center of the playing surface.  And there's antennae on either side of the net, inside of which the ball must pass.  If you happen not to be a volleyball player, or an aficionado, forget your preconceptions for the moment.  The sport of VOLLEYBALL is quite simply a magnificent activity, and one you can live with as an active player for a remarkably long time -- depending, of course, upon the state of your physical and emotional health.  My wife, Mary, and I have played for more than 40 years, and continue to play competitively at least once per week...  on hardwood-floor courts in the fall and winter, on sand in the spring and summer!

This is an image of a volleyball.

We're talking, here, about "real" volleyball, not the backyard or "jungle" variety that ignores rules, skill and the endless practice required to play like Karch Kiraly (used to play, probably still does...), and the likes of Kerri Walsh Jennings, Jeremy Casebeer, Phil Dalhausser and April Ross  still do -- on the AVP Pro Beach circuit.

Here the author demonstrates the
correct technique for receiving
service and passing the VB to
his setter!

Alright...  alright!  I'm not comparing my current fellow volleyball (hereinafter referred to, for convenience, as VB!) devotees and myself to or in the same company as those mentioned in the paragraph above, but we do adhere to the time-honored rules of the great game.  We pass, set and "kill" (or hit or spike, as one may prefer) with practiced skill, even a modicum of panache, sort of...  (I freely admit, however, my vertical leap has diminished to approximately 6 inches, and I seldom return to earth without knee pain!)  

My wife and I, along with our two (former) partners of long-standing, won at least a dozen league championships, and we four played for many years in six-person leagues.  Currently, my wife and I play each week for two hours in a structured "adult co-ed VB program" sponsored by a suburban school district.  The level of play is generally excellent.  Few of us have sustained serious or permanent injury!  (Well, sure, of course there's always an exception or two!  Drop that raised eyebrow, already!!)

Allow me, please, to amend and append the above just slightly.  Some years ago, my four-person team was engaged in yet another championship match.  We had won the first game or set, while losing the second.  The third was well underway when a seeming painful blow -- as if shot from something or someone -- assaulted my lower right leg.  I collapsed in agony, looking round for the assailant.  Then in full recognition, I felt the back of my right ankle.  Nothing there, no large sinewy cord of connective tissue.  I had incurred a full rupture of the Achilles tendon.  I was dragged off the court by teammates.  Concerned that we might be unable to continue without our full complement of four, our male teammate asked if I were able to stand one-legged on the court and look determined!  I tried, but fell down.  They dragged me off a second time.  

In this photo, we learn the correct
posture prior to the "kill" or
spike, as some might prefer.

As if to heighten the drama and render the episode truly memorable, almost legendary, the remaining three of us -- permitted by officials to play without the injured party -- won the third set and thus the match, awarding our team another championship and the championship T-shirt that was the envy of all of our vanquished opponents.  Including our own four-person squad, the league in which we played was some 10 - six-person teams strong!  (Several weeks later, thanks to surgery, a splint-like boot, physical therapy and time, I was back in the fray.) 

Something the young should understand about the "aging VB player."  At a recent session, Mary, a consumate "digger" of hard-struck kills (spiked VB's), hit the floor soundly, dramatically after making a spectacular play (a dig!).  Young spectators, who happened to be at the gym door that evening, collectively gasped, eyes like exaggerated poker chips, murmuring, "Is she alright?!  Will she get up and continue to play??!!  Shall we go help her...??"  Mary objects to that kind of reaction -- as do all older VB practitioners! --  as if the "seasoned" player somehow hasn't the physical strength and agility to perform the difficult challenges the game demands, and then get herself (or himself) up and ready for the next play.  I mean, would she be on the court if she couldn't perform all of the game's rigors?  Of course, she wouldn't.  C'mon, kids, pay attention!  We're not passing, setting and hitting and then shuffling back to walkers.  We're fit, competent and skilled, not to mention greatly experienced!  [Footnote:  The poker chip eyes of the kids at the door grew even larger when Mary bounced up (um...  rose to her feet with just a touch of struggle) to face the next volley!]   

         

Some of our current VB practitioners are more than 70 years old; some are in their 60s, while others are in their 20s, 30s, 40s or 50s.  One among us can still execute, and with exceptional skill, the "pancake dig" -- palm of hand reaching the floor consecutively with the ball, causing it to pop up to the setter.  He'll be 70 in November!  In our early playing days, we recall a man of 40-something who was an exceptional player, and we marveled that someone "so ancient" could still play the game with such exemplary skill!  The great game has no restrictions based on age.  Some of our fellow players still say "like" to begin and accrete a sentence, while others forget what they wanted to say, or use archaic language such as "icebox" and  "aerodrome."  Makes no difference.  VB is our common language, our shared passion and obsession, a lifestyle, an accumulation of experience and dialogue, a siblinghood, a sacred bond.    

It was my wife's doing initially.  It began with a telephone call.  She and a good friend conversed

In this shot, we observe the author
mimic'ing a Beach AVP Pro expressing
referee contempt and disbelief, as the
aforementioned official makes a
tragically imbecilic call.  

for an hour or more eventually deciding that three couples, one of them my wife and me, would join a VB league and learn how to play the game correctly.  We committed ourselves to the task, spending a great many hours in practice -- serving overhand, receiving service and passing, setting and hitting drills, blocking, diving for hard-hit spikes, digging, yelling, calling "mine" or "yours," insulting our opponents -- doing it all to improve our skills and our abilities to play well and to win, eventually (the gift of time permitting)!  

We began league play as Poet's Pride (having done most of our early practice sessions on a gymnasium court at a school named for a famous bard).  Variously we dubbed ourselves Contempt of Court, Some Flew Over the Cuckoo's Net, South Wind and Spike, Net Loss, Sweethearts...  Silly names that held meaning for us, though we've tried hard to forget why.  

Now, 40 plus years later, the passion continues.  Sure, we've lost some quickness and speed, but gained guile and wit and ball placement skills that can still bewilder opponents, amid added cursing and stomping and balls hurled with great force at heads on the other side of the high net.  I tell you it's a love affair, and it won't end until we do.  

To put it another way...  Volleyball is its own sort of ritual, a kind of religion to those of us still obsessed.  Through it and our history as avid participants -- not only as players but as spectators of college, beach and Olympic volleyball -- we’ve enjoyed its various stages of evolution, made lasting friendships, reveled in its society and its camaraderie and benefitted enormously from its health-enhancing, vigorous exercise.  Quit?  Not likely.  Our new goal is to play until Mary reaches age 70.  After that, who can say?  Eighty?  Eighty-five?  Stay tuned.  Maybe we’ll  film a documentary!  The obsession continues to hold and enthrall us, and will, we hope, until something unexpected comes along and breaks the spell.

(Special Note of Attribution and Gratitude:   The perpetrator extends enormous thanks to the following, without whose love and support Volleyball would not have become the obsession (delusion?) it remains today:  Sweetheart, Carol, Jimmy, Steve, Captain Southwind, Jeff, Gene, Bob, Michelle, Shep, Scott, Eric, Jo, Henry, Abie, Dick, Jim, Carol, Ed, Sean, Leslie, Tom, Anna, Margot...  and (with apologies!) anyone I may have missed!      

Humbly Submitted, 08-01-14 -- Joel K. 

              

  

        

"What was That You Said...?"

Memoirs of a Geezer!

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

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:    "What was That You Said?...   or the 'Simple Joys' of Geezerhood!"

Prior to reaching the age of 40 or so, we humans tend to exist in a bubble that is sometimes slightly diaphanous, more often entirely opaque.  That is to say, in our callow youth, we often lack the vision to see beyond our own limited experience.  We tend to be unable to project ourselves out of the youthful moment of our 20-something or 30-something spheres of experience, not yet having surrendered the illusions of youthful immortality, intellectual and physical perfection.  Thus, the young are frequently disinclined to empathize with the more aged segment of the body politic, but rather tend to enjoy deriving humor from those a generation or two beyond their own, particularly those within the grasp of incipient sensory malfunction.

Here's a case in point:  When my wife's parents were traveling by train to some, now forgotten, destination in the western states, her father turned to her mother and whispered something.  Her reply:  "What did you say, honey?"  He repeated himself in a slightly louder whisper.  "What?" she responded again.  He increased the volume a second time, to which she replied,  "Apple pie?"  

"Oh for god's sake, Alma, why would I have to whisper 'apple pie'?"  And then he repeated the statement in a loud voice, amid the stares and whispers of nearby fellow passengers, "I have to go potty!"  ("Alma" was a kind of silly "pet name" for his wife.)    

The story became a favorite among the family, and was told and retold repeatedly, engendering considerable mirth, while both storytellers and listeners nodded in knowing assent, affirming the challenges of advancing age and the sensory defects that often accompany.  "Oh my...  tsk, tsk...  poor old dears, but really quite funny..." among other sighs and laments rolling along on a generous stream of laughter.

But things change and tables turn.  Retribution knocks upon the door, a specter armed with white paint, a bucket of wrinkles, joint pain, flab, dentures, bunions and other transformative birdshot.  There are two episodes I recall in somewhat recent history attesting to my own sensory challenges.  

I'm in a restaurant with my wife and daughters.  The server arrives and begins her introductory oration using the most extreme "Valley Girl" intonations.  She offers her name.  "Johnny?" I quiz.
"Dad, her name's Jenny," my older daughter corrects.  The server announces the day's special.
"Baronial chicken?" I ask, seeking clarification and detail. 
"It's brown ale chicken," my younger daughter amends.  Amid the barely stifled laughter of my wife and children, the server continues to announce the day's menu choices, none of which I hear clearly or understood.  I order a turkey burger.  

More recently, I'm on a toll-free telephone line speaking to a live representative of one of the online hotel-booking sites.  In my daughter's home, the dining room is filled with friends and relatives, all discussing an upcoming wedding for which I'm attempting to engage a room.  The chatter is spirited, a bit loud, conversation flitting and circling like a flock of hungry pigeons.  The customer service agent is speaking with an unusual accent.  "What?  What?" I say.  "What...  could you repeat that, a bit louder?  Did you say the 'Hotel Frimary'?  How are we spelling that?  Oh, oh, I see.  I'm sorry.  Primary.  You want the primary card holder.  You want my name?  You want me to spell my name?"  The laughter is intense, making it even harder to hear.  "Oh, what the hell's the difference," I say in a muted voice.  "I can't hear anything anyway."

A typical conversation with my wife:  "Sweetheart, you want me to pause this thing?  What?  Shall I stop the program until you're finished with what you're doing?  What did you say?"  I walk into the kitchen, repeating my question.
"No need," she says.
"We have no seed?" I say.
"I heard what you asked the first time," she says.  "Do not stop the program.  I'm almost done!"  She's a bit exasperated.
"You're cooking something?" I ask.
"With the dishes," she shouts.  "Go sit down and watch the program; you can fill me in.  Whoever told you your hearing's fine is a lunatic!"  She's speaking quite loudly.  I say nothing more, but wonder if she's cooking something that requires filling.  I go back to the television.  I can't find the volume button...

There are vision issues too, of course.  I see words on billboards that become different words when I'm closer.  My knees and shoulders have apparent dice games going on inside them...  But, mustn't grumble.  I'm still able to find my mouth with a large spoonful of mush...    

Sometimes, I try to project my thoughts back in time to those occasions on which I was less than sympathetic and understanding to the senior population of my own acquaintanceship.  I consider calling to apologize if the parties in question aren't actually dead.  I admonish myself for my lack of compassion.  But then I think, "Oh, what the hell.  The cycles of life are circular, and now I'm the object of amusement, ridicule and scorn by the younger set."  So I guess life has its own method of reconciliation.  My wife is shouting something from the other room.  "What was that you said, Sweetheart?...  The doorbell is leaking?..."  

(Special Note of Attribution and Gratitude:   The perpetrator of this Blog extends enormous thanks to his dearest friend and great love of 40-plus years, Sweetheart, for suggesting the subject matter of this edition, for having an exceptional sense of humor, for putting up with her husband for so many years, for raising two extraordinary daughters with equally exceptional senses of humor!) 

Humbly Submitted, 06-07-14 -- Joel K.