"...In The Service!"... Are People Actually Melting in That Pot?

Memoirs of a Geezer!

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

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:    "...In The Service!"...  Are People Actually Melting in That Pot?  

Many a time and oft, I've pontificated -- when engaged in a dialogue with acquaintances of dissimilar attitudes, beliefs and values -- suggesting that each of us becomes his or her "composite self " (for lack of a better descriptor), say at age 30 or 35, some younger, others older -- as a result of a the many and varied elements that inform our lives.  They include, perhaps needless to state, environment, upbringing, role models -- both positive and negative -- education, experience...  These among the factors that mold us, make us who we are.  Experience, I think, is a powerful force in the development of attitudes and values as we traverse our separate pathways.

Above is a graphic depicting a
Melting Pot, or, a "metaphoric
crucible" in which "...all manner of
people can blend together and
co-exhist in peace and harmony..."!
(paraphrased from a statement
by Pollyanna...  maybe?!)  

The absolute jewels of experience are the people we meet along the way, who touch and affect our lives in a positive manner;those who make a negative impact have a certain value too, particularly if we learn something useful as a result of the collision!  Obvious, perhaps, but I'm coming to the point!  

In my own experience, for example, viewed from the exalted elevation of Geezerhood...  a prime example is Military Service (and those who populated its ranks...  a life episode that included extensive travel)!  It was a harvest of diverse thoughts, ideas,  opinions, philosophies, personalities...    

Among "fellow travelers" and intersecting lives was that of Jonas B. whom I met at Goodfellow Air Force Base in Texas, perhaps we were in basic training together as well.  It's difficult and can be misdirecting to sift through memory from a distance of more than 50 years.  


Jonas may have had a small issue with alcohol.  On occasion his breath manufactured a fog of fetid mist.  Odd, I sometimes thought, because he frequently drank Aqua Velva and mouthwash when no other alcoholic "potable" was at hand.   His personality was strikingly potent and memorable.  Jonas was a Native American with a superb mind.  A dark-skinned Oklahoman, fiercely proud of his heritage, his gift to peers was tolerance and acceptance.  I enjoyed him, his stories about warrior ancestors, his humor.  I wonder if he's still among the living, or if alcohol claimed his brain and the oil wealth he was promised.  I hasten to add, Jonas was by no means the only individual whose consumption of alcoholic substances was prodigious and eclectic!  Black, white, red, brown and yellow, we all consumed our share in whatever form was cheap and available.  After-shave lotion was a novel variant, however...  perhaps an acquired taste?      

Air Force Security Service Tech School yielded the next posting...  A day before boarding a plane bound for Karamursel Air Base in Turkey, I had to visit a Philadelphia barber for a much-needed shave, singe, a haircut, a uniform brush up...  Foolishly, I lacked the funds to cover the entire expense of all those tonsorial services.  Jerry S., a former machinist from Chicago, and a fellow airman bound for Turkey, helped bail me out of the shop, rescuing me from the angry barber who held me by my uniform collar.  Tilted at a 45-degree angle from the door of the shop, I beckoning madly at passing GI's until required donations set me free.  

Like all "composite" human beings, Jerry was a paradox, an amalgam of biases and tolerance.  He had few kind words for the "hillbillies" who invaded his beloved Chicago from "The South," but acquired an acceptance of the many Black-, Asian- and Latino-Americans who peopled our shared military orbit.  Conversely, there were many in our ranks and stationed with us, over the course of a four-year enlistment, who clung to their racist attitudes and ideas like thieves clinging to sacks of pure gold coins.      

In Turkey -- a year-and-a-half tour that began in late 1961 -- four of us, typically, occupied each space in a large, concrete barracks.  In my case, an African-American, a young man from Guam, A Texan and myself.  In a room near ours was a Latino named Armando G.  A handsome lad, he collected women as some do baseball cards or stamps.  He challenged us to acts of absurd "bravado" such as placing lighted cigarettes in the hollow of our abutted arms to see who could stand the pain longer.  He  swallowed jars full of jalapeño peppers and dared the rest of us to match his ability to consume those fiery, stomach-destroying missiles.  Armando told us stories of deprivation among his family members, struggles to assimilate into North American "Gringo" culture while preserving their Mexican heritage.  He was impatient to return to family and the women of Corpus Christi, TX.  Armando kept his focus, was eager for the tour to end and considered Turkey an irritating if unavoidable aberration in the cycle of his life.

This, I think, is a photo of Aghia
Sophia, fabled former Byzantine
Church, now a great mosque in
Istanbul, Turkey!  

Following the delights of Turkey, including Turkish friends left behind -- Vahan, Achmet, Hamdi, Nadia, Ishkin and many others -- I reported to McChord Air Force Base in Washington State, a neighbor to the enormous army base, Fort Lewis.  Our circle of friends included enlisted men from four branches of military service -- Army, Air Force, Navy, the Canadian Army, too, thrown in for international flavor.  Upon arrival at McChord, the First Sergeant from the Division to which I was assigned told me the only available barracks space near my new headquarters building was already occupied by a...  he used the "N" word.  He suggested I choose a barracks room in a different part of the base.  Partly, I suppose, due to a a streak of rebellion, partly because I had experienced co-habitation with diverse ethnicities, I told him I'd be happy to room with Shane R., the Black airman about whom he made the offensive reference.

What a dashing figure
he cuts in his (almost)
Full Military (Fatigued)
Regalia (a small, non-
regulation enhance-
ment added!)?!

Shane and I became friends.  I felt myself privileged to meet his family members who lived in the Tacoma, WA area, a number of his friends as well.  It was a revelation.  I came to know bright and talented individuals among Shane's circle who were ignored, overlooked and treated harshly or indifferently because of their color.  Shane's sense of humor, his confidence, optimism and his friendship never wavered.  I often wonder where he is, if he is, and what he's doing now, more than 50 years and many remarkable and life-changing events later.

So many friendships made and forgotten!  Can't possibly do justice...  I'm not sure why this particular subject matter popped up out of the deep recesses of my skull, this flood of "military memory," except perhaps to admit to benefitting from the luck of the draw, to express thanks.  

For me, Military Service was a great teacher, and to my good fortune, I enjoyed experiences from which I could actually learn and benefit.  For me, an irreplaceable moment in time!  Because the driving force of attitudes, beliefs and convictions could easily have turned at the wrong corner, I'm lucky to have gained from it, vs. merely having endured while incubating resentment, building discontent, bigotry and hatred, a fate that befalls too many.  I hasten to emphasize, I know I'm neither special nor superior, merely a fortunate by-product of experience, lucky to have melted in rather than boiled out of the pot, like some gaseous, toxic bubble belched forth to pollute or poison.      

That could be Airman Hackley (second row, second from
right)...  Looks like he's warming up to launch
a crowd murmuring  rebellion (please see para. last)!!   

Interestingly, and not necessarily the sole catalyst, our first "TI" or Training Instructor in the military was a Jew from Brooklyn, NY -- Sergeant Goldman.  He may well have set the tone for many.  Among the first of his pronouncements to new charges, a squadron-full of terrified young enlistees, was this:  "Some will tell you that in military service there's little room for prejudice.  I'm telling you this...  in my 'flight,' in this barracks, among my squads of airmen there is NO room for prejudice or racism.  None!"  That was in 1961.  Extraordinary!  

He may not have realized a legion of converts on the spot, but I know he made a lasting impression on many of us.  I often think of my time in the military, a crucible that helped forge ideas and values that still nourish and sustain.  So many different personalities, from so many different backgrounds and life experiences.  

                   --------------------------------------------------------
Epilogue:   It wasn't all enlightenment and wisdom, of course.  Anyone who ever served in the military no doubt has a similar story!  Lieutenant Peach was our linen supply officer at Goodfellow AFB.  On a rainy Friday he assembled the entire squadon to announce in a voice that could damage the ear drums of humans and dogs alike, "Men, someone's been 'dicking with the system' (his favorite phrase when piqued)!  Alright then," he squeaked on, face glowing crimson, "someone purloined a pillowcase??!!...  My count does not tally!!  We'll stand here all day if necessary until the miscreant confesses!"  

Had it not been for the Captain, we might still be standing at attention listening to the obtuse rantings of Lt. Peach.  Oh, and the brilliance of Airman Hackley who could mimic the murmuring of an angry crowd; it was his talent that probably summoned the Captain to our aid.  And the Peach complaint?  The Case of the Purloined Pillow Cover remains a mystery!  In the end, Lt. Peach was re-assigned to the motor pool in charge of drain-oil disposal and brake pedals.  He was never promoted and died in disgrace, an ancient, oil-stained and squeaky "Second Louie"!  (That last bit might be mere conjecture, part of the legend!)  

Humbly Submitted, May 7, 2015 -- Joel K.

                              

  

        

   

"You're Perfect, Honey!"

Memoirs of a Geezer!

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

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:    "You're Perfect, Honey..."

If I understood the architecture of pedestals...  for example, "plinths" and "dado's" (if those are correct terms!), I'd erect one and put her up there, along with other immortals previously cast in stone, plaster or bronze.  Maybe a slightly wobbly one, as none of us is perfect, with the possible exception of her children.  At least that's the modifier she ascribed to them continuously, constantly throughout her lifetime.

Gigi (given name,
Virginia) in her
favorite pose.

With all the mountains and landfills of stuff and detritus that's available on the Internet, one wonders if included is a survey on how our society, in general, regards fathers-in-law and...  more particularly, those oft maligned but entirely memorable MOTHERS-in-law.  Mine was an absolute treasure among the troves of them, past and present.  She left some years ago, but left us with delightful stories and recollections.

As a young suitor to her only daughter among four children, I was nervous; I was shy.  On one of the very first encounters with the family, I came to call, knocked on a screen door, the primary door having stood wide open.  "Hello," I called.  "Anybody home...  hello!"  

"Honey, say, 'Say Beep' "!  It was her voice, a bit raspy, the voice of an older woman, a fun-loving sprite.  

"What?" I quizzed, bewildered, a bit more nervous that I had been a moment ago.  

"Say, 'Say BEEP,' honey!"  

"Um...  Beep," I echoed, tentatively.  At which point I heard people "beeping" all over the house.  I sort of "got the idea," eventually.  I met brother John in a closet.  Brother Jimmy was under a bed.  I met brother Bob in the bathtub, just standing in the tub, not bathing!  "Good lord," I said inside my spinning brain, "What the hell kind of goofy family is this?"  

We all stood around chatting, laughing.  At some point I heard, "This isn't fair.  No one's found

Gigi (at left) with her sister,
Lilian, always referred to
as "Sister"...  as "Original
Auntie" by the rest of us.  

me yet!  I can't stay in here when all of you are having fun!"  It was the soon-to-be mother-in-law.  She was hiding but hadn't as yet been found.  I then went into the basement, as directed, to find the father in his workshop.  "Say Beep," I said stupidly.  

"I don't play ' Beep'," he said loudly, angrily, glaring at me as if I were a feckless home invader with a skull full of defective or dead brain cells.  I went back upstairs and announced, "He doesn't play 'Beep'," amid consuming laughter.  Having planned it, the family enjoyed my discomfort.  

Friends and family members called her "Gigi" (the "i"- sound short, pronounced as in the word, "rig").  My mother-in-law was a funny woman, and she was great fun, full of adages and platitudes, many voiced at entirely inappropriate moments.  For example, my wife and I were seated at her kitchen table discussing family matters or children, something mundane.  At some point Gigi announced, "To thine own self be true, Honey!"  My wife and I stared at one another, and then at her.  I said, "And now, back to the conversation."  Her comment was completely out of context.  She seemed not to care.  

At another point on that same occasion, Gigi asked her daughter, "Honey (her favorite term of endearment!), how long have you been with me?"  

We'd better explain!  This is a
cartoon image of an exemplary
Mother-in-Law on a pedestal...
used here for symbolic purposes.

"What..." I said.  "Is she a valued employee, soon due for a gold watch?!"  Gigi laughed heartily.  She could laugh at herself, a rare gift, and indicative of a rich sense of humor, perhaps a richer "sense of silly."

She knew her own mind.  (We were glad somebody did!)  My wife's brother, Bob, was over at the family home one evening when my wife and I were visiting as well.  He was a Milwaukee policeman and about to go on duty.  Bob's assignment on that occasion was to guard a prisoner.  Gigi said to him, "Honey, Mumma's going to pack you a nice lunch -- a picnic! -- for you and the prisoner.  I'll make some nice sandwiches; I'll wrap them up pretty with chips and cookies and napkins, maybe something to drink.  Won't that be nummers, Honey?  You and the prisoner will have such a nice lunch together."

Bob was becoming agitated.  "Mother!  I'm not taking a picnic lunch to a prisoner, a hardened criminal...  He could be a bank robber or a murderer.  I won't share a picnic lunch with some felonious jail bird!"  

She ignored him.  "And I'll put in some nice fruit.  Do you think your prisoner likes apples or oranges, Honey?  Should I pack in some nice cloth napkins, gingham?"  Bob's ears grew purple with frustration.  His eyes grew wide and his scalp moved back an inch or two, something his rubbery face and head did when he became truly annoyed.  He objected vigorously.  She pressed on.  He eventually walked out carrying a full basket of food that included gingham napkins, and lots of "nice" cookies for the prisoner.

Gigi enjoyed Manhattan cocktails daily, after 4PM.  She taught her grandchildren how to make them using the family's preferred brands of whiskey and sweet vermouth.  "Now put your finger in and stir twice.  Then carry the glasses in to us...  just look straight ahead when you carry, Honey, and you won't spill."

Gigi always made her Perfect
children smile!  That's her
Perfect daughter
(pictured above...)

She objected to marriage vows that "pledged" an unequal balance of power to the man.  She was a feminist, an exemplary mother and grandmother, loving, generous, honest, always a powerful advocate for her "perfect" children, and grandkids, too, of course.  She had 10 of the latter, and shared her time and her love with them equally, and with remarkable generosity. 

Wonderfully idiosyncratic, she was a terrific cook and baker, but seemed always to guard her best dishes and baked goods.  She'd hold back certain ingredients and measures when divulging her recipes, a bit maddening to those who requested them.  When my wife would ask a simple, single question, for example...  "how much flour?"  Gigi would answer, "Now Honey, go to the market and look for the baking aisle, then try to find Hodgson's Unbleached Pre-Sifted..."  

"Mother, please, for pity sake, I only asked how much flour, not a guided tour of the grocer's baking section..."  Her mother would then continue to provide a full set of instructions, from starting the car, buckling up, which market to patronize...  The amount of flour would forever remain a mystery.  Gigi took the secrets of her best recipes to the grave!

It's been more than 20 years since she left us, but we continue to tell her stories and cherish her memory and her extraordinary gift for making us laugh and giving us joy.  In my geezerhood, I hope I can be a fraction as good a father-in-law (father and grandfather too!) as she was a glorious and memorable mother-in-law...  mother and grandmother too.  And, oh yeah, try to remember, Honey's, "A Rolling Stone Gathers No Moss!"  (She'd insert that nice little platitude into her conversation constantly, though it never actually fit the context!)  

Humbly Submitted 04-15-15 -- Joel K.

         



                     

   

Fashion Backward... or, A Losing Battle with Stuff Sartorial!

Memoirs of a Geezer!

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

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:    Fashion Backward...  (or) A Losing Battle with Stuff Sartorial!

Over the seas of time, my beloved lifelong partner, best friend, wisest constructive critic and dearest companion -- my wife, "Sweetheart" -- has tried her best to "garanimalize" me.  That is, to change me into someone (whom she tries valiantly to make...) aware of conflicting patterns and inoffensive color combinations (with apologies to the people whose apparel matching system helped children dress themselves!). 

High Fashion and Color
Coordination at
its Zenith!  A Salute to
"Dressing for Success"!  

In the beginning was the worst, and the worst was made flash(y)... (apologies, this time, to biblical scholars and purists).  When I began to court my wife -- that was sometime in the early 70's when fashion had all but disappeared from the planet -- I had little or no imagination regarding apparel choices.  For work, I wore the same suit of clothing every Monday, every Tuesday, etc.  Sweetheart regarded as somewhat inoffensive only my "Friday ensemble." It consisted of a sort of herring bone light colored jacket, brown trousers, a white shirt and a "nubby" brown tie, all of it reasonably well color matched by me (for reasons I cannot fathom!!).

When the time came to meet her family, the entire family, she scheduled a dinner event for a Friday evening, perhaps believing, or hoping, that I would be suitably attired!  When I arrived at her front door, she exclaimed, "What happened to your Friday suit?!"  (You see, my white shirt and nubby brown tie were soiled.)

The "Lions" Tie
must have been
inadvertently
discarded, but
illustrations are
always desirable!
And Sweetheart
is fond of froggies!

"Is there something wrong with this ensemble?" I asked, innocently.  I was wearing the standard, Friday jacket and slacks, but my shirt was a collision of off-white, apricot and powder blue.  The tie was brown with gold lions stalking up and down its length.  Poor Sweetheart!  She groaned aloud.  (I think the tie actually snarled at her!) 

After a long moment during which she eyed me up and down with a certain degree of disdain...  "Oh well," she finally said, punctuated by a heavy sigh, "You may as well come in and meet my sisters-in-law and some of my cousins."  As our courtship continued and our relationship grew stronger, more committed, on the very first of my birthdays during that era, she bought me a most attractive suit of clothes, an entire outfit -- jacket, slacks, shirt and tie -- all of it magnificently matched and coordinated!  From that point onward, I was transformed!   

I think it's only right to add some historical perspective.  My father wore shirts of plaid and trousers of stripes.  He

Above is a fairly accurate
depiction of the plaid
and striped patterns my
father often chose!

dressed for practicality and comfort.  My mother often turned him around, insisting she and he return to his closet to re-dress her grievances!  When my father entered my sister's home, and her care, much later in his life, his apparel choices were similarly overruled, and his daily ensembles nicely put together by a caring daughter.   save.

One of my own daughters and her husband prefer a burn barrel for designer clothing.  Their apparel choices are eclectic, with a predilection for thrift shops.  On balance, though, I must say they are both always nicely turned out.  Our other daughter and her husband will even run half-marathons in designer labels and name-brand ensembles!  We're all individuals, with individualized tastes, styles and budgetary concerns ...or lack thereof... 

The above is an illustration of
a "Sergeant / General" in full
military regalia!  ...um...  just in
case the concept of military
"uniform" is unfamiliar to some!

In terms of what to wear, I look back with some nostalgic longing to my days in the military.  One could hardly mismatch a uniform; that is, unless one wished to court trouble via an "Article 15" or worse.  ( I knew a GI who walked around the base wearing nothing but his service tie and cap.  He wanted out of the military in the worst way.  He succeeded, receiving the worst kind of discharge for his effort!)  As for "mufti," I would merely look at the clothing choices of my fellow GI's and try to emulate their examples, sometimes with effective results, more often failing to comprehend fashion, choosing motley instead!  One of my pals in the military, Dennis V., was always magnificently attired during off-duty time.  I marveled at how he did it on military pay!  I concluded he was either a thief or independently wealthy.  

Suddenly, It Was Now Again!

An illustrative
effort to capture one's
intense dislike of the flood
of fashion catalogs that
arrive, unwanted, in one's mail.
(See para. at right please!)

Today, happily, nicely ensconced in GeezerHood, I have Sweetheart, my personal fashion consultant.  Most often, therefore, I leave the confines of my own home in outfits that will embarrass neither she nor me, nor my children.  At this point in their lives, I don't think the grandchildren would care one way or the other.  It won't be long, however...  Hmmm...  Will they ultimately choose the fashion plate or Melmac?  

I applaud those who seem to possess a natural flair for dressing themselves stylishly, whether from the best shops or from the bin.  As for me, I'll never "have a clue," and will thus follow the lead of "She with the Good Eye."  Fortunately, I haven't had to shop for and select my own clothing choices for more than 40 years, so I seem to be on a safe sartorial pathway!

I often wonder if those of us who despise malls and retail fashion stores and "cute little shoppes" come to our positions genetically.  Or is it a learned aversion?  But look here...  If you want me, I'll be in the backyard burning fashion clothing catalogs that arrive unwanted in the mails.  Gee, could it be that the burn barrel is my fashion statement of choice!?  

Humbly Submitted 03-18-15 -- Joel K.       

     

        

        



    

  

"DIY" and the Single-Minded, Slightly but Not Always Competent Geezer!

Memoirs of a Geezer!

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

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:    "DIY" and the Single-Minded, Slightly but Not Always Competent Geezer!

Pictured above is an image
of a menacing bird that
stared at me while I patched
a hole in a soffit...  Musta
been its nest??!!

Periodically -- and I suppose many are so afflicted! -- I tour our "estate" to determine possibly urgent maintenance needs!  (Drat the confounded curse of responsibility...  it's like a "plague of conscience"??!!)  And then what happens??!!...  

...Suddenly, last summer...  I decided both the upper front porch railing and the upper rear deck and railing system demanded attention, that is, scraping and removing old material and applying new primer and a finished coat of paint.  I also heeded the advice of my wife and attempted to repair a gaping hole in a soffit (fascia, too!) above the upper front porch.  "Must'a been those darn birds!" I opined upon acknowledging the great, gaping mess in the upper regions of the structure.  (A gaggle of birds kept staring at me menacingly as I worked!)    

Aging geezer that I am, I nearly fell off the ladder four or five times.  "We should move to a condo that hires people to do that kind of work," my wise and protective wife almost demanded.  

"We'll look into that," I replied.  "I agree it's an excellent thought.  I'm too old to be working on a ladder for several hours on end...  I could get dizzy and plummet to the earth!  Worse...  the concrete!"  As of this writing, we haven't changed lodgings!  But we're looking into it...

Idiotic though it may seem for a barely competent DO-IT-YOURSELF'er, I have long felt I could accomplish many different tasks best left to professionals.  In one instance in the mid-1990's, I attempted to repair an aging Chevrolet.  After my "repairs," and the removal of

I didn't actually fall off
the ladder, this time...
But I teetered and
wobbled a lot!  Whew!!...

several pieces of "extraneous" hardware, some silly "needless" wires too, the air conditioning never worked again, the windscreen wipers bumped into one another and mechanical difficulties appeared one after another until finally the automobile expired.  When I attempted to change the "glow plugs" on a Volkswagen "Rabbit," we eventually had to "shoot the thing and put it out of its misery," as one of our wiser acquaintances observed.  (She was fond of metaphors!...  or is it  anthropomorphism??)

I have had some successes, however!  I replaced a faucet system for my dear friend, Steve, and his family.  Although I had to use several innovative fastening devices to anchor the thing to the sink.  The faucet sat a bit higher than Missus would have liked!  I rebuilt the threshold at our back door.  Didn't do too bad a job, either.  It just wobbles a little...  And, I've done concrete repairs around the periphery of our 118-year-old homestead.  It may not be pretty, but it seems functional.  I think!...  

Illustration above is how
one feels one appears
trying to schlep a 3-ton
refrigerator (beer usage only)!

My brother, by contrast, is a DIY genius -- builder, electrician, engineer, designer, plumber...  He can do, build and fix anything...  Big jerk!!  When he married and left home for good, that is, left the old nuclear family home of our youth, my father began to telephone me every second day or so to fix things.  He must have thought my brother and me interchangeable parts!  What a disappointment for the old fellow.  I have a great friend, Tom G., who is also a DIY expert.  He can do all that stuff, too.  Why is that?  Is it in the genes?  (Ach!)  Can't be!  My father only picked up a hammer to chase vermin out of mother's tomatoes!  

I seriously lacked the manual arts competence of my older brother.  I allowed an ancient, seemingly 3-ton refrigerator to crash through a basement wall, for example.  "Boy genius," my father labeled me, sarcasm dripping acidly from his words...  But that's a story for another time...  (Well...  maybe just a taste -- a friend and I tried to "hoik" it into the back of an open convertible.  We eventually tied the dolly holding the accursed "ice box" to the back of the automobile and hauled it like a trailer for five or six miles...)

Although I almost always did my parents' bidding, and tried to do my best even when the task was utterly ridiculous, even into my own advancing age.  I stuffed steel wool into imaginary holes in the eaves, for example, where my father was certain squirrels were gaining access to his attic.  We used live traps to capture the invading "tree rodents" and then drove them -- at his command -- from Wauwatosa to Mequon for release "into the wilds," as he'd say.  When another squirrel invaded his attic, he'd pull a face, contortedly quizzical, and ask, "How the hell did that damn beast find its way back here from Mequon?"  I'm sure he was joking...  Wasn't he??  Eventually, we engaged a kind of exterminator who discovered the actual point of entry.  The squirrel invasion ceased.

"Hey Pops!  You look a bit thick!
You got squirrels in your attic,
maybe?...  Tee Hee...  Snicker!..."

I suppose it's a kind of conditioning.  Pavlovian stuff!  My mother insisted I could fix anything she asked me to repair, build anything...  I put up a Christmas tree on one occasion and somehow managed to cause a power saw to gnaw its way into a paint-striped, newly replaced base board!  (The thing is, I fashioned a make-shift stand, but failed to consider placing the stand in water!!  I tried sawing the stand to accommodate the size of the water bucket; vibrations sent ornaments sailing, crashing...  Such a fuss; maybe they were heirlooms!)  My mother returned to the scene from shopping.  "Is the tree up?" she asked, walking into the living room.  "Oh," she exclaimed, in shock but outwardly calm.  "Can you fix that?"  Never quite a perfect repair, she placed a large chair nearby to conceal the scar!

For Maintenance,  Don't
Call This Guy!!  

As a probably deleterious result of all that "encouragement," I can't help myself.  I keep trying to fix things I shouldn't go near!  It's a curse, I suppose.  Just this past week, I snaked out a "choking" bathroom sink drain.  I discovered the "head" of the snake peeking out of the sink in an adjacent bathroom.  "How the hell did that happen?" I exclaimed.  (Sigh!)  The clogged sink eventually drained.  Divine intervention, maybe!!??

I can't imagine a major shift in my foolish DIY compulsion.  Call it cheapness, maybe it's quixotic, perhaps just the absurd notion that eventually I'll miraculously acquire a level of expertise from all those previous attempts!?  Ridiculous!...  And then there's the specter of aging limbs and their eventual worsening condition that'll force the end of my DIY fervor!  I'll post my medical and surgical history, charts, X-Rays...  just FYI!!  If you need me, I'll be upstairs plunging something...  or hammering...!  (Keep emergency numbers handy at all times!!)  

Humbly posted 02-16-15 -- Joel K.