The Older Brother!

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

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

This Episode:                   The Older Brother!

He was Larger Than Life in so many ways.  Bold, brash,  loud, boisterous, full of fun, funny, a comedic presence, an exceptional talent!  He lived and loved his remarkably full life.  He acted in plays, including several theatrical musical productions.  He sang loudly, energetically.  He loved his family unconditionally, all six of them, Jaynie and five exceptional children, his life, his many friends, cribbage, pool, his work, his teaching adventures imparting his engineering knowledge and skill, until retirement at last beckoned.  He painted, he sculpted, he built things -- furniture, cribbage boards and so much more, even a sentry enclosure!

Walking Stick!

He volunteered.  His spirit was always a generous and lively thing, like a separate creature had attached itself to him exploding out of his trunk like a great,  floating, inflatable bear.  Those who rode his tour vehicle throughout a beautifully-flowered and lushly festooned arboretum enjoyed the narration, were always captivated by him, ultimately loved him too!  He was that extraordinary, that entertaining.  He was charismatic, an original, a true and rare first edition!

My year-and-a-month older brother, Kris, died in early August.  The entire process was quick, too damn quick.  Diagnosed with stage four lung 

cancer, that miserable 

Kris and Wife Jaynie were volunteer rangers at Rocky 
Mountain National Park, something they loved doing,
and for several years running!  The 50th!!!

disease  too 

suddenly traveled to and claimed his amazingly fertile brain, and then his lymph nodes as well.  Nothing could be done; that treacherous and evil entity, like a ravenous beast, eats its way into and destroys the best of us, indiscriminately, too fast, too hungry, too furious.

Enough of that.  Let's travel many years into his past, with apologies for a lack of chronology.  He played football for his high school team, and he played superbly, winning accolades, a major letter; he quite possibly might have won a scholarship had it not been for a knee, a badly wounded knee.  

Number 50, Kris, Out-
standing Football Lineman!

His mother, who was mine as well, saw no real advantage in having that knee properly repaired.  No point, she'd insist repeatedly.  A promising career as a pigskin athlete ended abruptly. 

(Years later, when he leapt skyward to capture a ripe pear in his Rowlett, Texas neighborhood -- the lower branches having already been denuded -- the knee collapsed anew.  He finally had it fixed correctly, but...   advanced age, no possible appearance of pro scouts...  far too late in the game!) 

He had many great pals in high school, one of whom shot him in his bicep, or was it the shoulder.  His gang was out hunting or just shooting at things, both alive and dead things.  Doc James removed the bullet, along with portions of T-shirt, sweatshirt and jacket.  His school pals were not always terribly bright or cautious when discharging firearms.  His family was greatly thankful the lad's aim was not directed further to the left...   or right.  Can't recall which bicep or which shoulder.  Doesn't really matter, I suppose!

In our youth, our teen years, Brother Kris was my hero, my ideal.  Other members of our nuclear family were either significantly years older, or absent or unconcerned or angry.  He and I were a kind of team, poised to stand tall, like sturdy, fortified and determined ramparts, a bulwark against the others.

In the mid-60s, My brother honored me by asking that I be a groomsman in his and Jaynie's wedding.  I can't recall...  second or third in line, maybe even best man.  I can't remember.  Doesn't matter.  I was truly honored, because I loved him best among my family members.  Didn't matter, the pecking order unimportant.

In our youth, in the double bed we shared on 68th Street, we wrestled constantly, every night at bedtime.  We invariably broke down the bed.  Our father burst in with angry, flashing eyes.  Unpleasant consequences ensued, physical ones!  In the old house on HiMount Boulevard, Mother painted clowns on the walls on either sides of our beds.  She claimed we were her inspiration, her models.  (Should we have been offended??!!)

Back on 68th Street...   In subsequent double beds, we wrestled; he queried, could he "toss" me like a coin, jujitsu style.  "Leemee flip you, Joey," he'd asked.  "If I hurt you
I'll give you a quarter."  I'd collide against the wall on my side, the wall adjacent to the parents' room.  Father burst in with angry, flashing eyes.  He'd pick up brother Kris by one leg and smack him, in a leg, or on his derriere...  It happened often.  The older brother took the brunt of it owing to the racket we made, his status as older sibling. We always seemed to wake the angry male parent.  Being tossed and flipped, I was often bruised or dazed crashing into the wall, but I never did get that quarter!! 

At "Flying Saucer" on the shores of Lake
Ray Hubbard.  Dinner and Pop!

There were steel-tipped darts and blunt-headed arrows.  We were "great rabbit hunters" in the Washington Highlands.  Kris liked to "skin me," as if I were a circus target, better than knife throwing, I suppose, but the darts stuck once in a while, and they sort of stung my delicate flesh!  (We tried to keep it from Mother; no need to upset her further!)     

Oh yeah, the house on 68th Street again...    One night, Kris had an epiphany.  He

Another Kris Creation!

announced, "Hey Dad, Joey's in this too.  He's just as much a part of the noise making as me.  Why don't you smack him for a change?"   The next night, Father came in angry as a building storm, awakened by the noise of me hitting the wall, the result of a successful jujitsu-style and dizzying air toss, picked me up by the leg and gave me a good hard smack, somewhere on my anatomy.  Can't remember the exact location.  

"Kris," I blasted him angrily when the ticked off Father exited, "Why the hell couldn't you just leave well enough alone?!"  He must have laughed for half an hour.  I fumed fecklessly! 

The orange crate...   The Lone Ranger gun butt....   The radiator incident...  As kids, we always found some means of battling one another!  In the orange crate, he insisted upon being the "chief FBI man," facing what he believed to be the driver's seat.  Defiantly, I sat with my back to his back, insisting I'd be the chief.  He plucked me out of said crate like rotten fruit, picked it up and bashed me in the head with that "FBI squad" crate!

The gun butt...  he pulled the trigger and claimed he shot me dead.   I "raspberries" him, my tongue waggling, spittle flying.  He used his gun to bash me in the head.  

The radiator...  Mother had large yellow cushions for the patio glider.  We held them in front of ourselves declaring ourselves "waring umpires."  We flew at one another,

cushions bumping.  I flew backward into an iron radiator.  In all three instances, my head was nicely bloodied!  

In each of the aforementioned episodes, Mother shouted with angry vigor, "Joel...  Why do you let him do that to you??!!"  I gaped incredulously, speechless, then was shortly hauled off to an emergency room or, who can remember such things, possibly off to the family doctor.  Partial head shavings, several stitches!  Three different times!  Or were there more??  Hmmm.....

It wasn't that he was constantly trying to murder me.  He was just much bigger, much stronger, taller.  He didn't mean it...  "I didn't mean it," he said to Mother, his voice raised emphatically.   "I mean, it was Joey's fault.  He wouldn't let me be the Chief FBI guy...   He wouldn't die when I told him I shot him dead...  He lost his balance...  Wasn't my fault..."  

On the positive end of the spectrum, he defended me.  He praised me when I incurred or deserved his praise, and he did so often and unfailingly.  I think he actually respected me, loved me in his way.  He was a great brother, fair, lovable, positive, strong in body and spirit!  We had a terrific, shared sense of humor, a sense of silliness as well.  We had such fun together, poking fun at the absurd, laughing uncontrollably, enjoying summer days and water, such as sailing on Big Cedar Lake aboard the "Big Barn Dancer" with its red and white stripes, he the skipper, me the crew!  I'll miss him terribly, already do!  I know I always will, at least until that "Big Beckoning Digit" sends me packing! 

(Dedicated to Brother Kris, and to SweetHeart who supplied great photos and other memorabilia, his family, my much-loved family members as well, in honor of an upcoming Celebration of Life, honoring Kris P. K...  1942 - 2024!)

Humbly Submitted, 08-23-2024 -- Joel K 

   

 

    

  

 

   

Boot Futures, Ltd.

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

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

This Episode:               BOOT Futures, LTD.

   

    Sometimes, from the high plateau of Geezerhood, in rare times of quiet when reflection stimulates or even permeates the thought process, certain memories flow like torrents into the cerebral cortex of still working brain.  Memories such as...   "Boots."

    In the winter of an indeterminate time of life (specific memories aren't always all that crisp and clear!), I set my sights on a gift of Xmas for SweetHeart, a wearable product I felt certain she would love to receive, and to wear proudly and delightedly, subsequent to receipt of same on the day above referenced.  

    Off I motored to an (ugh) enormous shopping mall in a suburban location.  That particular shopping complex was quite popular among rabid consumers.  Though the center was considered highly attractive to the masses, it was not in its bloom of youth having been planted several years prior to the episode to which I refer.  It sported an enormous parking arena that circumnavigated the complex.  One could almost always find a space defined or demarcated by slanted yellow lines.  Never close, however, to the shop or store in which one hoped to focus her or his attention.

    I started my quest at a large department store that was named after an eastern seaboard metropolis.  It no longer exists, the store, that is.  Nevertheless, I'm certain that's where I began the search.  I went immediately to the footwear department.  I queried a sales person.  "I'd like to consider purhasing a pair of boots, of the stylish variety in vogue by today's modern woman.  You know, tall, sueded boots, in a brown-ish tone of color...  more brown than beige, I think..."

    "I see," the young man began, "and what size does monsieur wish to purchase?"  

    "Um," I stupidly responded, "and what size would you recommend for a woman of approximately five-feet-seven inches in height?"  

    He chuckled nervously.  "I haven't the foggiest notion," he replied.

    "Well, let me see now.  Why don't we say women's size 8-1/2, possibly 9.  Do you think that might be suitable?"  

    "Um, let me repeat, sir, I haven't any idea.  I don't know the person for whom you intend the boots to fit."

   

He delivered several sizes of sueded boots to the chair in which I had seated myself.  All of the proffered boots sported the same altitude and coloring.  I selected a pair.  He announced the price, turning the carton to my view to reveal the printed cost.  

    "How much?!" I nearly shouted at the young man.  He was taken aback.  A shocked look appeared like a frozen mask upon his young visage.  I tend to be somewhat frugal.  Some might prefer, "Cheap" or "Tight Fisted" or perhaps "Miserly."  After my own face lost its purple hue, I calmed, selected a specific pair of boots, insulted the young man, his management, commercial enterprises generally, offered grudgingly an instrument of payment and departed for my waiting vehicle.

   

Imagine two pairs of spanking new boots
having been placed foolishly atop a car, only
to "lose their footing" and slide off as the
car motored homeward, one pair never
to be seen again!  An expensive "hobby,"

    I fumbled for my keys, as if conducting a search for lost doubloons in a Caribbean shore-line cave; it seemed to consume an amount of time equal to such a search, amid cursing and patting my person in near panic and grumbling....  Winter weather tends to force ordinary mortals to wear heavy apparel.  Outside pockets, inside pockets, not to mention inner garments with many pockets.  In the search for said keys, I absentmindedly placed the boot purchase in its heavy carton atop the vehicle.  Having finally found the keys, I motored off toward my home.

    Upon my arrival, I looked throughout the vehicle, quite naturally expecting the package to appear, but with futility and growing rage.  "Oh shit," said I, "I left them on top of the damn car.  I'm a complete idiot!!"  More cursing produced no desired result.  I retraced my route, looking left and right, motoring slowing with angry motorists honking and beeping and uttering foul insults.  Arriving back at the shopping complex and its commodious parking area, I searched and found no package containing boots.

  

    Foolishly, as if shoppers during the Season of Good Cheer were completely infused with integrity, I found nothing.  I tripped into the department store shoe department and queried the young sales person who seemed displeased to see me.  "No monsieur, no one turned in a carton of boots."

    "Where is your lost and found department?"  He directed me to customer service, staffed by a surly young woman who reported that nothing of the description I provided was turned in.  I also quizzed the store's principal customer service desk.  Nothing.  I returned to the footwear department where the vapid young man was now serving another patron.  I waited impatiently, tapping my feet.  Finally he turned toward me, an annoyed and questioning look upon his insipid mug...  I asked for another pair of the same footwear.

    He disappeared into an apparently secret inner sanctum where probably thousands of pairs of shoes and boots sat on absurdly high shelves, approachable only by rolling ladders (I imagined).  He reappeared carrying nothing.  "I'm very sorry, he said, with no expression of sincerity upon his smug face.  "We sold the last pair," he added, a nasty smirk creeping along his lips as his jaw line began to crinkle.

    I left that accursed store and trekked in an easterly direction, then entered a shoe and boot emporium that specialized.  I asked the same question of a young woman, she being unoccupied in a somewhat busy shop.  She appeared with several boxes.  "These should do nicely," she offered, "seems to be exactly what you want, and they're all the rage in this market."  

    Once again my frugality reappeared as a wild beast in a shrubbery profused jungle!  I tamped down my ire and agreed to pay the exorbitant price for the boots.  The nice young woman packaged them, I paid the freight and went somewhat satisfied (maybe, partially dissatisfied?...) along my way.

    Upon reaching the automobile, having at first been lost, having circled the parking area a few times punctuated by angry cursing, I searched for keys in the manner described earlier, having already placed the boot package upon the car top.  Impatiently, I scrambled in and motored off homeward.

    "Oh my god, you complete and utter buffoon," I announced to myself.  Once again, I had driven off with boots on the roof of the car.  I repeated the same search on my way back to the shopping mall, feeling like a demented tennis spectator, craning my neck left then right (a crane...  a goose?), slowly following the progress of the roadway as it disappeared beneath the underside of the vehicle.  Beep...  Hook...  "Move it along you stupid sloth..." and other more vehement insults.  (I could spy the "F" word being pantomimed by trailing motorists in the rear view!!)   

    Back at the rotten, stinking mall, I returned to the shoe and boot shop where I had purchased Pair Two, and re-purhased the same boots.  On this occasion, the shop had another pair.

    Then, on an impulse, and thinking to my tired brain, "Well... why not, one never

knows."  I repaired once again to the primary customer service area.  A miracle!  Someone had found the package in the parking lot and turned it in to the lost and found department.  "This is extraordinary," I tried to explain excitedly to the woman who staffed the counter, telling her the remarkable tale of the "Boot Futures."

  "Aren't people wonderful," I exclaimed.

    With a bored and completely disinterested look upon her face, she merely announced in an exhausted monotone, "Next, please."  With that, I left carrying two pairs of boots, nicely boxed and packaged in brown paper sacks.

    Stupidly, I couldn't help myself.  On Xmas eve, I presented both pairs to my sweet and wonderful spouse, SweetHeart.  "Two pairs of boots," she said as she unwrapped the parcels.  "I mean, very sweet of you, but two pairs, and they're almost identical."

    "Wouldn't you like a spare pair," I suggested inanely!   

   

    "We'll just return one of them, and get our money back.  Then you can buy me something else," she offered, eyes bright with promise and excitement.  I had quite possibly created the original "Pug Dog" paradigm.  What an idiot, I thought to myself about myself.  Alas, I suppose I brought this on my own head.  However, everyone in our family thoroughly enjoyed the tale, as each in turn laughed heartily and looked at me as if to state, "You poor, dumb, hapless numbskull!"

    "Well," said I, "Boot futures...  An investment, sort of..."  (That Pug Dog thing, however, continues to repose in a troubled brain...   a sort of haunting ghoul...  as if we jointly created an economic demon, determined, from time to time, to wound the psyche as it stuns the pocketbook!!)  

(Special Note of Dedication:    This posting is intended to amuse and possibly even entertain SweetHeart, Alie and Bethie, who always seem to enjoy "Pug Dog" tales, even though they tend to wound the heart of the writer's fragile, economically-delicate psyche.  Sigh!  But, one supposes that laughter is a healing balm, something that supersedes other emotions!  Thank You!)   

Humbly Submitted for Viewing Pleasure, 02-13-2024 -- Joel K.

  

     

     

            

In Turkey -- the "En-Chant-ed" Sounds of Street Sellers and their Wares!

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

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

This Episode:                     In Turkey -- the "En-Chant-ed"                                       Sounds of Street Sellers and their Wares!  

When the sounds of memory crawl back into our consciousness, do we, in our GeezerHood, hear them faithfully?  Or do we embellish them in an effort to enchant and enlarge our fragile psyches, our imagined statures?   Do we hope to impress others, those with whom we share the ancient times and tales of our youth?  One does one's best (most of the time?!) to render with integrity the stories and legends we want to believe are true!

When stationed in Turkey in military service, specifically on an air base near Yalova, a

port city on the Sea of Marmara, leisure time was a precious commodity for the curious, the tourist and the traveler in many of us.  Like Marco or Vasco we imagine ourselves as wandering camels, ships, vessels of discovery, boldly curious and bravely adventurous.    

Some of us, those who chose to embrace the opportunity of living 18 months in a beautiful foreign land with an extraordinary major city, spent a great deal of time in Istanbul, a 90-minute ferry crossing over the blue waters of Marmara.  We'd pass two beautiful islands along the way, drink a bit or a lot of vodka with "lemone," munch fresh pistachios.   Finally we'd cruise into the port, past Maiden's (Leander's) Tower in sight of the port of Uskudar on the Asian side of that remarkable city.   

Our usual route into the heart of the old town required a crossing of the Golden Horn

over the Galata Bridge.  In the early to later evening hours we'd visit a series of Pavyons (bars / nightclubs), drinking too much and "talking treason" to mates and native patrons alike, including young Turkish women who had little interest in us or our inane ramblings and boastings.

In the "yellow time," the early morning hours, as dawn assaulted our blood-shot eyes, we'd trip along the narrow city streets to a basement apartment lended by a friend to my friend.  The friend of the friend's name, I recall was Thom (the "h" is silent!).   She had a delightful, sort of musical family name that I can't recall.  

The apartment was at basement level.  We had a perfect view of feet and lower leg portions from our street-level windows.  In the still early hours of the morning, usually beginning about 6:00 AM, the street vendors would begin their daily chants, or shouts.  Among the words that pierced our injured and hung-over ears was "Sicak, Sicak," (sounds like "Cee-Jak") always repeated at least twice.   It means Hot!  The words would travel up and down the brick-paved streets until patrons spilled out of their doors to breakfast on the sweet and savory offerings of the loud and energetic street-food merchants. 

The word for cold was also heard echoing along the pavements -- Soguk (sounds like So-ook).  And then we'd often hear "Eskigee" (I paraphrase or "para-spell"?).  It means "old" or old clothing for sale or other ancient articles for sale or barter or bargaining.      

If we could actually rouse ourselves from peaceful slumber -- profound, like things long dead -- we'd crawl or stumble our ways into the streets and purchase a hot breakfast.  We'd "Yemek" (eat) our ways through the pain of aching heads, or drink the soothing cold brews on offer.  Strong, hot and thick enough to chew Turkish coffee, or "Chai," a wonderful Turkish tea.   And Oh yes...  Can't forget to mention, "Chitir" -- Fresh Rolls.  Those we'd also "Yemek" voraciously, like wolves devouring a fresh kill! 

A favorite meal was "Ekmek" (Turkish bread) stuffed with lamb (Kuzu) balls sprinkled with powdered salt.  Delicious!  The Ekmek was huge and crusty and flavorful, and the meat inside was equally tasty.  This was often our lunch or dinner of choice.  One had to hold it with both hands, as it was as heavy as a long-eared rabbit or a large river stone!

If a day was to be filled with exploration, we'd take the local bus to Yalova and await a different bus, this one to Bursa.  The call was powerful and resonant -- Boo-sah, Boo-Sah, Boo-Sah -- always shouted three times, accent on the second syllable.  Yes, actually, "Bursa," but it sounded like "Boo-Sah"!  Bursa was another beautiful Turkish city, located in the northwestern corner of the country, a hilly nearly mountainous region.  

   

Not long ago, I was telling the "Chants" tale to certain family members, those who'd listen!  One has to wonder why certain thoughts and recollections suddenly appear in the mind, like a film clip accompanied by the distinctive sound of a 16-mm projector, re-running frequently, a recording stuck on "Memories."  

 

Enough!  All that remains is to post an image of a Pavyon and then to end this posting, but hoping that Travelers and Turks and other devotees will enjoy this retrospective, the thoughts, ideas and flashbacks it may (or may not!) evoke.  Thank You!  

Humbly Submitted September 5, 2023 -- Joel K.

 

    

      

The Roles We Play, and Accept, in Our Changing Lives!

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

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

This Episode:        The Roles We Play and Accept in Our Changing Lives!

One might suppose, if one is in one's GeezerHood, it could be a bit dangerous to become overly contemplative in times of quiet.  Non-productive, possibly even foolish thoughts might tend to flood one's consciousness.  

However, inasmuch as we've started this conversation, may as well plow ahead.  Certain metaphors -- or are they similes? -- spring into the cerebellum like.................................

 Mystic Pronghorns.  (Please see image, above!)  A chain, for example, can have many links, but still it is a single entity.  A tree sprouts a great many branches, but remains a single unit of living flora.  A Venetian blind contains many adjustable slats, but the whole is one thing, one product...  You get the idea, eh?

You see where I'm going with this nonsense?  (I wish I did!!?).  A human being has many

parts and many roles; it's the latter, life's many roles, that leads us into a more interesting discussion.  (One might suppose that "interesting" could be a bit of a presumption, depending on how this meandering plays out!)

When born I became a child of parents.  In the passage of time I realized I was also a brother to a sister and a brother, (the latter a bigger and stronger entity who'd pay me a dime or a quarter if, when he practiced his jujitsu on me, I would become the injured party, so to speak.  Not sure if he ever paid off!  Not really important in the scheme of this dissertation...  but I digress!...)

Next, student in a class full of students, then member of the US military services in a squadron or a flight or a phalanx full of a "GI's."  Student again in a university setting...  lots of different classrooms with instruction in many different disciplines.  Friend, companion, confidant, member of society in general, one who, with a certain degree of intelligence and understanding,  is able to accept and embrace diversity, making friends with those of different beliefs, colors and creeds.  

Then, on to what many consider the more important roles in the fascinating diversity of one's lifetime.  Marriage partner, father, uncle, grandfather, granduncle, great granduncle...  Paternal and avuncular roles can be critical, and crucial, to those over whom we have influence!

Where we going with this?  Each of us, I believe, is a composite of many different parts, possibly many different stages of life, even, I guess, many different or changing personalities or identities.  Was I a compete idiot as a teenager?  Quite possibly.  Do people improve with age, like cheese or wine or fruit pies or leftovers from a holiday feast?  Hmmm...  a ponderous question, indeed!  One hopes the answer is "YES"!

I'd like to think that we human beings actually do become our better selves as we age, as we grow in maturity and experience.  Parents seem to improve as grandparents. Although their children may disagree when grandparents return grandchildren to their parents, the kids wired and crazed with sugary treats, and overly stimulated with rough play as grandparents regress into childlike foolishness.  (Better selves, better angels?)

So what's the point?  I don't know...  Life is a series of stages and roles and change, of course.  As the brilliant Carl Jung suggests, "Life behaves as if it goes on (and on forever)"...  It's the illusion of immortality, something many if not most share, at least when we're young...  in middle life...  or even older and healthy...!  And we as human beings have the capacity to accept our varying roles, we have the power to change and enrich our lives if we choose to do so...  possibly the best path or direction or trajectory a human life can pursue (follow?)!  Change!  Change for the better!  Improve with time, but only if the changing road we travel is paved with the macadam of our better selves.   

I guess we all continue to evolve, if we're fortunate enough to live long and productive lives.  Sadly, so many lack that good fortune that allows the "blessed" among us to enjoy our roles, accept them, and change, grow in wisdom and improve, while pursuing knowledge and truth along the way.

(Dedicated to my beautiful and talented nuclear and extended family.  Thank you and Good Morrow...  Happy Days Ahead as well!)       

Humbly Submitted 08-30-2023 --  Joel K.