Travels to the "Door"... another Grand Adventure!

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

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

This Episode:      Travels to the "Door"...   Another Grand Adventure!

As a privileged white geezer male citizen of the planet we currently inhabit, I am additionally privileged to be afforded opportunities to abandon the rigors of daily toil in order to engage in a bit of holiday time...  you know, vacations, time off, periods of leisure activity...  (Slothfulness?...  Nah!)

Somewhat recently, my wife, SweetHeart, our beautiful daughter, Bethie, and two of our incomparable grandchildren, Seany and Phi Phi, journeyed north to savor the delights of Door County (hereinafter referred to as "DC" in this writing!), that remarkable region at the tip of Wisconsin's geological "Thumb." 

My own father and mother took their children to DC when the writer was just 8, perhaps 10 years old.  (I can't rightly recall, but perhaps my elder brother will remember our ages at the time of our inaugural visit.).  My father, having been a Special Agent in the FBI, and having spent much of his illustrious career as a trainer of police and sheriff's departments (and their inhabitants, of course!) throughout the Midwest, was often feted by commercial and civic mavens in the form of special rates on such things as lodgings, to cite a single example.  

I've enjoyed the flavors of DC since early childhood.  SweetHeart and I have been reprising our "concerts" in and to the Door for more than 40 years, that is, whenever time and finances allow us to do so.  

On our most recent expedition, we witnessed and ascended the newly-constructed, truly magnificent Eagle Tower in Peninsula State Park, a park that is to many residents and tourists alike the jewel of Wisconsin's State Park system.  With the readers' kind indulgence, a brief history of the new tower and its construction:

Members of the Friends of Peninsula State Park raised $750,000 to rebuild the tower after deconstruction of the old tower was announced in 2015.  (The actual cost was ultimately significantly higher!)

The DNR closed the tower in May of 2015 due to structural and safety concerns.  After an unsuccessful fight to save the tower it was deconstructed in September of 2016, leaving a hole at the top of Eagle Bluff, and in the hearts of generations of park visitors.  But the FOPSP quickly turned eyes to the future, launching a fundraising campaign to raise necessary funds to rebuild the tower. That was the first estimate for the cost of reconstruction.  (Aerial view of ramp and tower, at left!)

The DNR determined that if a new tower was going to be built it had to comply with the *Americans with Disabilities Act, calling for a new design that would provide equal access to all individuals. That sent designs in a drastically different direction.  Hence the spectacular RAMP system (partially pictured above, right)!  

New signage (soon to be installed) will remind people of the long journey to build the third, 60-foot tall and 95-step version of Eagle Tower (the first was built in 1914, the second in 1932), and one of many features that makes this park truly special.  But the heart of the Eagle Tower experience still comes at the top, one that requires no interpretation.  (Readers are encouraged to experience the climb and the view themselves!)

No journey or expedition is complete, nor worth its possibly tedious recounting, without a bit of pictorial foolishness!  (But that may come a bit later in these proceedings...  if we can discover whose camera was used to make the photographs!  Oh, wait, look to the left...  SweetHeart helps already exhausted husband climb the first of 95 steps...  made to the 2nd step prior to taking a short nap!  It's Geezerhood, you see!)

Bethie generously provided the cost of this year's lodgings -- The Open Hearth Lodge in "rural" Sister Bay.   (YoYo the dog was one of our companions, and the owners and staff made him quite welcome!)  In addition, she engaged a power boat from a rental service in Sister Bay.  Bethie performed superbly on the wake board, leaping gracefully into the skies from the churning wake!, while Seany did equally superbly on water skis.  After a couple of aborted attempts, PhiPhi rose from the waters of Ellison Bay on the wake board and also performed beautifully.   I piloted the vessel for all three aquatic athletes, something I hadn't done for many years previous to this occasion.  (It comes back to one, sort of like riding a scooter, or falling off a two-wheeler!)

Once again, during this visit, we dined and feasted lavishly...  Wild Tomato for pizza and salad, Julie's at the Park, a fish boil at The Postoffice in Ephraim, not to mention ice cream from Wilson's, gelato from The Creamery, breakfast and great coffee from Blue Horse in Fish Creek.   (Where's LeRoy??)  

Oh yes, lest one forgets!  We saw a live theatre play at Northern Sky Theatre in the aforementioned park.  It was not a particularly memorable performance of Whatever Happened to...  (someone's name or some such like that...).  Some of us, perhaps all of us,  enjoyed certain parts ofthe performance, and it's always interesting to witness live theatre, in spite of its content and story line.  Could have benefitted from some stage props, etc.  E.g.  An image of the fancy green car owned and driven by the eponymous but unseen character, perhaps a bit of football paraphernalia, maybe an image of a tavern, a farm scene...   All could have been accomplished via posters or projected images...  just a thought...  I don't claim to be a playwright or set designer, just an unschooled and erstwhile critic of the non-professional ilk!  

[That's a very fine image of Seany, Bethie and PhiPhi at right (along with perhaps an odd passer-by / interloper)!  At the play, there were two people just behind a foursome photo of SweetHeart, Bethie and Grandkids (not shown in this piece), but the pair seemed interested in being immortalized on film!  If they inquire, I'll send them a copy for a modest fee, plus postage, of course!...  These things aren't cheap!!]

(* A Special Note:   Our beautiful daughter, Alie, she a PhD professor at Marquette University, was and is a great supporter of the Americans with Disabilities Act.  Alie worked with her and our dear friend, wheelchair user Larry Keller, to investigate first-hand if various features of the Act were being appropriately interpreted and placed into common practice!  Prior to earning her PhD degree from the University of Wisconsin - Madison, she played a major leading role at a prominent disabilities organization during the time the ADA Amendments Act was being developed; the act was passed in 2008!).  

(Please Note:   One hopes to be back soon-ish with another edition of "Memoirs of a Geezer."  Many of our revered readers may wish to keep eyes on the site in rabid anticipation of the next remarkably fine posting, chronicling the amazing adventures of the perpetrator and his beloved companions!  The gorgeous photo exemplifying the notion of "being back," was created by the superb eye of ace photographer, SweetHeart!)

Humbly Submitted, 08-30-2021 --  Joel K.

THE UBER BOOK... "Travels in the 'Dining Car' "...

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

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

This Episode:       THE UBER BOOK...   (Working Title, now Correctly Entitled):

                                 Travels in the "Dining Car"...   (With an Appropriate Subtitle:)   

From Chapter One --
"Revelation"!

    Some few years ago, SweetHeart and I decided to take on a new career, a fresh if unexpected challenge in the annals of Geezerhood.  Not at all to pocket extra coinage for frivolous gambols and playthings, but owing to financial exigency.  I would not presume to suggest it hasn't been fun; we have each other's enjoyable company, and we listen to good books and often talk like truckers,  berating obnoxious fellow motorists as we ply our toothsome trade!

Yes, dear friends, readers and devotees, we became food delivery drivers back in 2017 (at least I think that's when it started!?...), and here in 2021, a year or so removed from the onset of the great "Damnpenic," we continue to deliver food products from a great variety of purveyors, restaurant "partners" of the parent company for which we labor so sedulously, mostly flawlessly...  Honest! 

"Talkin' Like Truckers"!

Getting Aboard...  Starting Out!

As one result of our endeavors -- now in our fifth (I think?!) year -- we thought it important to share our activities, our assigned tasks, with the masses, by telling the story of our adventures in print.  Our book is entitled...
Travels in the "Dining Car"...  (subtitle) The Adventures of Uber Eats Food Delivery Drivers! 

So who the hell cares, one might justifiably inquire of the authors, or to no one in particular, perhaps someone stumbling upon this bit of blog writing, sitting by oneself and exclaiming loudly to a vacuum of space!  

Who cares?!  Those who have been cast into the abyss of unemployment or underemployment, loss of income, ageism, redundancy, tossed onto the scrap heap of "downsizing" and "economic cut-backs."  All those damn euphemisms concocted by the rich in order to excuse themselves for acts of unspeakable litter -- otherwise known as what they consider"discarding human detritus."  Hurling their castoffs onto the mean streets of

Anxiety Dominated at
the Outset!

want, exploiting tragedy to rid themselves of the need to pay wages and salaries while stuffing more and more wealth into their own bulging bank accounts and mattresses.  Jerks!!  Unconscionable swine!!      

Getting back to the question (if you've forgotten the question -- it's, "Who Cares?"):  One need only be aware of the fairly newly minted "Gig Economy," in which so many of our fellow citizens find themselves...  yourselves...  ourselves!  (See paragraph above to determine if you qualify under the broad heading of "Gig Economy" or wholesale disenfranchisement!)

What to do?  Get angry, make a statement, protest in your own manner, write a book perhaps...

Ours is neither a grim complaint nor a diatribe, but rather a humorous, fun and funny dissertation on what it's like to embark on a wholly new career with modest compensation, unlike the professions of our illustrious pasts.  Sort of an amusing meditation on being launched, unwillingly, into the dark waters of the gig economy!  

Because of its delightful flavors, its both sweet and savory explorations of social and

"I'm Sending You Out
with Angels..."

cultural interactions with a huge variety of personality types, we think, nay, we know!...  Our tale will resonate...  It's empathetic.  People will love it!  All we need now is a literary agent who will don a bib sporting a silly graphic and simply tuck in!! 

As the word count piled up, 15 Chapters and an Appendix into the process, SweetHeart wisely suggested we include illustrations.  Thanks to eager and talented granddaughters, we can incorporate gorgeous, evocative and emotive depictions of the diverse feelings we experience as we discovered and now continue to plod on into economic travels, both unknown and startlingly new!

Would you like a teaser?  Of course you would.  Here's a brief passage from Chapter Fourteen, describing "Strange Delivery Instructions, etc....."  

"The Hunt"

       "...We enter the building. It’s really tall; it contains a great     many apartments. The key pad is an alphabetized conundrum that   requires the visitor to use an “A to Z” button. It lists only last names with first initials. The Uber Eats application lists only first names with last initials. We try to match the “F” family name to the first initial, the “M” for Muriel, needless to say. That almost never works. We spend way too much time trying to decipher the alpha-numeric keypad.

       Often, they don’t work at all. The one we’re staring at is no exception. We curse the architect and the person who or the contractor company that allegedly designed the “easy-to-use” alpha-numeric keypad feature. We stomp impatient feet and call them all bubbleheads, including the food recipient who failed to provide intelligible instructions, cursing vigorously all the while!..."

    A few of the brilliant illustrations are included herein, while most of the text, meaning the story itself, will have to be read by fans and devotees once the book has been published...  in one fashion or another...  I have a plan, sort of...  Please be patient, and thank you for your rapt attention to this brief, um...  well, I guess "introduction" is as good a descriptor as any!  Thank you again!  Stay safe, get vaccinated, and think seriously about telling your own stories, sharing them with others!  

(A Brief Note of Dedication and Gratitude:   Thank you, Lucy, and thank you, PhiPhi for your beautiful artwork, for your talent, your generosity and your diligence.  This writing is dedicated to you, beautiful and extraordinary young women, priceless treasures in the lives of authors and tireless workers who know too well who and what are truly of greatest value!) 

   

Noxious Nellie: The Amusing Maze of Street Names and Directions that Could Lead to Trouble...

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

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

This Episode:        Noxious Nellie:  The Amusing Maze of Street Names

                             and Directions that Could Lead to Trouble...

                                                  (and often does!!) 

As dedicated and courageous Food Delivery Drivers for...   well, that doesn't really matter.  Suffice to say we are kind of "mostly reluctant road merchants," caught in the web of the Gig Economy, on

the road of necessity to earn a buck or two.  As we pursue our craft, our trade, we follow "The Voice," and go where it commands!

The Voice belongs to Noxious Nellie.  That's what we've dubbed her, she who utters the mechanical words that propel us to the homes or businesses of food delivery customers...  The hungry and most often unseen masses, those whose dancing fingers manipulate "Apps" to summon sustenance from dozens, perhaps hundreds, of purveyors throughout a specific geographical territory.

Unseen masses?  I should explain, that in these perilous times of the "Viral Scourge," the "Damnpenic," as some prefer, deliveries are made to doorways and lobbies, requiring photo evidence that the delivery was actually accomplished successfully.  Smartphones with cameras are a necessity, perhaps needless to add.

We collect food from various shops, stores and restaurants, place sacks of sealed and protected edibles into insulated carry containers, and then follow Nellie's guidance to designated destinations.  It's a reasonably simple process, usually, but sometimes, only if you happen to know where you're going!

We've often pondered, my noble and capable partner, SweetHeart and I, if a driver happens to be new to a certain community or neighborhood, Nellie's sometimes peculiar pronunciations, street names and directions, could drive a newcomer to become utterly confused, if not entirely lost.  The result could be unpleasant -- hot food losing its desired temperature, frozen beverages a puddle of sticky slop, delivery drivers scratching their heads in frustration, getting out of their vehicles, turning, twirling themselves 360 degrees, becoming dizzy and disoriented in the process.  A telephone call to the headquarters company, or the customer, possibly becoming the only remaining option or solution.

"Where am I?  Where am I going?  Where the hell is Bumbuckle Street!!??  NELLIE!!..."

Now then...  I'm sure you'd like to have some examples.  I mean, isn't that what you're hoping for, what you've been impatiently waiting for, longingly, if you've actually read the first six paragraphs??  Well, dear friends and devotees, here they are...  a short list for your further reading enjoyment...  (Comments and Questions always welcome!):

        1.  Clybourn Street in Milwaukee is pronounced, “Cly (accent on the first syllable) born.  Nellie says, “Cli (“i” as in it) burn.”  

2.  Belleview is properly pronounced “Bell” (accent on the first syllable) “view.”  Nellie chooses

instead, “Believe You.”  Is it possible she believes in us, and everything we say, stand for and do?

3.  Emulating Millie, introduced in a previous chapter, Teutonia, according to Nellie also, is “Toy-a-tone-ee-ah.”  Correctly pronounced by most Milwaukeeans, “Two Tone Yah,” accent on the second syllable.  (Apparently, both Nellie and Millie studied under the same electronic computer tutor!)

4.  Meinecke Street is correctly pronounced, “Mine A Key,” accent first syllable.  Nellie prefers “Mean Eck,” accent first syllable.

5.  Then there’s Becher Street, correctly pronounced by most of us, “Beach-Er,” accent first syllable.  We’ve heard, “Becker,” “Beaker” and “Betch-Yer,” among other butchered options!  (Interesting that two syllables can be mis-uttered in so many different ways!)

6.  Consider Dr. Martin Luther King, Junior Drive.   Nellie’s take is, “Drive Martin Luther King Junior Drive.”

7.  A street that contains an outstanding bar and restaurant is Saint Paul Avenue.  Sobelmans is the restaurant, and serves, in the opinion of many burger gourmets, the best hamburger in the City of Milwaukee and surrounding suburbs.  To come to the point, Nellie prefers, “Street Paul Avenue.”  

8.  Another interesting mispronunciation is that of Cramer Street, correctly pronounced “Cra-(“a” as in able) mer.  Nellie seems to prefer “Cra- (“a” as in bam) mer, accent, of course, on the first syllable.        

8.  And lest we ignore our Latino brothers and sisters, Cesar E. Chavez Drive in Milwaukee becomes, in Nellie’s vernacular, “Cesar East Chavez Drive.”  (We suppose some of the Nellie oddities are explainable, given her mechanical persona, and translations programmed into her by a computer with an apparently keen sense of humor!)

9.  We couldn’t let this one pass, and it happened very recently.  We were making a delivery on the south side of Milwaukee, with voice instructions from Nellie to turn left onto a street she announced as “E-Jere-ten,” accent on the second syllable.  The street, to most Milwaukeeans, is correctly pronounced, “Edge-er-ton,” accent on the first syllable.  Once again, Nellie provided us with a short but welcome bit of amusement.

10.  Sometimes Nellie eliminates street names entirely, and simply states, “Turn right,” or “Turn left,” completely ignoring the street name or number.  Perhaps she forgets street names and numbers in the midst of her directional instructions, brain lapses possibly.   Or could she be on a
coffee or lunch break?!  It does get a bit confusing at times.  Luckily we know the city and its surrounding suburbs quite well, and we almost always navigate to the food recipient successfully!   

When absolutely necessary, if truly confused and lost (very rarely!), we telephone the customer and ask, “Where exactly are you?….  Um, excuse me, where…?” 

(Special Note of Dedication:    SweetHeart keeps a mental, often a written log, of amusing "Nellie" and "Millie" pronunciations and unwitting comedic pauses perpetrated by the aforementioned duo.  This writing is dedicated with great thanks, love and more gratitude to SweetHeart for remembering...  when I don't!)  

Humbly Submitted 04-17-21 -- Joel K.

      

 

       

...Beep!!... The Courtship of SweetHeart and S*** Head!

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

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

This Episode:        ...BEEP!!...  The Courtship of SweetHeart

                             and S*** Head!  

In the early 1970s -- in those halcyon days before GeezerHood kicked in --  I began to woo my SweetHeart.  Interested in traveling there to investigate the possibility of purchasing a small-town newspaper in west central Colorado, I asked her to join me.  She responded, "Well...  (long pause)...  if you expect me to drop everything and follow you around the country, you're sadly delusional!!"  (She may even have added, "stupid"!)  

"Gosh," I responded quickly, "I wouldn't expect you to do so out of wedlock."  That was my highly romantic marriage proposal!  It has become the stuff, perhaps not of legend, but of stories told to family and friends, engendering considerable amusement.  

I was at the time employed as a public relations counsel by a major advertising and PR agency in Milwaukee.  My brilliant career in that capacity ended as the agency, through mismanagement and other factors, closed and locked its doors for the last time.  Shortly before the end, I was booted out, terminated, unceremoniously discharged, made redundant...   I suppose, as one of the newest members of the firm, my dismissal was considered prudent, a money saving exigency.  My immediate supervisor knew the end was near!  Figured I was more than merely expendable.  

I took a job at a saloon, knowing full well that a person of my talent and experience would soon find a new career suited to my personality, skills, successes and educational achievements.  Eventually?...  

My courtship of SweetHeart then in full bloom, her family having accepted the idea on a somewhat tentative level, I was permitted to call upon her at her family home.  On one of the first of those visits, driving my "Woodie," a disreputable, rusty and battered station wagon of questionable vintage, I parked in front of her house on a rainy Saturday.  [That same day, an enormous tree limb, dislodged by lightening (I think?), fell on the "Woodie" implanting a crater-like dent in the roof, adding yet another facet to its personality!]

But, moving on...   I approached SweetHeart's family home, the front door being open with no one in sight.  I knocked.  "Hello," I shouted several times.  "Anyone at home?" I asked, rather timidly. Finally, a woman's voice paraded across what seemed like several rooms to the doorway at which I shuffled, confused and quizzical.  

"Honey," the voice began, "say, 'Say Beep.' "  

"What?" I mumbled, now more perplexed and bewildered.  "I'm sorry," I added.  "What should I do?  Do I come in now?"

"Honey, say, 'Say Beep,'" the voice insisted again, this time in a more urgent and commanding tone.  I entered the house.

"Um...   Beep," I said, haltingly, the word falling off my tongue in a somewhat diffident volume, as if clearing my mouth of a rancid nut by means of a polite cough, vs. a rude 'Pi-tui!"

As if I had pressed a formidable, red "launch button," beeps resounded from every corner of the house.  I caught on!  My task was then to find all of the "beepers," family members who were making their various locations known, hiding places, by means of the beeping.  I wandered slowly, but deliberately, if somewhat cautiously, into the home's various rooms and passageways.  A louder beep directly my pace into the main bathroom where I met SweetHeart's brother, Boobers, who was standing in the family bathtub.  I introduced myself.  "Hello, I'm the suitor," I said, stupidly.  We shook hands.

Johnny was under a bed.  He laughed at me as I reached under the bed extending my hand in greeting, perhaps even to help him dislodge himself.  Jimmy was in a closet.  Same greeting.  SweetHeart was in a different closet.  Re-united, the five us us chatted and laughed amiably as SweetHeart recounted in some detail the family tradition of "Beep," telling stories of other "Beep" adventures involving other "victims" in other parts of the country.  A particularly funny tale took place in Las Vegas, a story she told with colorful relish, as if chewing on, savoring a favorite dish.

Some several minutes passed as all of us continued to laugh and ruminate on our own personal adventures in foolish behavior.  Suddenly, SweetHeart's mother appeared.  "You don't play fair!" she announced with mock anger.  "I waited a long time!  You were supposed to find me too."  The comment was aimed at me.  I apologized profusely, and with true sincerity.  

Boobers said, "Sorry. Mom.  We got caught up in introductions and 'Beep' stories.  Couldn't help ourselves.  We'd have found you eventually...  I think."  That caused more merriment.

Don't remember which brother it was, Johnny or Jimmy, but I was told after several more minutes to go and find their "beeping" father.  I was directed to the home's basement Where "Big Artie" was apparently secluded in his workshop.  I tripped down some 13 basement steps.  

"Say 'beep' SweeetHeart's Father," I said, feeling like a buffoon in a cartoon!  

Slowly turning toward me, a hammer in his hand, his face bearing a look of pure contempt.  "I don't play 'Beep,' " he barked, his words hurled at me like a sack of paving gravel.

"Oh," said I, timidly, "I'm sorry, sir."  I turned quickly and went back upstairs.  Facing the three smirking brothers, I said, "He doesn't play 'Beep.' "  The smirks morphed into uproarious laughter, and it lasted a long while.  The brothers liked to tease and put certain people in amusingly embarrassing circumstances!  I got used to it...  Boobers and I became great pals over time -- the other two brothers too, but SweetHeart and I had less social interaction with them.

In a relatively brief passage of time, when I'd come to see and woo SweetHeart, Big Artie warmed to me.  He would actually put down his newspaper and greet me with some deference.  A rare occurrence among SweetHeart's suitors, she informed me.  I felt honored.  I think it was the fact that he and I were both fond of writing, and both of our careers required a degree of proficiency in written communications.  In time, we got on rather well, Big Artie and I. 

Now, some 47 years into our marriage, SweetHeart, our children and I -- even our grandchildren -- continue to enjoy "Beep."  It's become part of our family's traditions, sort of a heritage to cherish and pass on...  We played "Beep" when our younger daughter arrived on a weekend day several months ago, her long-distance boyfriend in tow.  (The young man lives in Salt Lake City...  It's a cross-country romance, but seems to be an enduring one!) He and I met in our bathtub (another tradition?).  To be clear, I was standing full-clothed in the tub.  We shook hands.  I like him.  He's a decent chap, and he loves our daughter. 

We are willing to teach all interested parties the basic rudiments of "Beep."  Click or call!  Politicians are well advised to learn, practice and play "Beep" at all political events, rallies and legislative sessions!  It could easily lead to a kinder and gentler political landscape.  We can help.  Call, click or stop by for affordable lessons.  Thank you!  

Humbly Submitted, 12-07-2020 -- Joel K.

 

      

What's Up, Doc?

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

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

This Episode:        ...What's Up, Doc?  

Is this, the dawning of the Age of a-...  GeezerHood...?    

If I'm honest, "dawning" is a bit inaccurate.  GeezerHood rolled over me some time ago, and on me it lingers, like a threadbare coat of peeling paint!  I guess when I think about labeling the Age realistically, we Geezers find ourselves in the Age of Doctor Visits and Medical Invasions and Interventions.  We have regularly scheduled imperatives, in which we're poked, prodded, pricked with sharp instruments and have latex hands and bratwurst-sized digits crammed into our private and more sensitive orifices!! 

With the readers' kind indulgence, I shall offer some true-life examples and episodes.  Some years ago, I contracted the affliction known as "scabies," or skin lice.  I visited a dermatologist who examined me as if the planet were already in the throes of COVID-19.  

He asked me to uncover various parts of my anatomy to view for himself the damage done.  At one point during the examination, I tried to hand the doctor my afflicted penis.  

"I'm not touching that thing," he said, drawing back from the apparently offending appendage.  

"But," said I, stammering, "aren't you a medical doctor?  Aren't you used to examining all manner of body parts, I mean, in a way that requires handling the part in question?"  He recoiled again.  I

left with several prescriptions.

Then there was Doctor Firefly!  I complained of a broken testicle.  During his investigation of the offending body part, Dr. Firefly asked about a rash present in the neighborhood of the aforementioned broken orb.  "How long you had that," said he to me, referring of course to the rash.  

"I dunno," said I in reply.  "Long time, I guess."  

He left the examination cubicle and returned with a small slice of paper, a prescription as it turned out.  Handing the paper to me he said, "Here, spray this stuff on your feet and your crotch'll clear up."  I related the tale to my three brothers-in-law at a family beer-drinking session in SweetHeart's family's living room.  (None of the three is still with us, sad to report!).  They all laughed merrily, and for a long time!  Dr. Firefly was a partner of the family's primary care doctor.

(One of the brothers told me that their father, the family patriarch, once complained to his doc, Doctor Hairingplug, that every time he, the father, drank manhattans, he's get a giant headache.  The advice came quickly, "Then stop drinking manhattans."  This, medical advice, too, the brothers and

👎

SweetHeart enjoyed relating when discussing health issues and sound medical advice.)   

More recently, at the advice of an ophthalmologist whom I consulted at the Eye Institute, I was advised to undergo cataract surgery on my cloudy right eye.  I did.  It, the surgery, took place in January of this year.  The projected 15-minute procedure took more than an hour.  Why?  The doctor told me, "The bag broke."  The "bag" is a sort-of "breakwater" barrier or membrane that surrounds the lens, and, I think, holds the lens in place.  Post surgery, I kept seeing the biggest "floater" I had ever witnessed in my field of vision.  It looked like a baboon riding a mule!

I had an appointment with an ophthalmologist our primary care physician recommended.  He told me the surgeon has actually done a fine job, and said that my vision was "nearly 20 / 20."  He added that I needn't have cataract surgery on my left eye for at least a year or two.  I thanked him profusely.  I'll go back in a year or so, a future appointment having been tentatively scheduled. 

Being an avid volleyball player for more than 40 years, during one of our championships matches, the Achilles Tendon in my right leg suffered a complete rupture.  We played in a 6-person league, but our team consisted of just four magnificent volleyballers, two men and two women, SweetHeart,

one of the women players.  Our male partner told me to balance on the court on one leg, lest the referee award the championship to the other team, given we were only four!  She allowed the remaining three to play on.  It was the third of three sets.  We won the championship, one of six or seven during our prime playing years.  

The ortho doctor sewed the two severed parts of the tendon together.  The doctor told SweetHeart he had a heckova time finding the two ends!  I wore a boot for several months, and eventually returned to the court, healed and leaping better and higher than ever!  (At least that's my recollection...  having recovered my one-foot vertical leap!).  Prior to that memorable occasion, I tore the muscle mass in my right calf.  Everything seemed to happen to my right side, and I'm not even that conservative!  

I cracked both of my ankles, each requiring medical or surgical intervention.  The most embarrassing, my right ankle, of course, occurred when I was searching a parking lot for my friend's vehicle.  To do so, I had to stand on a toilet to reach an elevated window, the only viewing vantage point to the parking area.  I slipped and my foot twisted painfully and landed in the toilet bowl.  I not only suffered the pain of a cracked ankle, but the embarrassment of a "soaker" that was all too apparent as I hobbled back into the bar room to await the arrival of my companion.  We were poised to attend a hockey match!!  (I had to hop a lot, and hobble too, needless to add, to reach my seat high up in the arena...  You'd have thought a kindly usher would have seated me on the players' bench, or kinda closer to ice, maybe...!)

There's another strange thing going on!  For an extended period of time, I keep banging my left elbow...  on door jambs, car doors, walls, windows...  I told my doctor about this painful epidemic of elbow-banging, showing her what I believe is a growing lump in that region of my arm joint.  "What

do you think," I asked.  "Should I get an X-ray?  I think there's something wrong with my house!  It may have shifted...  maybe the doorways have contracted!  What should I do?"

"Stop banging your elbow," my doctor advised.  She's a marvel.  A medical expert of the finest ilk.  I've been heeding her advice.  Amazingly effective therapy!!  (But now I'm banging the other elbow!). 

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Please forgive me, but I digress, a bit...   I should mention that today's my birthday, and it's Veterans' Day.  I'm a veteran.  We've had a free lunch, free coffee, a free pound of coffee, discounts at the shoe shop and at one of them big boxy stores too!  What a day.  We're soon heading out for an almost free dinner!  What a day, I say again!!  Thank you and good night to all my dear family members, friends and other devotees.  Happy Veterans' Day to all of our fellow brothers and sisters in military service, and its noble veterans!!  

Humbly Submitted 11-11-2020 -- Joel K.  

 

    

   

An Homage to Cribbage... All A-Board...!!

 

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 Cribbage...  All A-Board...!!

There are those of us who play and enjoy card games as if the activity were a kind of religious ritual, a passion, a necessary endeavor to ensure one's salvation or the attainment of true bliss.  And, there are those of us who have never quite embraced the apparent joy of playing cards and the many variations that lure the faithful to green, felt-topped altars and smoky recreation rooms or basement sanctuaries.  

Of course, there are exceptions.  Cribbage, for example.  GeezerHood, my current state of being, is a fine time to to haul out the cribbage board, I must admit.  And frequently!  

My family was and is devoted to the splendid game of Cribbage, a game of counting 15's, double runs, pairs, three and four of a kind, the fine art of "pegging..."  There is a degree of skill, but the cards dealt are of paramount importance if one is be the first to travel successfully along the 121 peg holes on the classic board. 

My brother claims to be among the world's finest cribbage players, if not THE finest!  He scored a 29-hand during his illustrious career, the highest point total one can achieve when playing the game -- three 5's dealt along with the "right Jack," and then the fourth 5 is cut, and is the same suit as the Jack!  My father and paternal grandfather (both now deceased) laid claim to the "best player" title.  Perhaps my dear brother feels entitled to be heralded as heir apparent to the throne.  Our dear friend, Jimmy J., would argue the point.

Somewhat recently, perhaps seized by a didactic fit of semi-lunacy, I asked my beloved grandson, Seany, if he'd care to learn the game.  He agreed.  I taught him the rudiments.   In our first outing, the little scoundrel actually "skunked" me.  The term applies to beating an opponent by 30 points or more, the number that constitutes a "street" in the game of cribbage.  There are four of them, perhaps needless to add, given the information offered in paragraph three of this writing.  There are also "double skunks," one of the ultimate humiliations one can endure when playing cribbage.

Seany seeks to play his Uncle Kris, my brother, and hopes to "skunk" him.  When informed of this outrageous suggestion, Brother Kris responded, "The kid's a real dreamer..."

There's a certain kind of hubris that attaches to the game, as many self-described astute players, or "experts" or champions, feel themselves so extravagantly superior as "masters of the game" that any upstart who might deign to refute their claims are forever labeled "anathema"!  (Deserving, perhaps, of "excommunication" from the exalted playing fields of cribbage!?)

My brother has actually constructed cribbage boards, even a cribbage table.  Although, regarding the latter, his zeal to execute the thing caused him to drill holes completely through the table.  (Maybe not a mistake, as an opponent's peg might disappear from view causing a "backward march" along the board...   "advantage to the champion"...   meaning the creator of the cribbage table!  ("Hey, if you can't keep track of where your front peg is supposed to be, you should be penalized...   Let me just move your peg a little further back...  There, that's better!" )  

My grandson has truly fallen in love with the great game of cribbage, and frequently asks me or his Baba (grandmother / SweetHeart) to make special dates to play a game or two (perhaps three, in case players need to determine the overall winner by means of a rubber match!)  He now controls possession of my favorite cribbage board.  I fear it may never return to my custody!!  

Seany's sister is almost 11 years old.  I call her Phi Phi (like "Fee Fee"), or Sweet Angel Face.  She, too, has taken to the game of cribbage, and is doing so impressively well.  She understands the cards or point counting process and the art of pegging.  She and her brother play frequently.  It is, after all, a family tradition!  It was imperative that both learn the game, and play regularly!

SweetHeart's grandmother had a way of making her grandson, SweetHeart's brother Boobers, a bit crazy when they played.  The grandmother would make a smirky face when she'd win, scrunch up her eyes and nose and smile with a kind of excessive "in your face" flavor.  Boobers' (actually Bob!) would turn purple in the face and become more than a bit angry.  He, too, considered himself the finest player on the planet.  Losing for Bobby was not a pleasant experience, and probably, according to him, a rare one!  (Hmmm...  We wonder if he's playing cribbage in some ethereal place or card table afterlife!)

Here's another thing.  Cribbage is often a pastime within a pastime.  Fishing, for example.  When

it's too dark to "toss a line in," what's there to do?  Play cards, of course...  Cribbage!  Oh, and drink beer, lots of beer.  Salted peanuts go well also with cribbage and beer.  My own dear father was, in a way, immortalized (if unseen!) in the picture above, painted by my brother, Kris, and entitled, "Dad Wins."  A copy hangs proudly on the east wall of my cluttered office.  (The fish board at right is a photo of a work of art, not a painting!)

At one point in my brilliant career in marketing communications of one sort or another, I had a cribbage board designed and built by a fine wood working professional.  The board sported the shape and logo of a well-know beer producing company, a client of mine at the time.  It had a hinged lid for storing playing cards and wooden pegs.  I packed it with logo'ed cards and presented it with great

aplomb and confidence to my client.  He kept it, but never placed an order for hundreds as I had hoped.  Possibly he felt it was a "one of a kind" treasure, a magnificent keepsake that should never be duplicated or reproduced en masse, an original that only he could possess!  (Jerk!)

Oh well, and what the hell, those are the ups and downs of life in commerce.  Success is and can be a capricious imp, and that in a way brings us back to the main topic.  Is cribbage, therefore, like life, a kind of metaphor?  Sometimes we're dealt a 12 or an 18 or a 24 hand, sometimes it's 19!  (It's impossible to score 19 in cribbage...  can't be done!)       

My brother, SweetHeart and I, with like-minded friends, have held Cribbage Tournaments, several in private homes, at least one in a popular saloon.  My brother has gone so far as to participate in a fabled cribbage tournament in Las Vegas, NV.  Amazing how pervasive the game has become over time...  like bowling, maybe??!  

In the end, I guess, we simply have to play the cards we're dealt.  (Don't you just love tired cliches?)  Those of us who are excessively fond of the fine game of cribbage will continue to play on, to count our hands and move our pegs ever closer to the 121st peg hole.  Hoping to win.  Hoping that one day we'll stare in wonder at three fives and a jack, praying to the gambling gods that our opponent will cut the fourth five! And then, at last, we can pass into oblivion knowing that our lives have been richly fulfilled!!  

(Special Note of Dedication:   For Brother Kris, SweetHeart, Seany, Phi Phi, Jimmy J. and all of our dear friends and relatives similarly obsessed with Cribbage and the lure of the Double Skunk!!) 

Humbly Submitted, 09-23-2020 -- Joel K.