The Simple Joys of GeezerHood!

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

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

This Episode:              ...The Simple Joys of GeezerHood!

It's like trying to grab hold of the spark of a sun crystal tossed from the white crest of a breaking wave...  Dazzlingly bright, elusive, slippery!  Akin to a dreamy concept of Retirement!...   Seemingly unattainable, at least at present.  Semi-retirement is, perhaps, a more plausible aim, however, and we cling to its pretense in various forms, cheerfully if, at times, a bit delusionally optimistic.

When free of workday hours, or from caregiving or the joys of being with children and grandchildren, we seize, for example, a certain delightful "Tea Time."  Heading for a favorite coffee house, we order Sport Tea, the extra large variety, with lemon and a quantity of ice that doesn't over-

whelm the tea.  Adding a bit of natural sugar, we seek the waters of Lake Michigan, or those of the confluence of rivers just west of the the huge arcing bridge that aims itself south, or north, depending on one's desired trajectory.

In summer, primarily owing to their greater occupancy (but in fall and winter as well!), we love watching big ships plowing the waters of the Great Lake, or tug boats,

sometimes the ferry.  We tend to sit and relax and sip that delicious sweet tea, equally savoring the scene in front of us, the waves and the palette of ever-shifting colors painted by the sun and the skies.

Among the most enjoyable sights are the St. Mary's Conquest or Challenger, cement-carrying ships that sometimes emerge like giant grey apparitions beside the Breakwater Light.  They inch with agonizingly deliberate slowness into the confluence, turning left as does the Menomonee River, heading for the river-front factory and its dispensing trough.  When filled to capacity, the ships back out of the narrow river, turn past the Light, pivot forward and then cruise to their (mysterious) destination ports on the Great Lakes.  

Wonderful sights.  Beautiful to witness for those of us so inclined and interested.  We're not always alone.  There are others of our ilk who enjoy the spectacle, not always of the GeezerHood variety.  The young are also sometimes in evidence at the water's edge, their eyes following the slow, grey, nearly waveless progress of the ship, whichever is in port at the time of its sighting.

On at least one occasion, hoping to prolong the nautical adventure before us, we hurry to "The Point," park our vehicle facing the Lake Front, and follow the ship's more urgent exit journey as it plows northward or eastward to deliver its viscous cargo, like exceptionally thick grey soup, too long left sitting and hardening in the pot.  Both ships have towering tugs attached like barnacles permanently to their sterns, guiding and steering the big ships into and out of our port with its narrow, meandering waterways.  

At other times, tide and time permitting, we take ourselves in a northerly, followed by a westerly direction to the banks of the river named after our state's largest city.  Prior to landing ourselves at the river's edge, we stop for our golden tea at a suburban oasis serving the same sought-after potions as those of  locations in the City we call home.  

(To be fair, truthful and accurate, we favor two different coffee houses, one for our preferred

This Aint Us!

coffee beverages, the other exclusively serving the sport tea of which we're so fond!)

The River and the park location we discovered a few years back gives us a very different set of spectacles.  An Osprey family that nests high atop a baseball field's "night-game light" --  a family we hope returns to its nest in Spring -- and bufflehead ducks, the black and white variety that dive into rivers and lakes for their dinner, geese and other species of duck, occasionally turtles and other amphibians.  And small furry woodland creatures and white-tail deer.  Nature and a natural setting at its most beautiful and gratifying. 

Such are the Simple Joys...   If we can't actually retire in the relatively near, or distant, future, we can in fact approximate a kind of semi-retirement, in which we can snatch a few restful hours with delicious tea, not necessarily "and sympathy" (if you get the reference!), but glorious nature and so many of its natural denizens, those native to our world and the specific biosphere we're privileged to inhabit. 

(Special Note of Attribution and Dedication:  For SweetHeart, my constant tea-savoring and much-loved partner, who, with me, so enjoys the ship sightings, the beasts, the waters and the flora, the natural settings we long to spy through our binoculars or naked eyes when we can in fact savor a semblance of leisure time, of "semi-retirement"... the Simple Joys of GeezerHood!)  

Humbly Submitted, 01-31-2022 -- by Joel K.  

    

 

  

   

 

       

  

TORN!...

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

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

This Episode:             Torn!...

We find ourselves, at this juncture in time, a short while removed from the Holiday Season that renders 
Christians utterly jubilant...  at least for a brief period just prior to, on the two special days of the actual event, and in some cases for the week that follows into the eve of and the start of a New Year. 

Decorated House!

Many of us, I'm certain -- myself included -- find reasons to decry the Season for its orgy of spending, its specious bloom of "good cheer," the multiplicity of artifices, idols, iconic representations, yes, and also that profusion of electric lighting intended, we're often told, to brighten the drabness of winter.   Or else to inculcate, many would
insist, a belief system with appropriate symbols of the "true meaning..."   

  

I was raised by a gentile father and a Jewish mother; a fact that to this day tends to confound and confuse my sense of self-identity, my psychic awareness!  I'm TORN!

I often tell SweetHeart, my life partner and the love of my life, that I intend to allow the Jewish side of my persona to prevail during the Christian / Christmas holidays.  SweetHeart demurs.  "You were raised Christian," she argues.  "You have the Christmas tradition in your bone marrow.  Whether or not you accept its mythology, its religious significance or the pageant of the Santa-infused idea of an anti-religious feast day...  Doesn't matter.  We're celebrating Christmas, as if we are true believers, or merely Santa-obsessed revelers.  And that's the end of it!" she states demandingly, and quite forcefully.

I groan acceptingly, if grudgingly!  But, still, I'm TORN, I tell you, and I tell her, and everyone in my family, myself...   An old friend told me often, "Your face is the map of Israel."  My neighbor who is a Jew and who understands my matrilineal heritage, insists, "Then you're Jewish, sonny (she's a bit older than me!).  If you wanted, you could

emigrate to Israel where you'd be immediately accepted and with full Israeli / Jewish citizenship."  I try to find my passport (but furtively!)...

A neighborhood rabbi, for whom I wrote a personal history (needed for a chaplaincy quest!), revealed my story, my lineage to his colleague, a proselytizing rabbi.  The latter appears at my door with some frequency -- mainly, I think, on Jewish feast days.  He tries valiantly to bring me into the light, into the fold.  I resist.  I've been too far down a different pathway, and, for the past many years, I've practiced no form of religion!  None! 

Undaunted by my failure to respond to the rabbi's inexorable efforts, he brings me Chanukah candles, boxes of them, "gelt" in the form of foil-wrapped chocolates, 

dreidels, boxes of matzah and other Jewish gifts and artifacts.  He once appeared at my door, invited himself in and placed tefillins (phylacteries) on my head and arm.  He blesses me.  He brings his children to sing Hebrew songs.  I continue to resist...  

(I have boxes of unopened Chanukah candles; of the opened boxes, I bring some of the colorful content to birthday parties...  just in case!  You never know...  possibly the party host is experiencing a regrettable paucity of candles!  One likes to come prepared!)    

Still, in all, I guess I must confess to a certain and thinly veiled delight in The Season, particularly when the shopping and the (ugh) mall visits and the spending have all  finally, at last!, yielded to the actual Eve and the family celebration that commences with song and greetings and expressions of love and welcome.  (I grumble and make sour faces to disguise my delight, however!).  

We order beautiful pizzas from our, and my, favorite parlor.  It's a once-a-year indulgence and our family's principal Christmas Eve repast.  And salad, loaded with pepperoni, spicy peppers and other tasty ingredients.  (I pick off the cheese cubicles...  I don't care much for cheese cubicles or other forms of that specific dairy comestible!)

We chat endlessly, share "What's new's...  and What have you been doing lately's and Tell me about your life and recent adventure's...  How's your work coming along's..."  We stuff ourselves with the aforementioned edibles, sing more Christmas songs.  Our daughters bring their ukuleles and song sheets, and we warble on, harmonizing to familiar favorites.  The house fairly rings with music and song.  Wonderful stuff, in all, a really terrific day surrounded by and among the people we love best in the world.  (I check my online bank balance frequently!!)

 

Finally, we remove piles of gifts from beneath the "gorgeously adorned" artificial tree and distribute them to the celebrants gathered round the drawing room and its wonderfully effective gas fireplace.  

Following the gift-giving element with its frenetic ripping and tearing of holiday wrappings (I try to salvage the paper like my mother taught me...  but to no avail!), we sing more tunes, drink celebratory artificial wine-like juices, toast one another again and again, walk the dogs (there are two of them, one each in our children's families -- Petey and Yoshie, both male canines!), or sit and sip and nibble the endless cookies and gingerbread effigies and salted nuts.  (I'm particularly fond of mixed nuts and Virginia peanuts...  I tend overdo the nut thing; a flaw in my character, I suppose...)  

As if the joyous celebration at SweetHeart's and my family home isn't enough, at approximately 6:00 PM we pack up our necessaries, our "dish or dishes to pass" and repair to the home of our niece.  She and her husband have a large dwelling with a subterrranean space where the younger revelers gather to "talk treason" and to remove themselves from parental interference.  The food is always plentiful and "nummers" as my dear departed mother-in-law would say -- her word for yummy.  

Eventually, following this grand reunion with hosts of cousins, grand nieces and nephews, other relatives and friends, as the clock alarms us (particularly me as "I should be in bed by now!"...) with its reading, we begin to "Welp," my brilliant son-in-law's coinage for "I've had it.  I'm tired and it's time to go!"  (Another translation is, "Well, I see by my watch or my Cellular time reading that's it way past time to get the hell out of here!"). 

As I now reflect on the Season just past, I smile, or, more accurately, effect a silly grin and remind myself it's over for another full year.  Hooray!  Next year, I'm adopting my Jewish half, and I'll brook no objections from any quarter.  I mean it!  (Fat Chance...  Yeah, like that's gonna happen Man, Dude, Bro...  I like to use all three!).  See ya next year, Santa, you fat old obnoxious, red-nosed bankrupting jerk!!  

Humbly Submitted, 01-05-2022 -- by Joel K.  

  

 

   

  

Insomnia, Somnambulism and Plaid Dreams!

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

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

This Episode:           Insomnia, Somnambulism and Plaid Dreams!

As one firmly ensconced, more like inextricably mired, in the challenging Age of GeezerHood -- a time in which simple facial blemishes become permanent purple blotches on a once devilishly handsome mug -- peaceful and uninterrupted sleep has become a kind of illusion!  Let me elucidate...

While some of us can fall asleep during root canals and children's school concerts that sound more like conventions of screech owls, SweetHeart has a lifelong battle with insomnia, and on a nightly basis.  There are, however, lighter moments in her quest for sleep.  I recall one evening, long ago.  She often uses television as a kind of sleep-inducing medium.  We happened upon a sermonette in which the clergy person was doing an excellent imitation of Boris Karloff:

"Sleep is your friend," he began.  "But one mustn't wallow in sleep, nor use it as an escape from our sacred duties, the performance of good works.  Sleep is merely an interlude between acts of charity and kindness toward our less privileged brethren.  Rise up and contemplate what you will next do to give purpose to your life in full wakefulness...!"

 

As "Boris" droned and prattled on interminably, we chuckled somewhat mirthlessly as we threw socks and shoes at the screen.  (Television screens were more solid and durable in the 1970s, you see!)   In spite of his amusing exhortations, sleep, on that particular night, was another elusive shadow as we both lay wide-eyed, tossed, re-adjusted our bodies, pillows and blankets in feckless efforts to fall into a well of peaceful slumber.  I think I dropped off about 2:30AM, while SweetHeart's turn came at about 4:00AM!

As a younger man, following my time in the military, I experienced strange periods of somnambulism.  On an evening in the late 1960s, in mid-autumn and durning my often-drunken college years, I was briefly billeted at the home of my parents.  I entered the upstairs bathroom, filled my mouth with water, then, according my my mother's account, scratched at her bedroom door.  When she opened said door with considerable irritation in the middle of that strange night, I spat the mouthful in her face.  Mother was displeased, to put it mildly.  I apparently walked back to whatever unoccupied bed I happened to find and slept quietly, and without further perambulation...  at least I think so...!  

There were other episodes of sleep walking.  One of them ending at a kitchen table where perhaps I was planning a late-night snack or a breakfast of eggs and toast.  There was physical evidence to support both probable choices of foodstuffs.  (SweetHeart's father -- in his own GeezerHood -- once

awoke while eating eggs.  He had no idea where he was, how he got there, or who prepared the eggs!)

My dreams in the Age of Geezerhood, are remarkably odd.  I'm a barrister in an old sports car, driving while seated on a bent-wood kitchen chair.  I'm working on a newsletter or a manifesto, searching for an old edition from which I can cut and paste.  I'm pounding on an ancient typewriter, manually flipping the carriage so vigorously that it sails out a window.  Sometimes I can fly!  I soar over a cityscape scouting for evildoers.  Or I'm fretting over an upcoming examination for which I failed to read any of the required philosophy tomes.  (Or was it theology?) 

And gunmen!  Often I'm fleeing from villains wildly shooting their pistols, obviously with intent to do me a grievous injury, or worse!  I fall down stairways and into sewers.  Sometimes I'm on roller-skates or skateboards, neither of which I cannot now nor have ever mastered!  If I'm honest, sometimes I'm the aggressor.  I'm often playing volleyball in my dreams, or football...!    

Most recently, I dreamt in Plaid!  Each dreamscape mostly obliterated as I attempted to see through a tartan kilt or a Scotsman's earasaid or tonnag.  I can't make out the scenes behind the annoying plaids.  I could be in mortal danger, but I can't see clearly through the fabric.   Are they Piper's plaids or Drummer's?  What the hell difference does that make?  The whole business is terribly strange...   Sometimes patterns change in mid dream!...  

Oh, and one more result of ridiculous dreams.  I sometimes scratch myself and draw blood.  What does that mean?  Too much violence in dreams, I suppose.  Perhaps the answer is a machine that makes soothing sounds, like ocean waves or a gentle breeze to lull a person into a more peaceful realm of slumber...  Wait a minute; I have one of those!  Ach!  It's all too bizarre...     

Hmmm...  Perhaps what the nation really needs is a Department of Dream Interpretations! Maybe get rid of one of the less effective departments, and replace it with one staffed by competent interpreters of dreams; and perhaps add staffers or a sub-department that can assist with other sleep-centered disorders -- insomnia and of course somnambulism!  Yeah...   That's the Ticket!!  (I know people who claim they interact routinely with celebrities in dreamland; I find that a bit hard to accept!  I'm happy if occasionally my dreams are inhabited by dead people, relatives and friends alike!  Always delightful to see them!!)   

Humbly Submitted, 11-30-2021...  By Joel K.   

      

  

    

Our Passage to Istanbul... Adventures and Minor Revolutions!

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

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

This Episode:       Our Passage to Istanbul...  Adventures and Minor Revolutions!

It was a Tuesday, or maybe not...  Might have been a Thursday, even a Friday!  Trouble is, when you work shifts -- Days, Swings, Midnights -- the days not working became blurs of memory, blending or crashing into one another as if becoming single, enormous knots.  The year was 1962 or maybe 1963?  We were in the military, the US Air Force to be accurate, assigned to the USAF Security Service, stationed near the town of Karamursel, Turkey at an Air Force Station on the shores of the beautiful Sea of Marmara.  

This is a tale told not during the era of GeezerHood.  But recollected stories and memories recently shared have a way of insisting, inserting themselves into our consciousness, demanding that we put ink to paper and recall adventures frozen in a still-functioning psyche!  

The station was some 20 KM from the city or town of Yalova, a ferry port on the aforementioned sea.  We'd ride a bus, about a 45 minute to one hour trip.  We'd drink Raki, a licorice-flavored and highly potent spirit the Turks would pass around to those of us brave or stupid enough to take large swallows from the omni-present jugs that always traveled with us on the bumping blue busses.  

The Port of Yalova

Never entirely inebriated, but close, we'd step off the bus and walk the short distance to the ferry terminal, purchase our low-cost tickets, and cruise the 90-or-so minutes from Yalova to Istanbul.  We'd drink "Vodka-Lemones" or more Raki, crack their shells and consume large quantities of pistachios.  Sometimes the Marmara would be angrywould bounce the ferry vigorously aided by large swells delivering to passengers near the rails stormy showers of salty and cold sea water.

We'd sail past Buyuk Ada and Heybeli Ada, the former the island home of some Armenian - Turkish friends, the latter the site of a Turkish naval base and a branch of its naval academy.  

Turkish men would approach our table or chairs or, if we were standing, directly to our ears, in any circumstance, about an inch or two away, and state loudly, emphatically, "Deniz, Chok Fenah."  (Two of the words are printed phonetically for ease of pronunciation!). The phrase is translated, "The sea is very bad."  

We would respond, "Evet, effendum, chok fenah "  Meaning, "Yes sir."  Optionally, "Evet, akadaash."  Meaning "Yes, friend," always repeating or affirming the "very bad" addendum to emphasize and acknowledge our understanding.  And then we'd continue to drink the refreshing Vodka Lemones, or the more powerful and quicker-acting Raki.  

The ferry would enter the gorgeous port of Istanbul, past the Tower of Leander, finally into the quayside, depositing its complement of passengers who always rushed off, as if on missions of great import.  We, too, were eager to begin our days of leisure and entertainment.  We'd drink in the beauty of the Blue Mosque, the Hagia Sofia and Topkapi Palace.  We'd board taxis or busses and head for the Pavion district  (possibly "Paveon," meaning tavern or bar or inn that sells spirits!) or other neighborhoods with which we had become enamored and intimate.  Some would aim their sights on the "Red Light" district, where "women of the evening" would pose seductively in what seemed like large-windowed "Store Fronts" to attract their clientele.

Leander's Tower

On one of our Istanbul forays, in a popular pavion district, a small revolution was gathering strength, the perpetrators "Young Turks" of student or military issue, displeased with the current ruling body at the time, and hoping to encourage more of the like-minded citizenry to join them in attempting to overthrow the government, or at least to demonstrate extreme antipathy.  We were trapped in the middle of the crushing throng.  A Turkish man, recognizing and regarding us as unlikeable or evil Americans -- or so we thought in retrospect -- thrust a knife, but was happily restrained and managed only to penetrate a shirt front slightly and cause a small wound in the soft flesh of the belly of one of us.

In the end, everyone survived.  As day surrendered to night, and traffic -- particularly taxi traffic -- increased dramatically, we walked the narrow streets to a favorite haunt.  Trying to cross a street, the feet of one of us were run over by a taxi cab.  They travel so fast, as if in a race, as if competing for a lucrative fare, as they all in fact were doing, all of the

time and everywhere in that great city. 

Miraculously -- most likely a memory drenched in a bit of hyperbole -- the feet were uninjured, owing perhaps to soft tires or the non-feeling result of strong drink.  In the pavion (or paveon), we spent the better part of the evening consuming more Turkish beer, raki and other boozy potables.  Eventually, we wandered the late-night and early-morning streets of Istanbul, scoring pills and cannabis along the way.  

One of us was "treated" to a bit of LSD, mostly ignorant of its often gruesome affects on both the human body and brain.  The rather bold if stupid half of a drunken duo took the LSD, experiencing the terror of being devoured by a giant cartoon rodent.  The other half of the duo wisely demurred, and would not sample his portion of the nasty potion that resembled, we remembered, a frozen dot of raki, at least in color.  

The Galata Bridge, spanning
the Bosphorus!

We woke in the morning in our respective beds at a clean but inexpensive hotel, ravenous and exceptionally hung-over.  Over a delicious breakfast of cheese, tomatoes, eggs, cucumbers, jam, honey, kaymak, sucuk (a spicy Turkish sausage), pishi (a kind of fried dough) and soup, having met up with our fellow travelers, we discussed the revolution, the stabbing, the taxi's attempt to assassinate one of us, and our collective adventures.  No one talked about the LSD incident.  

-----------------------------------------------------------

Why the obscure use of "we" and "us," rather than identifying specific victims, fools and buffoons, we can only point to the cerebrum and memory draining effects of alcohol, and its extreme and often completely foolhardy misuse.  However, on balance, young men in military service, trying valiantly to experience every manner of frenzied and half-crazed behavior before death overtakes them, are often known to engage in activities that they'd never care to share with a mother or a father or a confessor, or any other sentient being with a working brain.  

What fun we had, though.  What adventures we can now share!  Long after the facts of them, of course -- with equally demented friends of similar, shared experience, grown children, perhaps even with grandchildren and grandnieces and nephews of appropriate ages, intelligence and temperaments.  But only if they'll listen, only if they're even moderately interested in the odd if true ravings of a Wizened Geezer!  

(Special Note of Dedication:    for Tad KM who listened so politely to my latest "historical blather," and encouraged the writer to fashion a posting or two on various topics, this one included...  I think?!...  The extraordinary young man, a superb writer himself, urged me to "write it all down..." for future generations and, of course, posterity.  As such, I was naturally compelled!  Thank You, Tad!).  

Humbly Submitted, 10-08-2021 -- By Joel K.          

 

   

 

  

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.