The two laps around and through the Covenant Woods' parking lots and driveways on a hot July afternoon delivered more than expected. I eased the buggy out the door and on to the asphalt, where the temperature on a hot, sunny day is always twenty degrees higher than the surrounding area. A moment later, I saw a woman, a resident, coming in the opposite direction. We said "hello" and complained about the heat and humidity as we passed.
Not much of a conversation, but the woman spoke with a German accent, and that took me back to Myrna Drive in Bethel Park. It was a sunny, summer morning in 1975, I think. The occasion was a weekend celebration of Grandma's eightieth birthday, I think. In any event, Dad and I, and maybe brother Jim or brother Ed were at kitchen table. As we talked, Grandma wandered into the kitchen and began saying the nastiest things about Kaiser Willie.
Grandma was born in America, but her parents immigrated from Germany, and she grew up speaking both English and German. She spoke German at home, with relatives, and with her German-speaking friends. The church she grew up in conducted its services in German. Then came World War I, and speaking German in public was no longer a wise idea. Their church switched to having its services in English. If I remember correctly - I don't always - Grandma was born in 1895 and would have been nineteen when the war began in Europe and twenty-one when the United States formally entered the fray.
Neither Mom nor Aunt Jean learned to speak German. Well, Mom did pick up a little. She used an expression that began, Ach du liebe Zeit and went on for ten or twelve more words. Ach du liebe Zeit translates as "My goodness." An Internet search for "German expressions that begin with Ach du liebe Zeit" failed to turn up anything that looked at all like what Mom said. Or, maybe it did, and Mr. Monolingual here just passed it by. Mom also liked to say dummer Eisle, as in, "Tom, you dummer Eisle. Straighten up." By the time I realized Mom had been calling me a dumb ass, I'd already concluded that I often had been a dummer Eisle. No harm, no foul.
German didn't - POOF!! - disappear from Grandma's life. Most, if not all, of my Mom's relatives from Grandma's generation and older could speak German and very often did. As time went on, though, they moved away or passed away. Without opportunities to speak German, Grandma slowly lost the language. And with the language went her memories made while speaking German, and there were lots of them.
"I learned all my catechism in German. Now I can't even remember the Commandments," she said that morning in the kitchen. We laughed and told her that explained a lot. Now, forty years later, I can't imagine having so many memories, especially childhood memories of family times, in a language I no longer understand. Several women living here have German accents, wives of military men, I suppose. Gitta, my friend back in Ohio, speaks fluent German. And Russ can stumble around in it with what he remembers from German classes in high school and college. I bet if Grandma came for a visit she'd enjoy meeting them and conversing in the language she loved. But she'd have to ditch her halo and wings. Those things can intimidate mere mortals.
Tuesday, July 11, 2017
Tuesday, July 4, 2017
Attitude Problem
I am so lackadaisical.
And those few thoughts I have? Hairbrained.
An idiotic spectacle?
That's me, so lackadaisical
I'll scream and get hysterical,
Then claim my poor brain is strained.
I'm just so lackadaisical,
And my brain's filled with thoughts hairbrained.
Friday, June 9, 2017
Miss Parker's Wit and Wisdom
To bring life to an otherwise lifeless day, I hopped on the Internet and spent an hour with Dorothy Parker (1893-1967). The old girl had a lot to say, and she said it well. She brightened my day with observations such as these:
"Her big heart, as is so sadly often the case, did not inhabit a big bosom."
"What's the difference between an enzyme and a hormone? You can't hear an enzyme."
"The two most beautiful words in the English language are 'cheque enclosed.'"
"This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force."
"You can't teach an old dogma new tricks."
"If all the girls attending the Yale prom were laid end to end, I wouldn't be at all surprised."
"Tell him I'm too fucking busy - or vice versa."
"Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes clean to the bone."
"The first thing I do in the morning is brush my teeth and sharpen my tongue."
"Now, I know the things I know, and do the things I do, and if you do not like me so, to hell, my love, with you."
"It serves me right for putting all my eggs in one bastard."
"A hangover is the wrath of grapes."
"Money cannot buy health, but I'd settle for a diamond-studded wheelchair."
"If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to."
"You can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her think."
"Brevity is the soul of lingerie."
"All I need is room enough to lay a hat and a few friends."
I knew Dorothy Parker coined the phrase, "Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses." I didn't realize, though, that she also came up with, "I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy."
"Time doth flit; oh shit."
"Her big heart, as is so sadly often the case, did not inhabit a big bosom."
"What's the difference between an enzyme and a hormone? You can't hear an enzyme."
"The two most beautiful words in the English language are 'cheque enclosed.'"
"This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force."
"You can't teach an old dogma new tricks."
"If all the girls attending the Yale prom were laid end to end, I wouldn't be at all surprised."
"Tell him I'm too fucking busy - or vice versa."
"Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes clean to the bone."
"The first thing I do in the morning is brush my teeth and sharpen my tongue."
"Now, I know the things I know, and do the things I do, and if you do not like me so, to hell, my love, with you."
"It serves me right for putting all my eggs in one bastard."
"A hangover is the wrath of grapes."
"Money cannot buy health, but I'd settle for a diamond-studded wheelchair."
"If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to."
"You can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her think."
"Brevity is the soul of lingerie."
"All I need is room enough to lay a hat and a few friends."
I knew Dorothy Parker coined the phrase, "Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses." I didn't realize, though, that she also came up with, "I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy."
"Time doth flit; oh shit."
Tuesday, May 30, 2017
Notes from the Home - May 30, 2017
It has been anything but a quiet week in the old-folks home. Perhaps it was quiet in other areas of the establishment, but here in the apartment nestled between Richie's on one side and Alice's on the other, the peace was disturbed on several occasions.
In recent weeks, William has been spending more time in Richie's apartment than he has for well over a year. He pays his visits during the daylight hours, for which I am most grateful. There was a time, not all that long ago, when he was there nearly every night until midnight or later. I'm not one to begrudge a pair of buddies a few beers and a pleasant conversation. But on most days, Richie and William each had a few beers by 10 am and several more than just a few by the time they got together in Richie's place for a lengthy series of night caps.
It is challenge to make sense out of anything Richie or William say, but is never difficult to hear either of them. Richie is from somewhere in New England and has the accent to prove it. Once he gets rolling, which seldom takes long, he sounds like an enraged Red Sox fan hurling insults at the umpire from the Fenway Park grandstands. Still, Richie struggles to make himself heard over William, who tries to sound like a Marine drill sergeant, only louder.
One recent afternoon, as I sat at the computer squandering another day, the voices in Richie's apartment got louder and angrier. "You took my wallet," Richie yelled.. "I didn't take your wallet," Alice shouted. A door slammed, then there was quiet. An hour later, I was on my way to dinner, Alice was coming down the hall the other way. "He accused me of taking his wallet. I didn't take his wallet. Why would I take his wallet? He said I sneaked in to his apartment and took it. I didn't sneak in to his place. The only time I go in there is when he asks me in to have a beer. A couple weeks ago, he said somebody stole his wallet. Nobody stole his wallet. We looked around and found it. He forgot where he put it. I should sue him." I did my imitation of a concerned neighbor and went to eat.
As soon as Alice moved in, she began adorning her porch and the area around it with plants. One morning many months ago, Alice knocked on my porch door. She said she had a hose, but nearest hook up for it was over by Richie's apartment. Would I mind if she ran the hose across my porch? I had no objection. Alice hooked up the hose and routed it from the hookup, across my porch to her porch. The hose remained there until the day after Richie made the wallet accusation.
This past Wednesday, as I was squandering another afternoon, there was a knock on Richie's door. "Who's there?" he asked in his surliest voice. It was Kerri, the business manager here, she wanted someone to look at his arm. He made it clear he didn't need or want anyone to look at his arm. That evening, someone else knocked on the door and told him they wanted someone to look at the arm. Richie told the person to go away.
Thursday, I heard that Richie and William got into a fight. Richie got the worst of it. I went to bed at ten o'clock that night and quickly fell asleep. At 1:15 am, I was awakened by Richie's yelling. Lest I be accused of spreading "false news", I should tell you that this might have occurred at 11:15 pm. Between my nearsightedness, macular degeneration and without my glasses on, I often lose the first "1" in 11 and 12 when I look at the lighted, digital readout on the clock radio in the dark of night.
"Come in here," is what I heard Richie yell, or maybe it was, "Don't come in here." In any case, at least two men - based on my hearing two voices - did go in. I also heard frequent beeper beeps, but I have no idea where the men were from. And when they left, they must have taken Richie with them. I haven't seen him since.
Last night at dinner, Tony, who keeps his ear close to the ground, said Richie went home. It seems likely then that the men who came to his apartment were from a limousine service and took him to the airport. Over the past few weeks, Richie told several people he would be going home for a few weeks. And on Friday morning, the hose reappeared on my porch.
In recent weeks, William has been spending more time in Richie's apartment than he has for well over a year. He pays his visits during the daylight hours, for which I am most grateful. There was a time, not all that long ago, when he was there nearly every night until midnight or later. I'm not one to begrudge a pair of buddies a few beers and a pleasant conversation. But on most days, Richie and William each had a few beers by 10 am and several more than just a few by the time they got together in Richie's place for a lengthy series of night caps.
It is challenge to make sense out of anything Richie or William say, but is never difficult to hear either of them. Richie is from somewhere in New England and has the accent to prove it. Once he gets rolling, which seldom takes long, he sounds like an enraged Red Sox fan hurling insults at the umpire from the Fenway Park grandstands. Still, Richie struggles to make himself heard over William, who tries to sound like a Marine drill sergeant, only louder.
One recent afternoon, as I sat at the computer squandering another day, the voices in Richie's apartment got louder and angrier. "You took my wallet," Richie yelled.. "I didn't take your wallet," Alice shouted. A door slammed, then there was quiet. An hour later, I was on my way to dinner, Alice was coming down the hall the other way. "He accused me of taking his wallet. I didn't take his wallet. Why would I take his wallet? He said I sneaked in to his apartment and took it. I didn't sneak in to his place. The only time I go in there is when he asks me in to have a beer. A couple weeks ago, he said somebody stole his wallet. Nobody stole his wallet. We looked around and found it. He forgot where he put it. I should sue him." I did my imitation of a concerned neighbor and went to eat.
As soon as Alice moved in, she began adorning her porch and the area around it with plants. One morning many months ago, Alice knocked on my porch door. She said she had a hose, but nearest hook up for it was over by Richie's apartment. Would I mind if she ran the hose across my porch? I had no objection. Alice hooked up the hose and routed it from the hookup, across my porch to her porch. The hose remained there until the day after Richie made the wallet accusation.
This past Wednesday, as I was squandering another afternoon, there was a knock on Richie's door. "Who's there?" he asked in his surliest voice. It was Kerri, the business manager here, she wanted someone to look at his arm. He made it clear he didn't need or want anyone to look at his arm. That evening, someone else knocked on the door and told him they wanted someone to look at the arm. Richie told the person to go away.
Thursday, I heard that Richie and William got into a fight. Richie got the worst of it. I went to bed at ten o'clock that night and quickly fell asleep. At 1:15 am, I was awakened by Richie's yelling. Lest I be accused of spreading "false news", I should tell you that this might have occurred at 11:15 pm. Between my nearsightedness, macular degeneration and without my glasses on, I often lose the first "1" in 11 and 12 when I look at the lighted, digital readout on the clock radio in the dark of night.
"Come in here," is what I heard Richie yell, or maybe it was, "Don't come in here." In any case, at least two men - based on my hearing two voices - did go in. I also heard frequent beeper beeps, but I have no idea where the men were from. And when they left, they must have taken Richie with them. I haven't seen him since.
Last night at dinner, Tony, who keeps his ear close to the ground, said Richie went home. It seems likely then that the men who came to his apartment were from a limousine service and took him to the airport. Over the past few weeks, Richie told several people he would be going home for a few weeks. And on Friday morning, the hose reappeared on my porch.
Tuesday, May 23, 2017
A Septet of Triolets
It has been almost three months since I have written a word. Hoping to create a spark large enough to get me scribbling again, I consulted The Complete Works of T. Harris (a disorganized heap of papers and a few Word documents) and found, among other things, the triolets that follow.
I wrote these seven ,and twenty or thirty others like them ,when I was a member of Suzanne Byerley's writing class at the Conneaut Community Center for the Arts and later the Kingsville Library. Suzanne introduced me to the triolet form. One week I wrote two or three that had an off-kilter animal theme, and Suzanne and the others in the class kept encouraging me to write more. Which I did.
The class was a wonderful experience. Suzanne was a terrific teacher, so very knowledgeable and so very encouraging. Every class began with Suzanne going through our offerings from the previous week. Her critiques were always a blend of gentle criticism for everything from silly mistakes to flagrant grammatical and spelling errors, effusive praise for all that was done well, and wise, thoughtful suggestions to make the story, poem or essay a more effective piece.
Best of all, at least in my opinion, as she went through our writings, Suzanne would often read aloud a paragraph or two of the piece she was discussing. I loved when she read something of mine; not because it made me feel oh-so-special, but because she read so well. Each time she read something of mine, I'd sit there, listen, and think, "Damn, Tom, that's good stuff, much better than you thought it was." Then I'd read it when I got home and wonder why it sounded so good in Conneaut and like crap back in Ashtabula.
Mary got me involved in the class, and I am so grateful she did. She was also my chauffeur to class once my right leg and foot no longer moved with alacrity from the gas pedal to the brake pedal. Everyone in the class - Jeanne, Katie, Gitta, Nancy, Chuck, Wayne, Celia, and several more whose names I'm having trouble remembering - had class, and everyone had a ready smile. If memories of that class and all the people involved with it can't get me back to stringing words together, I don't know what will.
And now on to the poems I promised you a few hundred words ago.
I wrote these seven ,and twenty or thirty others like them ,when I was a member of Suzanne Byerley's writing class at the Conneaut Community Center for the Arts and later the Kingsville Library. Suzanne introduced me to the triolet form. One week I wrote two or three that had an off-kilter animal theme, and Suzanne and the others in the class kept encouraging me to write more. Which I did.
The class was a wonderful experience. Suzanne was a terrific teacher, so very knowledgeable and so very encouraging. Every class began with Suzanne going through our offerings from the previous week. Her critiques were always a blend of gentle criticism for everything from silly mistakes to flagrant grammatical and spelling errors, effusive praise for all that was done well, and wise, thoughtful suggestions to make the story, poem or essay a more effective piece.
Best of all, at least in my opinion, as she went through our writings, Suzanne would often read aloud a paragraph or two of the piece she was discussing. I loved when she read something of mine; not because it made me feel oh-so-special, but because she read so well. Each time she read something of mine, I'd sit there, listen, and think, "Damn, Tom, that's good stuff, much better than you thought it was." Then I'd read it when I got home and wonder why it sounded so good in Conneaut and like crap back in Ashtabula.
Mary got me involved in the class, and I am so grateful she did. She was also my chauffeur to class once my right leg and foot no longer moved with alacrity from the gas pedal to the brake pedal. Everyone in the class - Jeanne, Katie, Gitta, Nancy, Chuck, Wayne, Celia, and several more whose names I'm having trouble remembering - had class, and everyone had a ready smile. If memories of that class and all the people involved with it can't get me back to stringing words together, I don't know what will.
And now on to the poems I promised you a few hundred words ago.
Camel Lot
When you go to buy a camel,
Go to King Arthur’s Camel Lot.
To select a stylish mammal.
When you go to buy a camel,
Check his hump and tooth enamel -
You can’t return him once he’s bought.
When you go to buy a camel,
Go to King Arthur’s Camel Lot.
Jackal and Hyde
Did you know the well-dressed jackal
Gets his wardrobe from Mr. Hyde?
It’s enough to make you cackle,
When you see the well-dressed jackal,
Once a muscular left tackle
Now quite flabby and six feet wide.
Did you know the well-dressed jackal
Gets his wardrobe from Mr. Hyde?
Mammoth Melody
The huge, lumbering mastodon
Thought he was a pearl of culture.
But when he sang an opera song,
The huge, lumbering mastodon
Was much more frightening than King Kong -
Why, he even scared the vulture.
The huge, lumbering mastodon
Thought he was a pearl of culture.
Notes from a Porcupine
Too bad the prickly porcupine
Never learned to write with his quills.
When writing to his Valentine,
Too bad the prickly porcupine
Cannot write, “Will you be mine?”
Instead he makes scratchy squiggles.
Too bad the prickly porcupine
Never learned to write with his quills.
Rat on the Run
Life for the low down, dirty rat
Is not as easy as it seems.
Once the kitty knows where he’s at
Life for the low down, dirty rat
Becomes a battle with the cat,
Whose head is full of tricky schemes.
Life for the low down, dirty rat
Is not as easy as it seems.
The Cleaning Croc
Janitor Jim, the crocodile,
Worked every day cleaning the swamp.
The turtles had wild parties while
Janitor Jim, the crocodile,
Stood nearby – and never did smile –
With his dust rags, broom and his mop.
Janitor Jim, the crocodile,
Worked every day cleaning the swamp.
The Fussy Bandicoot
The fussy little bandicoot
Wouldn’t eat his seeds and berries.
And he just did not give a hoot,
The fussy little bandicoot,
For meals of spiders and dried fruit,
Unless the fruit was cherries.
The fussy little bandicoot
Would not eat his seeds and berries.
Monday, March 6, 2017
Saturday, March 4, 2017
Notes from the Home - March 4, 2017
An email from Huntington Bank appeared in the inbox on Tuesday, February 21. It wasn't unexpected. In January, Huntington had merged or acquired First Merit, which is where the Ohio Public Employees Retirement System and the Social Security Administration send my money. According to the email, my accounts at First Merit had been successfully moved to Huntington. If I wished to make use of Huntington's online services, I needed to go online and set things up.
Wednesday afternoon I cozied up to the computer, opened Huntington's email, and clicked on the appropriate link for setting up online services. The first page was easy; I was asked to type my First Merit username in one box, and my Social Security number in the other. Then I was directed to click on "Continue" if I wanted to continue.
At first glance, the second page appeared as easy as the first. A box on the screen showed last the four digits of the two phone numbers First Merit had for me. I was to click on the number I wanted them to use, then they would text a number, which I could punch in to get at the stuff I needed. I clicked on digits of my current phone and waited for the promised text. The anticipated message didn't arrive. Instead, "Oops, there seems to be a problem with the telephone number you selected.," popped up on the screen. "Oops, there seems to be a problem with your piece-of-crap computer," said I. Then I looked closely at the number. "Oops, it appears I transposed the last two digits of my phone number when I gave the number to First Merit." I mixed up those two numbers several times or more when I first got the phone. I couldn't blame First Merit for what was obviously my mistake. Well, I could have if I were a politician. But I'm not.
No big deal, at the bottom of the screen there was a phone number at which help was available "24 hours a day, seven days a week." My call was promptly answered by a computer that asked for my Social Security number. "I'm sorry, that number is not in our customer file," the computer said after I put in the SS number. I called again and chose the "Press One" option. "Please say or punch in the account number of one of your accounts." I put in the number of my checking account. "I'm sorry, Huntington Bank accounts do not start with those numbers."
So, I called again and pressed "0", hoping it would get me to a real person. Ha! It bombarded me with really loud, really bad music, occasionally interrupted by a synthesized voice assuring me that my call was important and a representative would be with me in a few moments. Those few moments stretched to ten minutes, and I hung up. Three more tries Wednesday and three on Thursday resulted in lots promises that a representative would be with me in just a few minutes, but the representative never showed up.
Friday, with the end of the month fast approaching, I had no choice but to dial the number, press "0", and wait and wait and wait until the representative picked up my call. Forty-five minutes later, she did. I told her my name and that I was a First Merit customer who wanted to use Huntington's online services. She would be glad to help me, but first I had to make it clear that I wasn't Mrs. Harris. That doesn't bother me. People on the phone have been mistaking my voice for that of a woman's for ten years. My voice must have changed some as a result of the MS.
"OK, Mr. Harris, how can I help you?" Hoping to make light of my foolishness in transposing the digits of my phone number, I said, "Well, I was stupid." "You weren't stupid, Mr. Harris. Lots of people way younger than you are having difficulty with this."
If the people having trouble are way younger than I, that means she thinks I'm way older. Being mistaken for a woman when I'm talking on the phone is one thing. But being mistaken for a "way older" woman is quite another. I was crushed.
Wednesday afternoon I cozied up to the computer, opened Huntington's email, and clicked on the appropriate link for setting up online services. The first page was easy; I was asked to type my First Merit username in one box, and my Social Security number in the other. Then I was directed to click on "Continue" if I wanted to continue.
At first glance, the second page appeared as easy as the first. A box on the screen showed last the four digits of the two phone numbers First Merit had for me. I was to click on the number I wanted them to use, then they would text a number, which I could punch in to get at the stuff I needed. I clicked on digits of my current phone and waited for the promised text. The anticipated message didn't arrive. Instead, "Oops, there seems to be a problem with the telephone number you selected.," popped up on the screen. "Oops, there seems to be a problem with your piece-of-crap computer," said I. Then I looked closely at the number. "Oops, it appears I transposed the last two digits of my phone number when I gave the number to First Merit." I mixed up those two numbers several times or more when I first got the phone. I couldn't blame First Merit for what was obviously my mistake. Well, I could have if I were a politician. But I'm not.
No big deal, at the bottom of the screen there was a phone number at which help was available "24 hours a day, seven days a week." My call was promptly answered by a computer that asked for my Social Security number. "I'm sorry, that number is not in our customer file," the computer said after I put in the SS number. I called again and chose the "Press One" option. "Please say or punch in the account number of one of your accounts." I put in the number of my checking account. "I'm sorry, Huntington Bank accounts do not start with those numbers."
So, I called again and pressed "0", hoping it would get me to a real person. Ha! It bombarded me with really loud, really bad music, occasionally interrupted by a synthesized voice assuring me that my call was important and a representative would be with me in a few moments. Those few moments stretched to ten minutes, and I hung up. Three more tries Wednesday and three on Thursday resulted in lots promises that a representative would be with me in just a few minutes, but the representative never showed up.
Friday, with the end of the month fast approaching, I had no choice but to dial the number, press "0", and wait and wait and wait until the representative picked up my call. Forty-five minutes later, she did. I told her my name and that I was a First Merit customer who wanted to use Huntington's online services. She would be glad to help me, but first I had to make it clear that I wasn't Mrs. Harris. That doesn't bother me. People on the phone have been mistaking my voice for that of a woman's for ten years. My voice must have changed some as a result of the MS.
"OK, Mr. Harris, how can I help you?" Hoping to make light of my foolishness in transposing the digits of my phone number, I said, "Well, I was stupid." "You weren't stupid, Mr. Harris. Lots of people way younger than you are having difficulty with this."
If the people having trouble are way younger than I, that means she thinks I'm way older. Being mistaken for a woman when I'm talking on the phone is one thing. But being mistaken for a "way older" woman is quite another. I was crushed.
* * *
The dogwood tree outside my window is ready to spring into spring.
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