CHECK MATE

This story features a high school classmate who alse graduated from the same college, a year befor me. 1/2/2017

                                                           CHECK MATE

In 2009, I received an invitation from my college to attend an “Old Guard” alumni luncheon. It listed the names of last year’s attendees, two of whom I knew: Tom Gaynor and Andrew Santulli.

I had no idea Tom had graduated from Stevens. He had taught math at the high school Andrew and I had attended. Seeing those two names induced me to fall into nostalgic swoon. I found Andrew’s phone number in the Stevens alumni log and called him on the spot.

We reviewed our lives. In May 1944, Andrew and I competed to try and win one of three full scholarships Stevens Institute of Technology awarded annually to our high school. Neither of us won one of them. I managed to snag a partial scholarship, and started attending Stevens in July, about one week after graduating high school. I completed three semesters in one calendar year before being drafted into the Army.

As I left college, Andrew arrived. He had received a draft deferment, and had worked for a year at the local shipyard before enrolling at Stevens. I returned to school in 1947 but our college lives never crossed. He never participated in any school activities as he had to work to pay tuition.

 “I barely managed to graduate as I never got good grades. I couldn’t find a decent job afterwards. Finally, Babcock and Wilcox, one of the largest manufacturers of steam generating equipment in the country at the time, hired me to work in their Barberton, Ohio plant. I had to borrow fifty buck from my father to pay the rail fare. When the train arrived in Cleveland, all public transportation had been shut down by a gigantic snow storm. I looked around, thought ‘What the hell am I doing here?’ and took the next train back home.

Fortunately, I found a job with the New York Port Authority and worked there for 32 years before retiring. I had worked on the 72^nd floor of the WTC and knew many of those who died on 9/11.

I’m married, father of three sons, one of whom died in my arms of brain cancer while only a young adult. My faith in God helped me endure this tragedy. My other sons are both very successful.”

I asked, “Do you still play the clarinet as you did in our high school band?”

He seemed pleased that I had recalled that. “No, I haven’t played it in years.”

 Andrew told me that at the Old Guard luncheon he asked Mr. Gaynor, “Do you remember me? You taught me to play chess. I still love the game, and play it every day on the Internet.”

Tom said, “No, but Santulli sounds like a Hoboken name.”

I suggested to Andrew that we meet up in Cleveland to play a chess match to determine which one of us learned more from Mr. Gaynor. He declined. He would have won, easily as Tom never taught me math or how to play that game.  

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AS TIME GOES BY

With the passage of time, I remain nostalgic about Hoboken. This story features a high school chum. 12/26/2016

AS TIME GOES BY

Nostalgia flows from my pores like sap from a maple when I start thinking about Hoboken, my birth city. Not until I had completed writing my autobiography did I learn that the city had created a Historical Museum. Oh, Joy of Joys! The museum contains information far beyond my recall of places and events. One of the most fascinating recollections may be found at: http://www.maggieblanck.com/Hoboken/Hoboken.html

After reading it, I decided to try and contact some of my Hoboken friends who had attended St. Michael’s High School located in Union City. I went to “Classmates.com” and posed as a 1945 graduate. Unfortunately, I found none of my peers listed.

Later, Anthony (Tony) Dietche contacted me to say he had seen my name on that site but couldn’t recall me nor find my picture in his year book. After explaining why I posed as a graduate, he sent me pictures of many of my friends, copied from his year book. This inspired me to write some additional vignettes for the “Hoboken Days” portion of my autobiography. I downloaded the stories onto a CD and mailed it to the Hoboken Historical Museum as an additional resource. They posted my letter of transmittal on their website.

Rob Coughlin came across my letter while conducting genealogical research about a Hoboken family member named Mary Finnerty. He contacted me and we exchanged family trees. We discovered that we are not blood related, but we had one connection. His mother’s brother, his uncle Robert (Bob) Corcoran, graduated from both grade and high school with me. Rob sent me a picture of his teen aged mother and uncle taken on the boardwalk of Point Pleasant, one of my summer time haunts while I lived in Hoboken. What a nice spot that picture filled in my book of memories.

While floating around in this sea of nostalgia, I received a flyer from the HHM. It announced the forthcoming publication of the history of a former Hoboken businessman, Joseph Samperi as told by his son, Paul, with whom I had graduated from high school, and haven’t seen or talked to in over sixty years.

When the publication arrived, I read that Paul’s father had emigrated from Italy. Starting as a humble flower peddler, he became very successful, the owner of two imposing Hoboken buildings, the Continental Hotel and the Union Club, the city’s most prominent social center.

By coincidence, I had just come across a postcard picture of the lavishly ornate barroom of the Continental Hotel while surfing the Internet. The postcard’s advertising message invites people to come and enjoy drinking in its air-conditioned environment.

With help from the HHM, I managed to obtain Paul’s phone number and called him. We spent a delightful half hour reminiscing

“I found a picture postcard of the Hotel Continental‘s air conditioned bar on the Internet.”

“The entire hotel was air-conditioned. That’s why my family lived there.”

No wonder Paul always looked so cool, calm and collected compared to me.

Paul looked mature in high school, the only member of my class who wore a suit coat, shirt and tie every day and carried his books in a briefcase. He planned to become a lawyer.

“How come you didn’t become a lawyer?”

“My father wanted me to help run the restaurant business in the Union Club, and I stayed with it. I’m still acting as a consultant in this field.”

Paul’s father hosted our 1944 high school graduation class party at the Union Club, the first time I can recall entering its portals. During WW II, servicemen flocked there, the closest the city had to a USO. Paul told me that years later, the structure caught fire and never reopened. New owners converted the building into upscale condos.

We talked about the day in 1943 when Frank Sinatra visited our high school to have publicity pictures taken. Paul introduced him to the assembled student body. He claimed that on this occasion, Frank sang without piano accompaniment and signed many autographs afterwards. I had a completely different recollection of this event, but have concluded his is probably the more accurate.

His father owned a big Cadillac. Paul grew up loving big expensive cars and has owned many antique ones. At the moment, he owns a 1937 Packard convertible which he still drives. It has carried him far in life. I am glad he picked me up today, a nostalgic hitchhiker.

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EVERYTHING HAPPENS TO ME

Boy, some people have it tough. Take me, for instance. Read this and you'll understand why I have reason to complain. 12/26/2016

EVERYTHING HAPPENS TO ME

I expect to succumb to the drip, drip, drip of life's minor irritations, not drown in a tidal wave of misfortune. Tiny calamities beset me with the regularity of the Chinese water torture regimen, which alters my otherwise benign and contemplative nature. My current “whine” list includes the following:

A bone spur in my left heel has plagued me for three months. Injections, foot wraps, arch supports, foot baths, none of these treatments have provided relief. Now my right foot is beginning to exhibit similar symptoms. Additionally, my right hip has become very painful. It causes me to walk like a drunken sailor, lurching from side to side.

My wife's car battery died at a shopping center in mid-August, an inappropriate time. Is there an appropriate time? After jump-starting the car, Checker Auto replaced the battery for a pittance, a mere King’s ransom. The car runs but the radio does not. A dead battery triggered its anti-theft device. To activate it, you must first punch in a secret five digit code provided on a plastic card at time of original car purchase. After mucking around for an hour, searching everywhere but unable to find the damn card, I called the dealer, hoping someone there might be able to furnish me the secret numbers. No luck. The authority figure with this power had taken the day off.

Another search through my dresser revealed the plastic card, hanging out with my socks. It took me another hour or so to find the car’s instruction manual which contained the precise procedure one must follow while punching in the code numbers. Finally, the radio came back to life. It would have taken me less time to replace a stolen radio than to reignite the existing one.

Another calamity beset me. A short circuit cut off power to our garage, front porch, and utility room. An electrician promised to come fix the problem. My guess is the power circuit went on strike, in sympathy with the dead car battery.

There seems to be no end to my electrical issues. One of my grandkids dropped a coin into my Casio electronic keyboard, rendering it hors-de-combat. Two months have elapsed, and Casio has yet to supply the needed part to the repair shop. The culprit who committed this crime remains free at large, but her privilege to roam my house has been restricted to certain rooms where she can be monitored continuously.

Aggravating events continue to plague me. My pool pump will not prime automatically. It used to. Perhaps it has forgotten how to perform this task. Do pumps get Alzheimer? A repair man is on his way. He’ll tell me.

My garage door came off its track after striking a Christmas storage box dislodged by my cat. I struggled mightily to get the door open sufficiently enough to back my car outside. The garage door has remained open a few days while waiting for someone to fix it. Thank goodness, the damage turned out to be minor and no new parts were required.

The clothes washer control dial is broken and the replacement knob bought at Sears does not fit even though the number matches the one shown in the parts list. The solution: Phone Sears and speak to a service technician. A clerk informed me that such calls are no longer free. After a long discussion, the technician said he could not offer any recommendation other than to hire one of their service personnel to come fix my machine.

“Do you want me to schedule him?”

“No thanks. I can pay for this phone call or a service call, not both.”

The clothes dryer is now making horrible noises. No one seems to know why. A Sears repairperson could possibly fix both the dryer and the washer. Perhaps we should buy new appliances, or not bother to wash and dry our clothes for a spell.

Our marble-topped coffee table, after standing up nicely for the past forty years, decided to tip over, breaking two of its four wooden legs in the process. No one claims responsibility for the collapse. It just rather happened, like the way the USSR dissolved. Maybe the legs had bone spurs. After replacing them, I risked getting a hernia trying to put its marble top back atop. It measures 42" in diameter, 3/4" thick, and weighs tons.

I subscribed to the Arizona Theater Company ‘96-‘97 season, but failed to list the show dates on my computerized calendar. Conflicts arose with other theater dates. This caused Angie and me to miss seeing two shows, which rather displeased her. The savings we enjoyed by purchasing season tickets seem to have evaporated.

My kids bought me a new computer desk for Christmas. It required two days for me to assemble it. The old oak desk it replaced weighed a ton, but the new one is both heavier and more awkward to handle. I again risked getting a hernia while moving it to my upstairs office.

Our microwave oven cooks bacon to perfection. Unfortunately, the glass tray cracked the other day while heating a few slices. A parts store quoted me a price of $98 for a new tray. This did not compare favorably with the $100 it cost when we bought the oven, complete with tray. It’s back to fried bacon.

If this brief outline of my trivial complaints has not filled your plate with compassion for me, then I suggest you look up my web page on the Internet at www.grumpyoldguy. There you will find an unabridged version of each of my woeful complaints. I’d like to update this page, but my computer is currently kaput.

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PACK UP YOUR TROUBLES IN YOUR OLD KIT BAG

"Don't leave home without it," suggests a credit card company. I brought it with me when on a European tour, but forgot to bring one other important item, the topic of this vignette. 12/22/2016

PACK UP YOUR WORRIES IN YOUR OLD KIT BAG

When the grocery checkout employee asks me if I prefer paper or plastic, I pause. Plastic bags serve my miscellaneous household trash needs, but paper is required for serious garbage.

“Do you offer Gucci leather bags as a third choice?”

The clerks always respond with a polite smile, “No. You’ll have to supply your own.”

Shoppers in America rarely bring their own bags, unlike the practice in Europe. While in Paris with a tour group, I purchased a loaf of bread and some wine in a local grocery store. The check out clerk grudgingly put my things in a paper sack, all the while scolding me in French. I think he said, “Go quickly from my sight, you environmentally insensitive American.”

If you mention “Carbon footprint” at a cocktail party, you run the risk of starting a war. In one corner stand all the “greenies,” shouting across the room at those who are not. The “Save the Planet” folks would love to put plastic bags over the heads of those who continue to use them, convinced they are harmful to mankind. Plastic bags are difficult to recycle. But so are many other waste products of our civilization.

During my working career, I had occasion to help dispose of rubber tires. It is costly to collect and send them to approved storage sites. Should they catch fire, they burn forever, polluting the atmosphere big time. Some used tires are cut up and mixed with asphalt to provide a better highway pavement material, but the supply far exceeds the demand. I once saw an innovative experimental home in a small Mexican village that had been constructed of used tires held in place by adobe plaster. It resembled an igloo and had about the same appeal. I don't think Americans would enjoy living in one.

There is no market for the gigantic amount of ash that coal-fired power plants produce each year. One use would be to dump it on tires should they catch fire. Of course, we could avoid the issue by simply burning used rubber tires instead of coal to produce steam at generating stations. Sadly, the economics don't make that viable.

The world struggles to find a solution to the problem of disposing of industrial waste. All our undertakings lead to the creation of environmentally unfriendly waste. We accept the realization that mankind produces harmful waste for which we have no use.

Technological progress makes perfectly useful things obsolete. Take for example my two Keuffle & Esser Log-Log duplex slide rules. I used one while studying and working as a mechanical engineer. When my job became that of an administrator, it went into dead storage. A second slide rule came my way years later, long after I had retired, a gift from the widow of a former VP of Chevy engineer. It sleeps with the first one in a file cabinet. Computers supplanted them.

Even though the French thought ill of me for not carrying my own shopping bag to the grocery store, I admire them. After all, Americans chose to adopt their easy to understand metric system for our monetary system. In contrast, the English monetary system boggled the mind.

I conclude that Parisians love our money, but not our indifference to their ecological sensitivities.

It’s a worrisome thing to have no suitable bag in which to pack up one’s waste, troubles or food supplies, merci beaucoup. .

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NUMBER ONE

"ONE" is the title of a great song from Broadway. It inspired me to write this vignette which has absolutely nothing to do with music. In it, I brag about my ability to remember important numbers. 12/22/2016

NUNBER ONE

I pride myself on being able to recall from memory my eight digit military service number a half century after Uncle Sam assigned it to me upon my being inducted into the army in September 1945. The reason it sticks in my noggin is because of an incident that happened to me during that year’s Christmas season. At the time, I found myself stationed at Scott Field, Illinois, awaiting security clearance before being trained as a Cryptographic Technician. Almost everyone on base had received a ten-day furlough. Not me. I had to stand guard at the building used to train Cryptographic Technicians, the one I had not yet been cleared to enter. What a way to run the Army.

On my first night of duty, an Officer came by and asked me to identify myself by number. I stuttered, stumbled, drew a blank, and had to read it from my dog tag. This Officer made me repeat it afterwards, from memory. I felt like the dumbest cluck in the coop. I never forgot my number afterwards.

These are not the only digits I carry around in my cranium. My memory bank includes numerous family telephone numbers which permits me to call them without having to use the phone’s speed dial feature.

   I have memorized the numbers of the three credit cards my wife and I carry, including one she uses extensively. Recently, one of us, not me, lost the card and we had to apply for a new version. Thank goodness, the first eight digits on the new card were the same as the old one. The new eight digits that followed had a very simple pattern that I quickly memorized. I am able to babble off these numbers whenever the need arises. Think of how much time this saves me whenever friendly charity workers ask me to give them my credit card number over the phone. There is no need for me to pull out my wallet and search for the elusive card.

I have always been able to recall my social security number, save for one notable occasion. Angie had tripped and fallen in our living room. I took her to the emergency room. My heart pounded as we rushed into the hospital. She looked like an abused spouse. Naturally, before anyone could attend to her injuries, we had to provide proof of our existence. I mumbled but could not provide our social security numbers from memory to the admitting desk clerk. While fumbling for my wallet, Angie, although dazed, rattled them off. That’s team work. She falls down and I lose my memory.

My ability to retain numbers came into play when I began writing my memoirs. Without doing any research, I could recall the addresses of all the residences in which I had lived. My parents moved in, out, and then back into one apartment building, so that made it a bit simpler for me to recall.

My knack of recalling numbers proved useful during my working career. I could readily connect contract numbers to customer names which facilitated my locating relevant files. The speed I displayed in accomplishing this task did not result in a pay raise.

As a practical matter, it is good to know one’s license plate number. I once owned a car licensed FLY-300, easy to remember. Angie decided to get a personalized plate a few years ago. It read, CIAODWN. Chow down. Alphabetic characters may be easier to remember than numeric ones.

I can recall the birthdays of all our children, grandchildren, and now, God help me, great grandchildren. Angie tops this, as she can rattle off the birthdays of our extended family. She has a fabulous ability to keep them all in mind. What is more, she is thoughtful enough to send each of them a birthday card.

What a number she is, my favorite ONE.

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HAPPY TALK

Here's how I acquired the ability to speak in public. 12/22/2016

HAPPY TALK

I joined Toastmasters International in 1957 in order to improve my public speaking ability. This organization trains individuals over a period of three months during which time they complete a series of twelve speech exercises, each seven minutes in length. My Belmont, California club convened every Monday evening at a church hall, some of whose members served us coffee and dessert at the start of our 7 p.m. meetings. It helped create an “after-dinner” speaking environment. Prior to hearing prepared speeches, the group participated in an invaluable training exercise called “Table Topics,” which required members when called upon to give a one minute impromptu response to questions about current events.

Toastmasters training met and exceeded all my expectations. I learned how to prepare speeches on a variety of topics. It boosted my self confidence. It broadened my social life, bringing me into contact with men from all walks of life.

In 1959, the Belmont membership elected me its President. A local paper printed a blurb about the club’s choice. This whetted my desire to rise to an even higher rung in the organization’s hierarchy. In time, I became Area Director.

One year, having won a local area competition, I competed in a state wide speech contest held in Sylmar, near Pebble Beach. Each speaker picked a topic from a hat, and had an hour to prepare a seven-minute speech on that subject. I came in last but learned a trick. The winner had memorized a six minute speech and by adding a few topic related sentences at the beginning and ending of his prepared talk, delivered his unrelated message in a convincing fashion. One hears politicians do this all the time. No matter the question, they rattle off prepared remarks that have little or nothing to do with the topic, preceded by mentioning the topic, ending with another reference.

On another occasion, I helped judge a humorous speech contest. One contestant appeared on stage with a tray of glasses each filled with liquids simulating alcoholic beverages. His theme was, “World Travels.” He began by describing his trip to Paris, whereupon he drained a glass of wine. Next, he went to Edinburgh and toasted the audience with a glass of Scotch. With each leg of the journey, he consumed that country’s most popular drink. Soon, he pretended to be woozy and hilariously inebriated. His talk ended after he drank some fiery vodka in Moscow and ran off the stage, pleading for water. I rated him funny enough to be on a comedy show.

One evening an elderly Belmont club member gave a memorable talk on the subject of retirement. He said, “For the past twenty years, I trained myself to become a cabinetmaker, planning to use this skill to supplement my retirement income. My garage is now a woodworking shop. I have already built up a clientele for my products and am earning three hundred bucks a month on a part time basis. However, I have had a change of heart and instead of pursuing this activity full time, plan to become a minister dedicating myself to serve the prison population. Does this mean I wasted twenty years? No. Had this other calling not appealed to me, I would have enjoyed cabinetmaking. My point is you should begin now to plan for your retirement. Something else may come along that will replace it, but if not, you will be well prepared.” Of course, I never followed his sage advice and retired without a plan.

My career in Toastmasters ended in 1961 when the Belmont club lost its access to the church meeting hall and disbanded. After the Salt River Project hired me in 1967, I discovered they sponsored three clubs. They did not appeal to me. I did not wish to associate with fellow employees in this setting, thinking it would be too inbred.

My Toastmasters training served me well during my SRP days. I made a number of presentations to our board and spoke to employees at various functions, sometimes as the emcee at retirement affairs.

Its basic tenets still help me evaluate public speakers. The good ones: Maintain eye contact; shift their gaze from one side of the room to the other; avoid staring at just one person; do not put their hands in their pockets, jingling coins or keys; and they do not rock back and forth or sway while speaking. One of the best: Lou Holtz. One of the worst: President Obama. Watch him closely the next time he appears on TV. He directs his comment exclusively to those in his live audience, swiveling his head left and right, hardly ever addressing the TV audience by looking straight at the camera. This tendency unnerves me.

If a speaker says, “First, I am going to tell you what I wish to tell you. Then I am going to tell you what I said I’d tell you. In conclusion, I am going to tell you what I told you,” it’s probable the person had some Toastmasters training. That mantra is one of their basic tenets.

Another one is this: Stop talking when you have made your point.

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DO YOU HEAR WHAT I HEAR?

These days, I often have to ask you to repeat what you just said. Here's why. 08/05/2017

DO YOU HEAR WHAT I HEAR?

While recovering from surgery in a military hospital in 1947, my new wristwatch displayed an unusual defect. It would only tick for my right ear. Gradually it dawned on me. A year earlier, after hitching a ride aboard an Army Air Force bomber, the roar of its engines caused me to lose hearing in both ears for about three days. Apparently, my left ear had suffered some permanent damage.

Over the years, this condition has worsened. Hearing aids never worked for me, causing me to cope in different ways. A speaker phone solved most of my problems at work. In social settings my preferred solution is to position myself on the left side of my bride during any discussion, not wishing to miss a single word of what she may be saying about me. She accuses me of having selective hearing loss, able to hear her whisper on the phone but unable to obey her direct order shouted at me from five feet away to take out the garbage.

Single-eared hearing people like me exhibit a stiff-neck syndrome. We twist to hear speakers, freeze in that position, and wind up resembling fans who watch only one player in a tennis match.

My hearing loss has not deterred me from attending concerts or theatre productions. I usually buy seats as close to the stage as possible. Even so, there are times when some parts of the dialog or song lyrics go unheard. You won’t count me among the audience wishing an actor would speak more softly or a singer to turn down his vibrato a notch.

Of course, hearing music blasting from boom boxes and other stereo equipment at the highest decibel level makes me cringe, causing me to run for cover, hands clapped over my ears. Which I should have done while attending a performance of the Phoenix Symphony one evening.

The first half of the program featured familiar classical pieces played without benefit of electronic amplification. After intermission, the show continued with a pops-style format. Ben Vareen sang with the orchestra that had been wired for maximum volume. The sound level hurt my good ear, literally. It pained me to sit through the entire performance.

My enjoyment of music is not dependent upon acoustical enhancement. At home, it is not unusual for me to turn up the volume occasionally, BUT NOT THIS LOUD. Granted, what may be a perfect sound level for some patrons of the arts may be excessive for some others. Musical appreciation is, after all, in the ear of the beholder.

Science has proved that the line between loud music and unbearable noise is located at the entrance to the bedrooms of my youngest son and my oldest granddaughter. Din and excruciating sounds wail from within their lairs which they insist is music. Hah! What do these young people know about this subject? They have yet to discover the joy and beauty of classical music, which concerns me. Will they ever have an opportunity to enjoy our local orchestra?

Many symphonic organizations around the country are falling by the wayside because their communities can no longer support them. Cultural dollars are hard to come by. The Phoenix Symphony is not exempt from these tough economic conditions. The immediate issue: Should I renew my season subscription or opt for some other form of entertainment?

My heart tells me to renew. But the dread of attending another performance that might fracture my eardrums causes me to hesitate. Having given one ear to the country, my rational mind says, “Don’t take the risk. Stay home. Listen to music under conditions you control. Hope that your money and your hearing will play out simultaneously, your plate licked clean.”

A solution is at hand. I plan to buy two season tickets to the symphony, one for my son, the other for my granddaughter. That'll teach 'em. Did you hear that, Beethoven?

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I'M BEGINNING TO SEE THE LIGHT

This story should make you glad you can read it. Not every person is sighted. 12/21/2016

I’M BEGINNING TO SEE THE LIGHT

After my brother Jim became legally blind in the late ‘80s, he subscribed to the Library of Congress Talking Books Program. He enjoyed listening to the audio cassettes this service provided. In turn, this led to my decision to become a volunteer for the organization, Recording for the Blind in 1993.

RFB was founded in 1948 to aid blind veterans of WW II who wished to attend college under the provisions of the G.I. Bill. Its mission is to provide audio versions of textbooks for students who are unable to access standard print. Volunteer readers must pass a voice test and be knowledgeable about the subject matter before they are allowed to serve as readers. I passed the voice test readily, but it took quite an effort on my part to read subjects like algebra and trigonometry, subjects I had studied fifty years earlier.

Creating audio versions of textbooks is both labor intensive and time consuming. Volunteers are required to read the entire textbook including the introduction, the bibliography, footnotes, and margin notes. In addition, the reader must also describe maps, graphs, charts, and diagrams as they appear. Many textbooks can be completed in months, while some very technical books, especially those in the medical field, can take upwards of a year to complete.

RFB grew significantly. Before the year 2000, it changed its name to Recording for the Blind and Dyslexic, as most of its clients are dyslexic, not blind. Many technological changes have been incorporated into the process of recording. Computer programs allow readers to record books in digital format, distributed to clients on compact disks. In some instances, the publishers allow books to be scanned and read using synthetic voices, then downloaded directly to computers and other media devices. The future looks bright for students who need this help to achieve their academic dreams.

I finally had a chance to hear first hand from a student who had benefited from our service. I attended a Volunteers Appreciation Luncheon at the Phoenix Country Club on April 23, 1994, and heard Erik Weihenmayer speak. He exhibited some momentary nervousness, as he had never spoken in public before. With each sentence, he began to exude more self confidence. By the time he ended, he had enraptured the audience.

Erik said he had been born with limited vision but became totally blind by the time he reached eighth grade. He grew up in Princeton, but graduated from Boston College. He currently teaches fifth grade students Math and English at Phoenix Country Day school, and is their wrestling coach, a sport in which he competed while in college. For many years he accompanied his family on adventurous vacations. He trekked up the Andes to explore ancient Incan ruins, hiked through primitive areas of New Guinea, climbed the rugged mountain passes of Pakistan, and went to other exotic and remote regions of the world, not as a rich tourist but as an adventurer.

Erik appeared on TV the week before in a public service announcement that showed him scaling the face of a rocky cliff. He reaches the summit and then faces the camera. Not until then does the audience learn Erik is blind.

For the better part of a half hour Erik held the luncheon audience of volunteers absolutely spellbound as he related to us the circumstances surrounding his blindness, and how RFBD had provided him with the books he needed to pursue his education. Like many blind students, he learned Braille, but once he listened to an audio cassette of an adventure yarn his grade school teacher gave him, he became an ardent reader. He has listened to hundreds of audio textbooks.

He regaled us with anecdotes and personal experiences that demonstrated his wit and intellect. “I carried my RFBD tapes with me on all my journeys around the globe. I want you to know that I could not have succeeded without you.”

There were few dry eyes in the audience when he ended his presentation.

I shook his hand afterwards and told him: You are the only blind person of whom I am jealous. Years later, he told me he had never forgotten my words.

My service to RFBD went beyond recording textbooks. The Executive Director of the Unit surprised me one day by asking me to become a board member. Erik also joined our board. I had the pleasure of driving him and his guide dog to many of our meetings. We lost touch when he moved to Colorado in order to train for his planned climb of Mt. McKinley. I worried that he might not overcome this challenge. He proved me and many others wrong.

I never forgot Erik. How could I? He went on to become the first blind person to climb Mt. Everest. He attained celebrity status, appearing on many national TV shows.

It should come as no surprise to learn that his marriage took place atop Mt. Kilimanjaro. Now the father of two children, he continues to be an adventurer and a motivational speaker. Whether it is climbing the tallest mountains on all five continents, leading other blind people to reach new heights, or riding a tandem bicycle the length of the Vietnam Trail, he is always proving that so-called handicapped people can achieve great feats. Erik set a high standard.

RFBD hopes that other students who benefit from its services will succeed and climb equally high in whatever endeavor they pursue. I reached the heights when SRP awarded me a plaque commemorating my years of service to RFBD at their 2002 Karl F. Abel Volunteer of the Year award luncheon. Thank goodness, the recognition did not leave me speechless, and I continue to read textbooks.

Erik appeared at Chaparral High School on February 18, 2010, to show the movie that features him climbing Mt. Everest. Before leaving, I took the opportunity to speak with him. I said, “Hello, Erik, this is Joe.”

“Joe! How are you? How are all the folks at the Phoenix studio?”

We chatted about old times for a minute or so, and I introduced him to my wife, Angie, and my daughter, Carol.

“Stay in touch” he said as others came by to have their picture taken with him.

His gracious request touched me. With his legion of friends, he actually remembered me after all those years.

He remains the only blind person of whom I am jealous.

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Senior citizens can solve one of our country's fiscal problems if only the country would adopt my plan. 12/21/2016

LUCK BE A LADY TONIGHT

A senior’s group asked me to serve on an Ad Hoc panel to discuss the issue of social security’s pending insolvency predicted by its administrators, unless Congress acts to amend some of its provisions. We hoped to formulate a solution we would then forward to our local congressman for his consideration.

The moderator began the program by asking the panelists: How would you react should Congress immediately reduce your Medicare benefits significantly?

A lively discussion ensued. No one wanted any changes made that impacted us negatively. The meeting concluded without our panel being able to formulate any new funding recommendation.

On the way home from the meeting, I spotted a sign advertising an Indian-operated casino. A thought occurred to me: Let’s use our senior’s insatiable need to gamble to help fund Medicare. They can gamble our way to prosperity.

Here’s my proposal: Have the Administration establish a monthly lottery limited to current recipients of Social Security. Using a check-off box on their Federal tax return, or some other similar mechanism, participants could choose to have one dollar withheld from their monthly check and entered into a pool. A computer would randomly select a winning Social Securing number, that person to receive half the lottery amount, the other half used to fund Medicare.

Of course, this is just a rough outline. Over time, I’d expand the amount players could contribute. Wealthy people who do not need their monthly benefits to subsist (Bill Gates comes to mind) could wager their entire monthly amount.

The I.R.S. would operate the lottery since they have such a fine reputation for security and integrity, key ingredients in any gambling endeavor.

Best of all, a board comprised of living Presidents would oversee the whole shebang as they need something better to do than making speeches or writing their memoirs.

I can hear me now, shouting: C’mon 123-456-7890! I need to pay for some new body parts!

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LUCK BE A LADY TONIGHT

Medicare is headed toward insolvency, according to a report submitted to Congress by its administrators. Despite this warning, Congress has not passed new legislation to deal with the problem. This issue is a politician’s worst nightmare because any change made to the benefits now enjoyed by those enrolled could upset this significant sector of the electorate. This is a hot topic among older Americans.

I volunteered to serve on an Ad Hoc panel while attending a senior citizen conference that met to discuss the looming Medicare financial crisis. We sought to offer a solution to our local congressman. The moderator began the program by asking the panel: "How would you respond if Congress changed Medicare, restricting its benefits only to those over age 75 , eliminating all others from the program, and what steps would you take to overcome your loss of this medical insurance coverage?”

A lively discussion ensued. While a few people refused to accept the premise that Medicare needed fixing, most agreed it did. As one might expect, the topic raised fears among the audience. What would actually happen to the senior population if Congress drastically altered Medicare, reducing coverage or increasing costs? How would the Health Care industry react to such tidal changes? How would physicians react? Would they go out of business? Would secondary insurance programs fill the void? What would they charge? How would poor people fare? How much more of a fiscal strain can seniors impose upon the younger generation to foot the bills for our ailments?

The meeting concluded without our formulating any new funding recommendation to send to our local congressman. I went home disappointed. On the way, I passed an Indian Gaming Casino. A light went on in my brain. We do not need to rely upon our young people to pay for our Medicare insurance program. We seniors can pay for it. Here is my idea. Let us gamble our way to prosperity and a fiscally sound Medicare system.

I would establish a lottery limited to Social Security recipients who like to gamble. Participants would authorize the government to withhold their wager, initially one buck, from their monthly payment by checking off a box on their income tax form. A computer would randomly select a winning Social Security number, that person to receive half the pot, the balance applied toward Medicare, after deducting for lottery expenses.

I would modify this plan over time to increase the amount gambled and to increase the number of drawings. Rich people who have no need for Social Security would be permitted to bet their entire allocation. I envision that folks such as Donald Trump and Bill Gates would consider this option as viable.

The IRS would oversee the lottery since they have such a fine reputation for security and integrity, key ingredients in all gambling enterprises. The whole shebang would be under the watchful eyes of a board comprised of former presidents and perhaps vice presidents who need to have something meaningful to do besides publish memoirs.

I can hear me now: C’mon 123-456-7890! Baby needs a new body part.

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THE IMPOSSIBLE DREAM

Two men with whom I worked became successful owners of their own business firms. This story describes how their dreams became realities. 12/21/2016

THE IMPOSSIBLE DREAM

Eb Brazelton and Fred King, fellow employees of the Foster Wheeler Corporation, made lasting impressions on me. This is a bittersweet vignette that describes our relationship.

In 1954 FWC transferred me to Arcata, California. Eb and his wife were already living there in a trailer park next to nineteen year old Fred, his wife and their infant girl. Eb recommended I interview Fred to become my office assistant. Fred had an imposing physique, standing six foot three inches and weighing 220 pounds who had just lost his football scholarship at Southern California University due to an injury. He impressed the heck out of me so I hired him after a brief interview. When the Arcata office closed, I got management approval to relocate him with the original NYC staff to our new office in San Mateo.

While working with us in that location, Fred began night school to acquire an accounting degree and asked me to loan him $300. It made me sad when I had to turn him down as Angie would not allow me to take such a risk. In time, Fred earned his degree, resigned and joined a small firm that manufactured printed circuit boards. In a very brief amount of time, Fred learned the business such that when it failed, he and two others formed their own company. A year later, he bought out his partners. Then, serendipity happened.

Eb left FWC in 1963 and opened a business making a variety of wood products. He visited Fred’s shop and offered to make him a variety of custom designed sinks, work tables and benches that soon impressed engineers from Hewlett Packard and other high tech Silicon Valley firms that had been buying boards from Fred. Now these very large firms began ordering specialty items from Eb who prospered significantly, but not nearly as much as did Fred who became extremely wealthy.

Unfortunately, their symbiotic relationship came to an unhappy end. They severed all contact with each other after their wives had a falling out. I found this state of affairs unfathomable. For a brief period of time, our lives had intertwined harmoniously.

In 1980, a business jaunt took me to San Jose where Fred told me over lunch about his business career. By then, he had earned millions. In the early ‘70s he had opened a plant in Phoenix, commuting from the Bay area as needed, piloting his own plane. He traveled to Japan frequently to oversee work he subcontracted there.

He credited much of his success to following a rigid business plan. Initially, he grew his printed circuit board business slowly, focusing on quality. To do that, he limited his sales to just a small number of units at a time. “My typical day began trying to obtain a trial order; stay up all night making the boards; deliver them for testing the next day. If they passed, I’d hope to get a small production order that frequently required me to work around the clock in order to meet a delivery deadline. I did all my own accounting to minimize expense. I rarely slept. Had I known how hard it would be, I would never have made the effort.” Modestly, he said he now lives in a new home he had built on a ten-acre lot he purchased in upscale Las Gatos. It appears he hadn’t really needed that $300 loan from me to become a business tycoon.

After that luncheon, Fred disappeared from my life. We never met again. I could never discover his whereabouts. Endless web searches have revealed nothing. There is no final chapter to his life that I can describe. It leaves me with a sense of incompletion, an unfinished tale.

In contrast, Eb and I stayed in touch over the years. He designed and built a unique second home on property that bordered a reservoir in Morgan Hill, California. It was there that he taught me and a number of my children how to water ski. But after reaching the pinnacle of business success, his life spiraled downwards. He sold his business in order to retire from its active management. He wanted to devote his time to creating new products for the firm rather than be its CEO. In short order, the new owners ran the place into bankruptcy. Tragically, Eb’s wife, Jobie, died soon afterwards. Even more tragically, Eb became a victim of Alzheimer’s disease and died, unable to remember how extraordinary a man he had become.

That’s my job now. I will never forget him.

I never dreamed that Fred and Eb would rise far above me in the business world. Perhaps the key to their success lay in the fact that they lived in trailers earlier in their lives. I have concluded that apartment dwellers like me don’t develop entrepreneurial skills.

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PUZZLEMENT

The King of Siam considered women a puzzlement, and most men agree with his obeservation. There are other things that puzzle me, as described in this vignette. 12/21/2016

PUZZLEMENT

Puzzles puzzle me more than they should, which puzzles me. I find it difficult to solve the daily puzzles that appear in our newspaper, or to discover the hidden meaning of conundrums, or unmask sleight of hand tricks. The puzzle I will now describe is one that has long befuddled me, one I have never come close to solving.

Arrange 15 matchsticks (toothpicks, marbles, whatever) into a pattern of five columns and five rows as shown. (The first row contains five objects, the second row has four, the third row has three, the fourth row has two, and the fifth row has the one remaining item.)

I             I           I           I           I

I      I     I           I

I      I     I

I      I

I

Taking turns, players remove as many objects as they wish from any row. If it is your tune to pick but only one object remains, you have lost the game.

"You can go first," said the man who taught me the game. I picked off the top five from the first row. He removed all four from the second row, and then I removed all three from the third row. Uh-oh. He removed the two matchsticks from the fourth row down, forcing me to choose the last one in row five and suffer defeat.

"I'll go first this time," he said, but it made no difference. I do not recall the order in which we took turns removing the matchsticks, but again I lost. We alternated taking turns going first, but it made no never mind to him. I lost each and every time we played. In the intervening years I never figured out how to win this game, regardless of who goes first.

I played games against two other unbeatable foes in my pre-teens. One was my Uncle Bill; the other a neighbor named Mr. Roy. Neither of these gents eased up against me because of my youth. They played for keeps.

My Uncle Bill and I competed in the field of addition. He would ask me to write down two identical sets of random numbers in a four-column, ten-row arrangement. Then, we would add them up in a race against time. He would add two rows of four numbers at a time by covering up the remaining rows with his hand. When he completed the addition of all ten rows in that manner, he would write down their sum at the bottom of the columns.

I added in the traditional manner, one number at a time, starting with the bottom number in the Units column and then moving over to add those in the Tens, Hundreds and Thousands columns. The nuns in my grade school had taught me well, and I could add quickly and accurately. However, I could not match my Uncle Bill. He never made any mistakes and he always won.    

A neighbor and nemesis, Mr. Roy, helped sour my childhood. One summer afternoon he challenged me to a game of checkers. As a kindness, I decided to humor him. I lost that time, and the next, and the next, and on every occasion we played thereafter. He defeated me relentlessly with a cruel and bitter heart. I am glad he and his wife had no children of their own. He would have tortured them. I tried my best to beat him, but I never managed to win, not a single game. His death finally ended my non-stop losing streak.

Aging did not improve my ability to solve brainteasers. Did you ever play the two-word game: It can be green but not blue, floor but not ceiling, wall but not fence, door but not cabinet, knee but not leg, foot but not arm. Players who know the game keep up a running patter of these word groupings until a new player proves he has the answer by expressing a few correct examples. Those who know the clue are duty-bound not to reveal it to the remaining dimwits, like me. It took me forever to figure out this game which I endured while being initiated into a college fraternity. I thought the answer would be found in speech patterns, word associations, opposites, similarities, everything but the obvious. Are you able to give me an example? Good for you, bad for the rest.

Chess proved too challenging for me, but not for my nephew, who at ten years of age had mastered the game. I played against him a few times at family gatherings. His parents beamed at his ability to “whup” me with one hand behind his back. My college education had not prepared me to win board games that required thinking skills beyond the ability to count the pips on rolled dice.

Legerdemain is another activity that always fools me, or makes me appear to be a fool. One evening, a family member performed some after-dinner magic tricks, his latest hobby. I could not fathom the most rudimentary ruse, which baffled him.

"How come you don't see the obvious?" he asked.

"Beats me," I responded, a profoundly accurate summation. “I never look for easy solutions. I keep searching for something more complex. I'm a fan of Sherlock Holmes, not Dick Tracy.”

I have come to accept my shortcomings when it comes to playing games or solving riddles. I don’t lose any sleep over my inability to be a whiz bang at cards or to solve the word puzzles that appear in the daily paper that my wife does instantaneously.

Thank goodness, it does not appear that I have passed along these traits in the gene pool. My grandchildren solve my riddles and win most of the board games we play together. I am taking no chances, however. I have never taught them how to play the matchstick game. I have a feeling they would beat me every time.                 

Watch it, kid, or you’re outta the Will.

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IT'S MAKE BELIEVE BALLROOM TIME

Here's what I recall about listening to radio in the years before television took over. 12/21/2016

IT’S MAKE BELIEVE BALLROOM TIME

Woody Allen's movie, Radio Days, captures the essence of what radio meant to the public during the late '30s and '40s. Some radio broadcasts kept my ears glued to the speaker. During my pre-teen years, I listened with rapt attention to many of the famous adventure serials that aired daily. I lived and died with the exploits of Jack Armstrong, the All-American Boy, as well as The Lone Ranger, Renfrew of the Mounties, and The Shadow. I wanted my parents to buy all their advertised products in order to acquire the gifts they offered by mailing in a box-top. On one occasion, Little Orphan Annie sent me her decoder ring. The secret message read, "Drink Ovaltine," the name of her sponsor’s product. That marketing ploy made me cynical of all advertisers, but I am glad they footed the bill to make it possible for me to listen to the radio for free.

I loved listening to comedy program. I tried never to miss hearing Fred Allen, Jack Benny, Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy, Amos and Andy, and laughed at the predictable crashing sound that happened every time Fibber McGee opened his closet door and things fell out. Duffy’s Tavern, whose bartender character Archie made many witty remarks, gave rise to my English teacher dubbing me with that moniker as I always joked around in her class.

Musical radio programs drew most of my attention. I could have spent Saturday mornings listening to the Metropolitan Opera broadcast but opted instead to listen to less classical music. Five nights a week, from 5:30 p.m. to 7:00 p.m. I religiously listened to the Make Believe Ballroom, hosted by disc jockey Martin Bloch, on WNEW. He played both sides of two records over a 15-minute time span, featuring just one band or singer. That way, the audience heard four songs of one artist, and then four of another. I hated it when he would delay playing my favorite bands or singers, and I had to listen to music not to my taste.

At an early age, I came to enjoy jazzy music. I loved big band swing, and became enamored of the quirky original compositions played by Raymond Scott and his Quintet. Recently, I purchased a CD that included almost all of the songs for which he had become famous. Those off the wall melodies still tickle my ear.

My sister and I listened to The Hit Parade every Saturday night. It featured the NBC orchestra led by Mark Warnow (Raymond Scott’s brother), playing the ten highest rated or best selling songs that week, complete with a drum roll when they announced Number One. My sister used the broadcast to hone her shorthand skills, writing down the lyrics to each song which we would attempt to sing afterwards.  

I considered myself a “hep” cat before turning thirteen. I stayed up very late, usually between 11:00 p.m. and midnight, in order to hear the broadcasts from many venues in and around New York City that featured the big bands such as those led by Glen Gray, Claude Thornhill, Woody Herman, Henry Bussey, Hal Kemp, Benny Goodman, Artie Shaw, Woody Herman, and Duke Ellington, to name but a few. 

A few orchestras really soured me because they played such corny tunes. Guy Lombardo headed my hate list. I threw him in my musical dumpster to which I later added Lawrence Welk.

My interest in popular music declined once be-bop arrived on the scene. I empathized with Benny Goodman, who said after hearing Dizzy Gillespie play an endless number of notes that bore no resemblance to swing, “So, this is my heritage?” Blow it out your horn, Dizzy.

When you raise six children and wind up with nine grandchildren, you become well acquainted with the music of their generations. I have heard, over and over, all the songs recorded by the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, and countless rock and roll “artists.” I have heard, repeatedly, the hits produced by Billy Joel, The Eagles, Elvis, Elton John and more. I have come to enjoy some, but not all, of their music. My son, Joey, found it surprising that I loved the instrumental, Free Bird, as an example. And the raspy voice of Janice Joplin.

Louis Armstrong, or perhaps Duke Ellington, said there is no good or bad music, just music. The same may be said of food. Broccoli may be good for me, but I prefer peas. I do not enjoy listening to much of today’s music, in particular anything that people call hip-hop. I don’t think it is hip, and it does not make me wish to hop. I grew up on a diet of big band swing and hunger for more. Unfortunately, the radio stations rarely cater to my musical memories. It is not a problem for me. Those songs still reverberate in my brain.

I can hear it now, Benny Goodman’s opening theme song, Let’s Dance!

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