FRED AND ISABEL WEIR

The Weir's were old friends who met untimely deaths. 12/31/2016

FRED AND ISABEL WEIR

   This story is a sad one. Angie’s longtime friendship with Isabel came to an unhappy and unexpected ending. They met while working for the Foster Wheeler Corporation in Manhattan not long after the end of WW II. Over the years, they vacationed at Sun Valley, Idaho; Jackson Hole, Wyoming; the Great Smokey Mountains in Tennessee; and Havana, Cuba. They were a couple of swimsuit beauties back then.

FWC hired seventeen year old Fred in 1949 as a mail boy. He and Isabel fell madly in love despite their five year age difference. In 1950, Fred enlisted in the Marines and saw combat duty during the Korean War. After his discharge from military duty, he found a job operating a printing press for a small family owned publishing company in Manhattan plant and married Isabel. Impressed by his magnetic persona, the company owners offered him a chance to sell their printing services. Soon Fred began earning ten times what college graduates were making at the time. He and Isabel moved to a beautiful home in Long Island. They had two children, Kathy and Fred Jr.

His sales success continued. The owners made him a partner in the firm. Later on, he opened his own printing company located in Yonkers. Confident his business would flourish, he borrowed millions of dollars to pay for German-made four-color printing presses. His business thrived for a number of years, during which time he made a great deal of money. Then, conditions changed. He faced strong competition from around the country while saddled with a Printer’s Union contract that forced him to pay some of his unskilled workforce wages in excess of $100,000 a year. His company lost money three years running and his personal assets were in jeopardy. When the Business Manager refused to allow the Union to vote on a new contract, Fred shut the doors and quit the business, putting many people out of work.

Years earlier, their daughter, Kathy, had moved to Arizona. She became a highly paid sales executive for the Xerox Corporation and later by Hewlett-Packard. She and her husband, Tim McFarland, had three boys. Fred and Isabel purchased land in Scottsdale on which to build a retirement home.

The Weir’s had a brilliant son, Fred Jr., who graduated from Rochester Polytechnic Institute. He settled in New York City, working for one of the major network television studios. He helped produce an award winning film of the Winter Olympics in Calgary. His wife, a native of Buffalo, hated the New York City area. She moved back to Buffalo to be near her parents. He bought a plane, learned to fly, and commuted there to see her on weekends. He finally gave in, quit his job, moved to Buffalo and began working for the State Department. The government put him in charge of a computer program to track Canadian immigration data.

Fred entertained lavishly during his business years. He thought nothing of providing his clients with expensive Broadway theater tickets or paying for vacation fishing trips to Florida. Over the years, Isabel became an ardent and proficient angler. They often vacationed at Montauk Point, Long Island to fish. Other times, they spent weekends in Princeton, at a ritzy but cozy inn. They enjoyed spending weekends at one of the fine New York hotels, taking in a show or two while dining in the most upscale restaurant they could find. Fred rode a limo to work. Isabel stayed at home, but had a Cadillac to drive should she need to go out. Could life be better?

After he quit his business, they moved to Scottsdale into the retirement home they had built on their property. We saw them a number of times at their swanky house, situated on one acre, complete with pool. Isabel cooked gourmet dishes. It suited their tastes. Whenever we dined with them, Isabel would prepare some special appetizers. They were wine connoisseurs, whose dinner selection they placed on ice in a silver bucket. The utilized only the finest crystal and china whenever we dined with them. Afterwards, we would sit in their family room in front of a fire, drinking and talking for hours. Fred, an avid reader, always had the latest book at hand, ready to discuss it or any other subject that might come to mind. Classical or operatic music would be heard in the background.

Fred had a trademark laugh, a booming bellow. It rocked the room. Angie recalls how he embarrassed her by shouting out her name while on the subway one evening.

I liked Fred and Isabel quite a lot. However, we could not reciprocate their lavish hospitality. Nor could we afford to take them to dinner. They would only eat at expensive places far beyond our budget. Their wealth had created too big a gap for us to enjoy their company. Their conversations always led back to the fact they had dough-re-mi. They just could not help themselves, I guess. As an example, they made a point of saying, while touring Vienna, they purchased the best seats in the house to see an opera on New Year’s Eve, followed by dinner at a five-star restaurant where the wine cost more than the national debt.

A wide gulf now separated our lifestyles. We stopped seeing each other. Our close friendship deteriorated into sending perfunctory Christmas cards.

In 1999, we met them by accident in Sedona. They went there specifically to dine at some fancy place that served the best trout in the world. We said we would join them, our treat. We had planned to have just some simple lunch, probably a hamburger somewhere, but that did not match their style.

As it turned out, the restaurant did not have the fish on the menu, so they had to settle for something mundane. During the luncheon, they dropped a bombshell of information on us. They said that Kathy divorced Tim. Her decision devastated them. The irony did not escape s as Fred and Isabel had frequently criticized other divorced relatives of theirs.

We were surprised at how old and weak Isabel looked. She had emphysema, a result of her lifelong smoking habit. Fred, on the other hand, looked the picture of health. We parted without expressing any plans to meet again. As it turned out, we never saw either of them afterwards.

In 2000 Isabel sent us a Christmas card postmarked Buffalo. We phoned her son and left a message. We wanted to know why his father’s name did not appear on the card.  He never returned the call.

Time went by. In June 2001, we called Tim, Kathy’s divorced husband. He said Fred had died some time ago, and suggested we call Kathy to get the details. This news knocked our socks off.

When we spoke to Kathy, she told us that her father entered St. Luke’s hospital in March 1999 for a problem related to his back. He went home after receiving some treatment, but had to return when the condition worsened. Complications set in, and he died in the hospital of a pulmonary embolism on Memorial Day. She arranged to inter his ashes in a Veteran’s Cemetery in Long Island, near where they once lived.

She then went on to say that her mother moved to Buffalo to live with Fred Jr. Shortly after Christmas, Isabel’s health had deteriorated rapidly and she showed signs of dementia. Kathy said her mother suffered a stroke and died in January of this year. Again, the news flabbergasted us. Kathy relayed this information without emotion. She said she was sorry we did not know that her father had died. She assumed her mother had informed us of this fact, or we had seen his obituary.

This litany of sad news depressed Angie who would have liked to talk with Isabel one more time. She regrets that Isabel had not told us of Fred’s death. Had she done so, Angie might have been able to comfort her. It amazed us that neither Kathy nor Fred Jr., thought to call us when their father died.

Fred and Isabel were inseparable soul mates, made for each other. They enjoyed each other’s company immensely. They were proud parents of two very gifted children, extremely successful in business, and knew how to enjoy life. They deserved a better ending.

            ▄

.

EB AND JOBIE BRAZELTON

These dear friends helped make my life a joy. They died far too soon. This is a tribute to them both. 12/30/2016

EB AND JOBIE BRAZELTON

EB AND JOBIE BRAZELTON

Eb and Jobie Brazelton were wonderful pals of mine. I met them in 1953 at the site of the Atomic Energy Commission’s wartime plutonium plant at Oak Ridge, Tennessee. My employer, the Foster Wheeler Corporation, sent me there for six weeks in order to broaden my knowledge of large industrial cooling towers. Eb, a Field Superintendent, had the task of repairing a very large tower damaged by exposure to excessively hot water.

I set off for Tennessee at the crack of dawn on a Sunday morning in my relatively new ’51 Studebaker. Eb and Jobie met me at my motel and took me to their travel trailer for dinner. I could hardly believe construction folks meandered around the country living in these contrivances. Eb stood six-feet two-inches or so, but he did not seem to mind the trailer’s narrow confines nor did Jobie.

They owned a black Cocker Spaniel named "Character" whose dander made me sneeze without letup. By the second week, he had learned to hole up in the bedroom during my nightly visits.

Eb and Jobie were very compatible. They shared interests from rock hunting to classical music. They both came from Illinois. Eb graduated from a vocational high school where he learned his carpentry and cabinet making skills. Jobie had attended but didn’t graduate from the University of Illinois. A farm girl, she knew all about horses, machinery, and small town rural life. She learned bookkeeping and had other secretarial skills, but chose not to work due to Eb's nomadic construction life. She cooked great dishes, my favorite being Key Lime pie.

After work, we spent many hours listening to their large collection of classical music records, a new experience for me. Until then, I disdained such music. Now I realized how much more sophisticated they were than I, a college graduate but a country bumpkin by comparison.

On weekends they took me sightseeing. We visited many TVA dams and reservoirs, and saw many tourist spots in the Great Smoky Mountains. One Saturday we visited the Atomic Energy Commission museum, which had just opened to the public. One section showed the plutonium manufacturing building. I had seen this windowless building from atop the seventy foot high cooling tower under repair and had wondered about its purpose. Vented fumes drifting upwards from its roof provided the only sign of life within. When first built, all employees had to travel to the site through a maze of underground tunnels as an extra measure of security. The workers did not know the plant’s location.

Foster Wheeler had shipped replacement redwood timbers to the AEC plant on an emergency basis that had not been air seasoned very long. Eb had concocted a clever plan to speed up the repair work. He planned to utilize the water stored in the cooling tower’s basin to float timbers to each section of the tower needing repair. The first one he dropped in promptly sank. We had to drain the water to retrieve the lumber, a costly mishap. It marked the only time I ever knew him to goof up on anything.

In 1954, we were among eight Manhattan based employees who transferred to Arcata, California, to redesign the company's line of cooling towers. During the time we spent there, Eb continuously impressed me with his practical knowledge about construction issues. His design input ideas helped to make our towers easier and less expensive to build. He freehand sketches were better than most engineers could draw using drafting instruments.

One of my fondest memories of Eb involved a trip he had to take from Arcata to some place in Texas. He had never flown before and needed an alcoholic fortification before departing. He loved the experience and afterwards would fly anywhere, anytime, without the need for a drink.

When the Arcata office closed and its personnel transferred San Mateo, the company promoted Eb to Chief Construction Supervisor. He now directed the field crews from headquarters. He and Jobie sold their trailer and moved into a home near our apartment. We socialized a great deal. Eb's two daughters (by his first wife) came for long stays, but they were free spirits and difficult to control. The older one took off with a bad dude, and lived an uproarious life afterwards. The younger one eventually married and had two girls. Things did not work out well for her either, and Eb and Jobie had their hands full trying to help raise the grandchildren.

Eb had many talents. Earlier in life he had owned and operated a photography shop. This past week I uncovered two pictures he had given me. One shows me holding up a salmon that I caught while fishing with him. The other is a framed photograph of Roosevelt Dam he had given to me as a gift not long after I had started working at Salt River Project.

Angie and I attended a pottery class with Eb and Jobie one year while living in San Mateo. I never got past the most rudimentary stage. In no time at all, Eb began turning out all sorts of interesting pieces, and could operate the potter’s wheel better than the instructor.

He made wonderful artistic jewelry using materials gathered on rock hunts. He designed and made numerous turquoise rings, bracelets and other jewelry that were both beautiful and singular.

We felt so sorry for Jobie. She wanted to be a mother, but her pregnancies never lasted more than four or five months, while Angie spawned a new baby almost every year. Jobie became one of our most valued sitters.

After Foster Wheeler sold its cooling tower business, Eb opened a business, manufacturing wood products. Our mutual friend, Fred King, now owned his own printed circuit business. Eb designed and manufactured unique worktables and benches for Fred's shop. A Hewlett-Packard engineer saw them and arranged for his company to purchase similar equipment from Eb. In time, Eb designed and manufactured a host of other products for H-P's chip production facilities and many other Silicon Valley high tech firms. His business flourished.

All during this time, he and Jobie spent much of their free time building a unique home at a reservoir near Morgan Hill. Its windowed living room looked out the lake. Indirect lighting illuminated their extensive collection of Kachina dolls. He hid his hi-fi stereo equipment behind a false bookstand to prevent its theft from their isolated home. The detached garage had sleeping quarters in an upper level in which they stayed during construction of the home.

Eb constructed a private pier at the edge of his property to accommodate his motorboat that he usually docked at the main marina. On one visit, after we had moved to Arizona, he taught my kids how to water ski. Then, he towed me on my maiden ride. I popped up out of the water on my first try, rode around the lake once, and then deliberately fell off in front of his pier, exhilarated and exhausted by my one and only ski ride. Eb's towing skill made this possible. He could have managed to get King Kong up on skis.

Over time, we drifted apart, our contacts limited to Christmas cards and an occasional phone call. On one business trip, I visited them at their nearly completed Morgan Hill house. Jobie shared with me her family history book that contained pictures and articles galore. Her family had lived in Illinois for many generations.

Shortly afterwards, Jobie died. Her death shocked Angie and me. Eb had a difficult time adjusting to her death. He hoped to remain in business, but no longer wanted to work every day. He tried to arrange to have someone operate the business, allowing him time to dream up new products and improve old ones, but things did not work out for him. In time, he sold the business to a trio of men. As luck would have it, they went bankrupt in three years. After all his years of hard work, Eb had nothing tangible to show for it, a very depressing state of affairs.

Sadly, we learned from Eb's former secretary that Eb had died after suffering from Alzheimer's for a couple of years. Neither his daughters nor his granddaughters were attentive to his needs. She had taken care of him during that period. This news devastated us as did the news his heirs had sold the home at Morgan Hill. The good news: someone who knew Eb had bought it.

Their place in Heaven will never match the home they left behind. God is probably gobbling up some Key Lime pie while Eb is busy showing him how to improve things up there. God, you are so lucky to have their company.

▄

JOHN F. KENNEDY

This story describes my immediate reaction to an event that shook our country and my thoughts on this matter written years later. 12/29/2016
                                                      JOHN F. KENNEDY

“Kennedy has been shot!” Angie said.

I ran around the office shouting out the dreadful news to my fellow employees. All work stopped. Everyone left for home.

While driving, I listened intently to the radio as sober and solemn voices mournfully provided the latest updates, tears flowing down my face. At home, television news kept Angie and me glued to our seats as the details of the tragedy engulfed us. We could not tear ourselves away from the screen despite the repulsive feelings we experienced.

Johnson took the oath of office amid a sea of controversy and unease. Everyone wondered how the transition would unfold. In the days that followed, the country managed to pull itself together. Jackie’s stoic demeanor during the funeral helped set the mood. She became a stoic and heroic figure.

Kennedy’s death in 1963 came at a time when I found myself at a crossroad, desperately needing to make a career change. That summer, at Angie's urging, I enrolled at Santa Clara University seeking to earn an MBA. It required me to drive some 80 miles round trip two or three nights a week after work.

By the end of summer, the company for whom I had worked more than a dozen years sold its Cooling Tower business to a rival company, leaving me with three options: Remain with my current employer but move to their Livingston, New Jersey headquarters; join the new owner and move to Santa Rosa, California; resign and find a new job.

While stewing over these choices, Angie gave birth to Carol, our fifth child, the first four now 6, 5, 4 and 3 years old respectively. The combination of job stress, school pressure, and child-care made my life hectic and demanding.

What else could worry me? How about the possibility of nuclear warfare with Russia?

At the time, we lived in a subdivision of about 600 houses located in the hills of San Mateo, California. Many of its residents who worked at high-tech Silicon Valley firms felt threatened by Russia and the potential for a nuclear attack. They called a special meeting of the homeowners association to address their fears. After considerable discussion, they formed a committee to explore the feasibility of building a bomb shelter next to the community pool.

Over a period of about six months, the committee conducted studies and made cost estimates. I found the whole idea more laughable than laudable. Who in our neighborhood would survive an atomic blast? A few moms and the swim team, at best. When the homeowners got a whiff of the estimated price tag, the process ended. The fact remains; my neighbors feared them “Ruskies.”

As the year ended, I resigned and started work in Millbrae, California, just a few miles from my previous office location. Despite having to take a small cut in pay, the new job thrilled me as it allowed the family to remain in its comfortable and familiar setting.

Things improved for me in the next few years. I earned an MBA degree from Santa Clara University in the summer of 1966 just a few weeks before my employer planned to move its operation to Trenton, NJ. I resigned and took a job with a small San Francisco engineering firm. Six months later, a Phoenix utility company hired me. Twenty-two years later, I retired at age 62 in 1989 under the provisions of a generous severance package.

In retrospect, 1963 turned out to be a pivotal year in my life, one in which Kennedy’s death now appears as a footnote.

▄ 

J.

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.  

 ▀

                                      .

                                                

.

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.

▄

                                    A.

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.

▀

   

.

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. .

      ▀

.