Category: My Life

Spreading Cheer

Spreading Cheer

Wednesdays have been “Doctor Days” for me this month. For some reason the day seems to be good for everyone concerned. In order, I did blood work for my Primary Care Physician, seeing him the following Wednesday. Last Wednesday, I reported for bloodwork and a CAT Scan for my cancer doctor’s appointment today. Next Wednesday, I see my optometrist. The following Wednesday, I have an appointment to renew my driver’s license. The last one wasn’t a doctor’s appointment, but it fell right in line with the trend established on the first Wednesday in January.

Through the miracle of the internet, I can pretty much know what’s going on with me before I have the opportunity to see a doctor. The visit to the PCP a couple of weeks ago was more like an old home visit than it was a doctor visit. We checked on a couple of issues, came up with a way to address them, and he sent me on my way. Same today with the cancer specialist.

Before I was on my way, I expressed my feelings of guilt going into the visit in the first place. Nearly two years ago, I found I had cancer. It was localized, excised, and that was the end of it. We determined to keep a close eye on things just in case… visits every three months with CAT scans before every other visit. I’m thankful that there is no big deal going on with my diagnosis and follow up. What strikes me, though, is that there are people I know who have been through the wringer, so to speak, because of a cancer diagnosis.

In other words, I feel guilty for going to and from my appointments with the cancer specialist feeling happy and carefree when there are people in the doctor’s waiting room undergoing the fight of their lives.

And they don’t always win.

After expressing my feelings, my Oncologist told me that she had just seen two patients who despite fighting the good fight, were on the losing side of that fight. The fact that she gave her patients bad news made her want to quit her job. I see her point. It can be depressing having to tell someone the effort they have put forward has been hopeless. On the other hand, she was delighted to see me in relatively good health. I was her oasis amid a veritable desert of the soul.

I’ve caught the same vibe from my PCP and most of the other medical professionals I have rubbed elbows with, in the past couple of years.

I am about to finish a four-year program titled “Education for Ministry” offered through the University of the South. The goal of the program is to help us find some way of being of service – some way of ministering to others as part of our life experience. As I have stated before, the program does not necessarily produce Priests, Ministers, or Deacons working in the confines of the church (although it has). Ministery can be something as simple as providing a meal – helping to clothe the naked – or any number of likely endeavors. Including being a bright spot in someone else’s day.

I do believe that. When the Oncologist laughed at something I said, I told her, “My mission for today is accomplished.”

And indeed, it was.

Be Seeing You!

Death And Llewellyn

January 12, 2023 marks 100 years since the birth of my father, Rochelle Harrell Jr. – known to his family and friends as Shelley. Unfortunately, he is not around to mark this landmark, having died at the age of 71 back in May 1994.

            Several years ago, my cousin forwarded some of my father’s writings to me, including this charming short story – Death and llewellyn. The origin of the sub-title is a riddle to me. There is no ham involved.

            The story is intact – as my father wrote it well before I was born. I made several small corrections to better the flow of the story and to correct a spelling mistake or two (he was a terrible speller). One mistake I left in was the spelling of the character at the center of this story. There is an explanation of the reasoning behind the spelling which appears early in the story.

I’m thinking that this story was some sort of a class assignment. For what class, I am not certain, as I am not certain what school he might have been attending at the time. After graduating from high school in 1941, he was a student at Virginia Military Institute until the war sent him to San Antonio to be part of the Army Air Corps. After the war, he studied at the University of Richmond. His mother wanted him (and his sister) to be a doctor – something he never did as I believe he had more the soul of an artist, as did his father.

Dad’s legacy was his six children and a certain amount of eccentricity shared and appreciated by each of us. He was quite a bit like lloyd llewellyn – which is one of the reasons I enjoy sharing this story on the occasion of his birthday.

Be Seeing You!

Death and llewellyn

Or

The President’s Virginia Ham

(Being a short story written by Shelley Harrell)

            There is no man whom I shall dislike as much as I disliked llewellyn at the end of less than three weeks.  To begin with, there was his name.  A normal man would have started his name with a capital; but no, he insisted that it was not proper to use a capital in his name.  The double letters served the same purpose.  His name should then be lloyd llewellyn – with no capitals.

            llewellyn was the last of the party we had to gather before heading into Indian Territory.  Picture our surprise when we found that he had three pack animals fully loaded with his personal effects.  He had been told that we had to travel as light as we could; there was to be taken nothing but what we needed most.  What is more, he was dressed as if he were going for a few hours ride near the town.  Red jacket, grey trousers, and jack-boots have no place in the back-woods.  This I told him.

            “Sir,” he answered, “I was told to make ready for a journey into the back-woods, and I consider myself properly attired and my equipment scarcely adequate.  If you would think that there is so much as one item that you would have me leave, the item remains here, and so do I.”  His statement rang with finality.

            At any other time, had I been spoken to so, the man should have been left standing where he was.  But here before us was the only surveyor to be found, and we were in dire need of a surveyor.  llewellyn was unaware that the best way to get into Indian Territory unmolested was with such a party as this, and the longer that he did not know the true nature of our trip, the safer we should all be.  I controlled my temper and told him to follow us.  After all, there might be some chance of some of his equipment being ‘lost’.

            I let the guide take the lead when I dropped back to talk with this strange person in the red coat.  “llewellyn, in a day or so the roads become so narrow that one can scarcely lead a pack animal, much less ride a horse.”

            “That, sir, is a misconception.  A man can ride a horse anywhere he can walk.  Your horsemanship must be poor.”  He filled his pipe and began to smoke.  “How long have you been riding?”

            “All my life,” I answered in sharp protest.

            “Your pardon, sir.  As you are the only one of the group using an Army saddle, I thought that you might have only learned to ride while you were in the service.”

            If the general had only sent me a surveyor along with my orders, all would have been much better.  But no.  This tall man who called himself llewellyn was the only surveyor to be found.  A man from West Point, or even an enlisted man, would know how to respond to discipline and how to show proper respect.  But at the end of this brief encounter, I could tell that llewellyn was the type that would do as he wished no matter what happened.  It was up to me as the leader of the party to see that his behavior did not endanger the lives of the rest of us or the purpose of the journey.  The Point should include a course in how to deal with civilians.

            That afternoon while I was pondering the best way to handle the situation, llewellyn rode to the head of the column and halted it.  Giving no explanation for his actions, he began a fire.

            “One must keep one’s strength with a cup of tea and a bit to eat, you know,” he said in answer to my questions.  I assured him that I was in command and that we could not spend our time thus.  He informed me that the better we felt the more distance we should be able to travel; and that if I had a mind to venture on, I was at liberty to do so.  He would overtake me before long.  Nothing that I could say would change his mind.  “Your orders go well with these other lads, but please.”  He offered me a place by the fire.

            “llewellyn, if we were just on a surveying party, I should be the last to make objections to resting like this.  In another day or so, we will be in dangerous territory.  Being lax for even a moment might cost us our lives.  It is for your safety and for the safety of the group that I tell you that when we stop it must be only at my order.”  He agreed to that, and then he promptly argued me into stopping for tea at the proper time each day.  His line of reasoning was most simple:  I had made the trip before and knew the average distance that could be covered.  If at the end of two days of stopping for tea we had not covered more than the average distance, tea would no longer be the order of the day.  The best way to win an argument is to let the other fellow prove to himself that he is wrong.

            The next afternoon at tea, I observed llewellyn scrutinizing the homemade boots of one of the men.  “Ever see boots like these before?” I asked.

            “No.”

            “What do you think of them?”

            “The tanning is poor and the workmanship could be called good only by a savage.  My leather goods?  From H. Sleep of London, of course.”

            “But these men could not afford such prices,” I mused.

            “Then they are not very thrifty.  I have had this pair of boots for ten years and they are still in good condition.”

            “These are military boots, are they not?” I asked.

            “Yes, I got them when I went to serve in India.”

            I hate to say this, but he turned out to be right about having tea.  When we would stop, he would take from one of the small packs a small tin which had the words ‘Twining, South Strand, London’ on its side.  Then, as he waited for the water to boil, he would start to fill his pipe (the pipe was a Barling and the tobacco Four Square, you may be sure) to tell of the wonders of India.  All remarks were made to no person in general, and he never looked to see whether or not any of us listened to what he said.  It was as if he were talking to himself; most likely he was.  Soon, after the first of such soliloquies to be exact, there was only Joe, the Indian guide, to listen to his stories.  Joe would listen with undivided attention to stories of strange forests in which a man would not dare to dismount for fear of being attacked by wild boar; of odd little men who inflicted punishment on themselves with the hope of some sort of spiritual reward; of great cities with spacious temples and grand palaces.  But the other six of us concluded that llewellyn read more than was good for him.

            In another day or so, we were forced to walk our horses as I had told llewellyn that we should; however, llewellyn never dismounted.  As an act of friendship, Joe started to demonstrate the fine art of marksmanship with his bow.  llewellyn watched cooly before remarking that the man’s aim was poor and the weapon that he used was even more primitive than the homemade boots the others wore.  No Welshman had used such a weapon since before history began.  These remarks left the man with none friendly to him.

            I deemed it my duty to tell the men the truth as to why we had gone so far into the wilderness, so the next morning I told the men that we had been sent there by the Government to make maps of the country.  More important than that, we had to make some sort of peace with a certain tribe of Indians which threatened our outposts.  Indians held mad persons as being harmless and they considered surveyors as being mad.  That was the reason for our passing as a surveying party.  Now that we were in the heart of the Indian country we should have to be more than careful in all that we did.  The watch at night would have to be changed twice as often so that the person up would be absolutely alert.  What cooking there was would have to be done in the day so there would be no light from the fire.  Only Joe would build the fires, for he knew best how to build one that would not smoke.  We should have to change camp often.  It would be best if we were to contact the Indians in day-light away from their camp and ours.  This way it would not look as if we came looking for them.

            Under my directions llewellyn set up his instruments and began to take measurements along the bank of a river.  Even as I could not but marvel at the way each piece of equipment was packed firmly in its own box.  I had seen nothing like this before.  On each box and on each instrument was the mark of C. Baker of London.  The results that llewellyn got with his equipment were excellent; they were far too good, indeed.  He charted each tree, each little bend in the river and every rise and fall in the land.  Whatever else I might think of him, I had to admire his care and exactness.  But at the rate at which he worked, it would take years to chart the land.  For three days I let him work much as he pleased.

            Other than our party, there was no sign of life.  Joe told me that only the presence of men other than ourselves would cause the wildlife to be so sparse.  I again alerted the men; at all times they were to be ready to repel an attack.  At no time were they to fire first at any Indians they saw, for we had the sanction of being surveyors.

            That very night we were captured by Indians.  When they found that we were on their land the Indians sent several parties out to keep an eye on us.  While he was on watch, llewellyn filled his pipe and lit it with a tinder box.  The light was enough to cause us to be spotted by several of our Indian ‘friends’; and before the pipe was half smoked we found ourselves surrounded and all but smothered by our foe.  In a short time their Chief came and looked at his captives.  A large council fire was built on the spot.  We were brought to the edge of the fire.

            Joe translated the angry Chief’s words for us:  “The White-men come playing to draw pictures of the ground.  That is not true; there are too many of them.”  The Chief pointed at me.  “Captain Green is sent to our land only when we displease White-men.  I shall send him back with the message that the White-men must move their cities back or we shall kill them and burn all their goods.  The rest of Captain Green’s men will be kept as slaves.”  He lifted his bronze chest with a breath of air and walked along looking at each captive in turn.  The muscles of his arms quivered with excitement as he observed us; it was obvious that he was looking for an excuse, even a slight one, to make him able to torture us to death.  He could not do this purely on the grounds that we were hunting on the land that was joint property with another tribe.  That would require calling the other tribe into the matter.

            I tried to reason with him.  My government would not violate the lands this tribe now held if the tribe would not make war on the outposts.  He required more than that; the White-men must not only ‘move their cities back’ but also must pay the tribe for keeping peace.  There was an afterthought:  the land could be bought… for a price more dear than gold.  This is what I wanted.  Now that he had shown a slight desire for bargaining, there could be hope of agreement.  Both sides would have to give in to some degree; and that, as they had taught us at the Point, is as it should be.

            “Could not trading posts be of an advantage to us both?”

            “No dealings with a cowardly people can be of an advantage to my people.”  He walked over to llewellyn.  “See how your men cower before me!”  He struck llewellyn in the face with his fist.  Being unprepared for the blow, llewellyn took it off balance and fell to the ground spitting blood.  This was great sport for the Indians; nevertheless, llewellyn found it a sorry sort of a game.  Getting to his feet he walked to the Chief.

            “Sir, you are the worst kind of coward.  I challenge you to mortal combat!”  Joe translated.

            The Chief showed great pleasure in this remark.  He could not put us to death for hunting on this land without calling in the Chief of the other tribe for a conference, but he could have us killed for attempted murder.

            “We will fight in the morning,” the Chief said.  Then he turned to me.  “Captain, am I right in thinking that it is the challenged person who has the choice of weapons in a fight of honor such as this?”  I admitted that he was.  “In such a case, each of us will have three weapons at his disposal:  scalping-knife, tomahawk and bow.  The bonds on your arms will be cut; do not be so foolish as to try to escape.”

            It was not enough that I should have been plagued with llewellyn these past days; but now that I could see that his very being would result in the downfall of all that I wished to do, the low blow had been struck.  My men had always had the highest of respect for me in the past, but now it was clear that they placed full blame on me for llewellyn’s actions.  I even blamed myself.  There was no reason for letting him be less disciplined than the others, and yet I had.  The death of all my party would be my fault.

            The wrath that the men had was in no way held back.  As slaves there would be some hope of escape.   As soon as the Chief had dispatched llewellyn, he would see to it that the rest of us would die by slow torture.  The dislike all of us held for the man in the red coat blossomed into full hate.

            llewellyn took all our abuses without a word.  As was his habit, he swung a hammock between two trees and promptly went to sleep.

            Before the first light of dawn could be seen, we were awakened from our feigned sleep and told that it was time for us to be taken to watch the duel.  llewellyn turned in his hammock and announced that he should be left one man to act as his second.  His request for Joe was granted.  Once more our hands were tied and we were led to the spot where the fight was to take place.

            By the edge of the river there was a long, flat piece of ground some sixty-five yards wide and over two-hundred yards long.  A post that was no taller than the knee-deep grass marked the center of the field.  The end of which the Chief now sat awaiting the arrival of his adversary was marked by a brightly painted skin stretched between two poles.  Along the edge of the field away from the river were the warriors of the tribe.  The area was now light enough to see that some were only in loin cloths, despite the coolness of the fall morning, and others were in blankets.  All wore war paint.  Our party was brought to a place behind the drummers who stood opposite the pole which marked the center of the field.  A yell from an unseen brave announced llewellyn’s approach.

            llewellyn was flanked by six of the tallest braves I have ever seen.  Their figure was so striking that it was some time before I took notice of the Welshman and his second.  The former was clad in blue tunic, white trousers and black boots.  His head was bound in a fantastic way with what must have been yards of blue and white cloth, and his hands were wrapped in white gauntlets that came half way to his elbows.  Joe walked behind him and carried a bow longer by a foot and a half than those I had seen before.

            llewellyn adjusted the quiver to the proper position on his back; Joe handed him his bow.  Removing the left gauntlet llewellyn slid his hand briskly along the bow for a while.  The signal for the contest to begin was given.  He returned the gauntlet to his left hand and walked with a rapid stride some twenty yards toward the Indian.  Holding up his right hand he yelled to the Chief and told him that we would not hold it against him if he were to back out of the fight at this point.  Joe translated.  The Chief boasted that he would but wound his opponent so as to be able to torture him to death.

            From the cuff of his right gauntlet, llewellyn took his pipe; he lit it and observed the way the wind blew the smoke.  He placed the pipe with care at his feet; and, after stroking the bow with his left hand he strung the weapon.  Once again he called for the Chief to surrender; once again he was told that he would be tortured.  With pleading finality in his voice llewellyn made a third try – to get the same answer.

            Swiftly the gauntlets came from his hands and an arrow was fitted across the bow-string.  The Indian was at least a hundred forty yards away when llewellyn released an arrow.  Before it had landed there were two more in the air and the fourth was half out of the quiver.  Even the Indians lost sight of the missiles as they cut their path through the sky.  One arrow fell a foot short of the Chief and a little to the right, but the next two tore through his body as if it had been made of paper.  The spectators went wild with excitement, but llewellyn retrieved his pipe and calmly walked over to cut the leather thongs that bound our hands.

            We were saved.

            An old Indian whose face was like a piece of dry leather came over and examined the Welshman’s longbow.  He was unable to pull the bow to full draw.  He handed the bow to a young brave who had the same trouble.  The old Indian made a long talk and the other Indians cheered madly.

            Some time later, I presented the President with the following letter:

            My Dear Mr. President,

                 Since the War of 1812 our countries have been at peace with each other.

                 It is my hope that they will remain so.  Recently I became elected Chief of

                 a tribe of Indians which, to that time, was hostile to the United States.

                 I have advised the tribe that war at this time is not desirable.  These men

                 Now owe their allegiance to me and I owe mine to the Crown.  Please

                 Inform the British Ambassador of this situation, which I find most awkward,

                 and have him advise me as to the policy to be followed with and by Her

                 Majesty’s latest subjects.

                                                                        Faithfully yours,

                                                                        Big Chief lloyd llewellyn, G.C.G.M.

                                                                        (Captain, Hodson’s Horse – Retired)

New Year – New… Something

New Year – New… Something

Well, the old year is in the books (yep, yep, yep!) and here we are, right on the edge of the new year, waiting to see what’s coming on the other side. Here it is, January second; already I’ve heard from a friend of mine that he has lost a long-time mentor and friend. A shame. We seem to be losing friends faster these days – friends our age and younger. How much time we have left, well, I’m in the process of seeing how much more time I can gain by exercise and listening to the right doctors.

So far this month, my scorecard is filled. At least on Wednesdays.

Coming up the day after tomorrow, I see my Primary Care Physician. Next week, I get a CAT scan and blood work in anticipation of more blood work and a visit with the cancer specialist the following week. My final Wednesday appointment will be with my Optometrist. She’ll likely send me next door with a prescription for new glasses. If I want to see what’s going on, I sure would like to be able to see what’s going on. Come October, I will see the Ophthalmologist to see how soon I need to have my cataracts looked after.

Hopefully, I will be able to die at a ripe old age by gunshot from a jealous lover. Dad wanted to go that way. As it is, he will miss his 100th birthday by 29 years. He thought that he might be able to copy the wish of his Uncle Johnny, who promised to “Kill an ox and invite everyone I know to the party.” Uncle Johnny missed his 100th by only a year and a half.

Dad was looking forward to his Uncle Johnny’s party. Dad’s 100th will be January 12th. Looks like I will celebrate the occasion by going to EfM (Education for Ministry) and maybe calling one of my siblings.

With the new year, I’m taking my time to be thankful for some of what went on in the past year. I’m thankful that my visits to the cancer specialist are largely an opportunity for her to tell me (again) that there’s nothing to worry about – that the bump in the road I had in 2021 was nothing more than a bump in the road. I’m being thankful in lieu of feeling guilty that my cancer was easily taken care of while a friend of mine had been undergoing intensive treatment for most of the past year. Thankfully, her doctor told her that her cancer appeared to have disappeared, just in time for Christmas.

I’m thankful that I was able to travel to Ohio for my 50th high school reunion. I was able to connect with quite a few friends I had lost touch with while finding new friends I didn’t realize I had.

There are many other thanksgivings I could cite, as well as many others I may not realize I had.

As far as 2023 goes, I have a lot to look forward to. There are adventures afoot and people with whom I can share those adventures.

Here’s to all the adventures you, the reader, will have in the coming year.

Be Seeing You!

Old Age

Old Age

“Don’t be afraid of old age – it’s a privelege denied to many” – Paraphrasing something I keep reading. I’m old and can’t rightly remember who came up with the quote or where I found it.

While organizing my thoughts this afternoon, I ran across a post on Facebook from an old colleague telling of the death of another colleague and friend from back in the day. And I really mean back in the day.

The recently departed was, in many ways, one of the smartest people I have ever worked with. He had a way with electronics (got him a scholarship to become and electrical engineer), and he had his own little way of making observations no one else could possibly make. For instance, the chief engineer at the radio station where my friend and I worked back in 1974, would purchase a bottle of Pepsi from the station’s vending machine when he began to work on something. My friend noted that the engineer would purchase more Pepsis from the vending machine as the job progressed. Within a month or so of watching that engineer, my friend would estimate how complicated a job would be by the number of bottles of Pepsi the engineer would consume. I can still hear him say that thus and such a job looks like it would be a “Three Bottle Job.”

Anyhoo, my friend is no longer among the living – no longer able to judge how many bottles of Pepsi would be needed to finish a particular job.

Interestingly enough, that friend’s name came up in conversation with a mutual friend less than two weeks ago. The mutual (and still living friend) wondered about the man and what he was up to these days. I told the mutual friend that our friend had “left the building.”

I am to the age when losing old friends is becoming more frequent. I was reminded of the death of one of my best friends to early-onset Alzheimer’s when his widow reminded me of his birthday – and that had he lived, he would be somewhere in his seventies. He barely missed being in his mid-sixties.

The girl living up the street from us when we were in high school was another Alzheimer’s victim. She was a doctor. What a waste.

There was Tim, with whom I shared an enthusiasm for all things automotive. Cancer. Early sixties.

We have all lost someone, a friend, an acquaintance, a family member – and we all mourn those passings to one degree or another. Some we will mourn for years. Others, a month or two tops. Depends a lot on the burden someone’s death places on us. I have friends who have lost children who likely will never recover. Other deaths create barely a ripple in some of our lives.

My friend who passed with Alzheimer’s will be with me for quite some time, I suppose. We were somewhat close. Interestingly enough, it was the man who “left the building” earlier this week who introduced me to the Alzheimer’s victim. I have survived them both and will continue to celebrate being an old fart.

Not many of us have that privelege, you know!

Be Seeing You!

Stories

Stories

Since returning from my class reunion nearly three weeks ago, I’ve had a copy of the Mound Builder – Chillicothe High School’s student newspaper sitting on my desk, staring at me. The lead story, Prophecy of the ’72 Class, was something I wrote.

I never thought of myself as a writer, even though I had been writing since, well, since at least the fourth grade. The class prophecy was the longest something I recall writing until I took an “enrichment” class at Collin College. My output was in dibs and dabs. Song parodies like the ones I saw in MAD magazine, skits with a willing accomplice or two as part of the morning announcements in high school, radio commercials, an attempt at writing a situation comedy for a television writing class, letters to a girl I knew in junior high, the list goes on.

Here it was, a piece I wrote fifty years ago as a celebration of people I knew (and didn’t know) in my high school class. My recollection was that I was given a list of names and was tasked with coming up with a situation where most of the people on that list were mentioned. What amazed me when I re-read this lost [Ahem!] masterpiece was that I got four “predictions” correct, and another two close enough to count as “hits.” A few people were left out – two made it a point to tell me. I apologized and life goes on.

So, I got four (or six, depending on how you score things) predictions correct. What’s more amazing, though, were the real stories of the people in attendance at the reunion. Not all of them had the experience, say of Jack – a former city mayor and aspiring county commissioner. There was David, who went to medical school and went on to become a leader in cancer research. Liz was there – lived in different parts of the country, finally landing a few miles up the road living with another classmate. Phil and Joe were there, successful professional musicians, jamming for the assembled on Friday night. And there was our very own “Rocket Scientist,” Ed, who headed up the entertainment Saturday night.

Those were just a few of the more outstanding people in attendance. But that does not mean that the bulk of us didn’t have interesting stories as well.

I have come to realize over the years that we all have stories inside us; stories which may not seem to be outstanding to the casual observer, but are important to them, their families, and the people closest to them. They are stories worth giving a listen. Stories of heartache and redemption. Stories of places they’ve been, no matter how near or far away the places were. Stories of children, grandchildren, friends, acquaintances. Stories of discovery. Even stories with unhappy endings. As I grow older (was going to say “As I mature,” but everyone knows, men don’t mature…) I appreciate listening to the stories – no matter how mundane. The time I spent in Chillicothe a few weeks back was a time of pure joy… not only listening to stories of my classmates, but listening to a former workmate – to people at the AAUW book sale who know me and my mother – to the Amish woman selling the most excellent cinnamon roll I’d ever had – to an author of two of my favorite books – and to my sisters and their husbands while we were on the way out of town.

As a side benefit, my wife got to know more about me and the stories I’ve told her over the years as I explained where in the “Canon” each of the people I’ve met fit into the stories I’ve told.

I believe that my wife took to heart some of what I was telling her about listening to people’s stories. On the way back, we stopped for an evening to visit with the grandchildren in Fayetteville Arkansas. While we were there, she got the phone numbers of the grandchildren and promised to call them on a regular basis once we got back to our little corner of the DFW Metromess.

As I sat down to write this, she was on the phone with the middle grandchild, a middle schooler, talking about how the week went and actually listening to what the child had to say. I consider that to be a great acheivement.

Happy to have had a hand in that.

Be Seeing You!

Whose Birthday?

Whose Birthday?

Yesterday, I was struggling to recall exactly who was having a birthday today. The reminder from Facebook said it was Joni Hobbs. I know a Joni Hough from long ago, but I was unsure of Joni Hobbs. When my memory of Ms. Hobbs came back, it was because I remembered that the woman died at a very young age (in her forties – she was young to me) several years ago. She was one of two people I knew from my Geocaching hobby who died within a few months of each other. The other cacher was a fellow named Will Neinke. He and I shared an enthusiasm for The Prisoner, a 1960’s series starring Patrick McGoohan as a former secret agent being held in a remote village in an unknown location.

My Geocaching moniker as well as my sign-off phrase at the end of my blogs come from that show.

To continue.

I am at an age where, “Death has more definable features…” to paraphrase William Holden’s character in the movie Network. I’ve lost several good friends to the grim reaper… too many in my humble opinion. But one must keep in mind that one does not live forever. Eventually everyone passes from being a living being to being a story. Something we need to be aware of when we meet with other people is to listen to their stories while they are living. Appreciate what they have to offer. Listen. Remind yourself that no one walks the same walk. Even if a walk appears to be on the same path, it is, somehow different.

Ms. Hobbs and I met briefly in person on several occasions. We would occasionally cross paths on the internet. It wasn’t until the last month or so of her life that she opened up to let the Geocaching community know of her impending demise and of her life to that point.

And she will miss another birthday.

As will Norm Shor.

Norm and I had a mutual admiration society based on the fact that we both worked in radio. For the most part, he was a gypsy, working radio stations primarily in western Pennsylvania and eastern Ohio. He met and married Karen, a woman who, when Norm worked at a radio station in Erie, called him up to ask him who in the hell he was and what happened to the person who usually worked the shift he was working. They hit it off that first night they called and the rest, as they say, is history.

My first wife and I became good friends with Norm and Karen. When my first wife and I split, Karen quipped that she was glad that she got custody of me in the divorce. By the time of the split, Norm was already on his final voyage – early onset Alzheimer’s. Karen and I are still friends – she says that she has been friends with me longer than anyone else she’s known. I take that as a compliment.

I drove solo from Dallas to Pittsburgh to speak at Norm’s memorial. I had to.

The inevitability of death is always present, but at the same time, never really expected. Death of a friend can be soul crushing if we let it. I prefer thinking of death as a passage, from the living world to becoming a good story which can be told with a smile or a fond rememberance. That’s what funerals are for.

When my mother died nearly seven years ago, I made the trip to Ohio not knowing what to expect. I assisted my sibling (very little as it turned out – she did the heavy lifting) with a couple of little details about the memorial service, and for the most part hung out until the viewing and the service. It was at the viewing that I began to hear the stories. Over the few hours the funeral home was open for visitors, I came to realize just how important she was to the people outside of our family. Those stories continued before and after the service the next day. And I’ll be darned if I didn’t get more stories about my mother when I visited the home town a fortnight ago.

Good stories have a long shelf life as do memories of people we know and love.

At some point, we are all going to leave this planet behind, leaving but a memory to live on with others. It’s up to us to decide what we will leave behind – good memories, good stories, or will it be a bad taste in someone else’s mouth.

I prefer good stories.

Be Seeing You!

Fizzy Lifting Drinks

Fizzy Lifting Drinks

One more little bit of fallout from my recent trip to Ohio – I stepped into a Kroger store on Saturday afternoon for at least one item, my Caffeine Free Diet Pepsi. I had run out of the stock I brought with me and needed more to feed my habit. When I got to the checkout line, the clerk asked me if I only had the one box of pop.

Pop?

I did a double take.

My next younger brother and I had been playing a game for years, where we referred to carbonated cola-flavoured beverages as “Sodas,” just to confuse other people in a section of the country where those same beverages were called “Pop.” What those beverages are called depends on where you live. For instance, where I live in Texas, sodas are “cokes,” small “c.” Doesn’t matter if it’s Pepsi, or RC or even 7Up, it’s a coke. The only exception to that rule is Dr Pepper… a genuine Texas beverage if ever there was one.

The summer after I married my better half, we took a trip to Ohio and West Virginia with our two younger sons. Her son (my stepson) had only been out of Texas once before – that being when we took him into Oklahoma for about 10 minutes just to say that he had been out of the state of Texas. He had it in his mind that once one crossed the Red River, no one knew about or sold Dr Pepper. I recall stopping at a gas station in Missouri on the way up, and purchasing a carton of Dr Pepper just to show him that the beverage was, indeed, sold north of the Red River.

Anyhoo, I managed to purchase my soft-drink of choice despite my double take, and everything turned out all right.

Earlier in the day, the better half and I stopped in a specialty store which stocked a wide variety of soft drinks, including one I had heard of, but had never seen before. Moxie.

I’ve heard the phrase, “That person has a lot of Moxie,” used to describe someone (in my mind at least) who had a lot of chutzpah for much of my life. I became aware that there was a beverage called Moxie out there somewhere, sold primarily in the northeast United States. And here were several bottles of Moxie being sold at Grandpa Joe’s Candy Store in downtown Chillicothe Ohio being sold for two bucks a pop (or soda, or coke, take yer pick). I told the better half that I couldn’t rationalize the purchase of a $2 bottle of Moxie if that was all I was going to purchase. She suggested another item to purchase, and we walked out of the store with a bottle of Moxie and something else which will be used as a gift for someone who didn’t believe that Dr Pepper was sold north of the Red River.

As I undertstand it, there are quite a few local soft drinks with limited distribution patches.

In southern Ohio, that beverage is Ski. I never had it while I lived there, and will likely never have it. A person I know with means (and a serious addiction to Ski) had a Ski machine installed at his home so he could buy one for himself whenever he wanted. Now, there’s some dedication!

I have a like for a beverage known as Ale-8 (or Ale-8-1), bottled in Kentucky. I first tried it on a trip up north about five years ago when I was having lunch with one of my best friends at a restaurant near his home outside Versailles Kentucky. Basically, it’s ginger ale with a hint of citrus. Since that trip, I have made it a point to seek out Ale-8 whenever I’ve been out of Texas. The closest I’ve found it was in Illinois this past summer. The Kroger where I purchased the Pepsi didn’t have it, but the other Kroger in Chillicothe did have it.

I nabbed three cartons of Ale-8 on the way out of town. Score!

At each of the Krogers, I was able to score bags of Herr’s Salt and Vinegar potato chips. Herr’s doesn’t quite make it all the way to Texas – unusual in my mind because another of the southeastern Pennsylvania chip makers, Utz, HAS made it to the local grocery stores. The family has called Herr’s Salt and Vinegar chips “Juicy Chips” because of my niece. She was with us at the small family reunion we had in Columbus. When I mentioned that I snagged a couple of bags of Herr’s, she immediately lit up and and said, “Juicy Chips!”

The “Juicy Chips” will last until the end of next week if I’m lucky. The stash of Ale-8 might, just might, mind you, last until early next year with prudent rationing.

And the Moxie? Gone! It was the only cold beverage available at the time we needed a cold beverage when we were almost home. An interesting cola, with hints of root beer and cinnamon. Not bad at all. Worth $2 for the taste. Not worth going up to Maine to get more at a regular price.

I’ll stick with my Diet Pepsi.

Be Seeing You!

Assorted Other Gatherings

Assorted Other Gatherings

A week after having a whirlwind trip to Ohio, I’m still buzzing a little bit attempting to bring things back to some semblance of normal. I had a number of other encounters during the trip, and missed other opportunities to connect with some people I wanted to connect with.

When I started planning the trip about six months ago, I had some grand plans of heading further north than we did and meeting with a few friends and family.

A trip to Cleveland was under consideration. My sister’s youngest child lives somewhere on the east side, with his wife (a woman I had barely met) and two children I’ve yet to meet. There’s a cousin living south and west of the city, and a friend from Ohio University I would have loved to have spent time with, bending elbows and trading stories. Karen, my children’s “Jewish Godmother” would likely have come down from her home in Erie for a visit.

We could have spent a couple of days in the “Best Location in the Nation” quite easily. But it wasn’t to be.

Instead, including the two reunion events, we only spent 42 hours in Chillicothe with more than a few people and places we didn’t manage to go and see. For instance, I really wanted to check out the location of Chillicothe’s “Dickies Barbecue” in what used to be Pizza Hut out Western Avenue. “Dickies” is one of those places here in the DFW Metromess which pops up almost everywhere. Shoot, there’s a Dickies less than two miles from my own little corner of the Metromess. Who says that franchising doesn’t work? On the other hand, a visit to Dickies would be akin to taking a “Busman’s Holiday,” or like traveling to England and refusing to eat nowhere other than a KFC. Don’t laugh. I know of one person who did just that!

There were a few other friends from the internet who were missed on that visit. One I did not miss was Alex, a former co-worker and probably one of the funniest people I’ve ever met. He spent one of those 42 hours we had in Chillicothe regaling us with stories about his exploits. I had short visits with a pair of Nancies who happened in on our celebrations – both doing well and both connected with our class almost at the hips.

There was also a nice surprise when I went to the Baptist church to drop off books for the American Association of University Women book sale which was being organized on Saturday morning. My mom had worked the sale for quite a few years before her demise and one of my sisters had taken advantage of a scholarship from the AAUW. I found that the sale was imminent and I felt that I should at least make a token contribution to honor my mother and my sister. The nice surprise was that there were people working sorting the books who fondly remembered my mother – we spent the better part of an hour trading stories and catching up. The time spent was worth more than the books I donated.

Mom was well remembered when we went to services at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church Sunday morning. Among the conversations I had was one with a well-regarded author who hailed from the small Ross County village of Knockemstiff. I had met him a couple of times before – it was good to see him again.

We wheeled out of town after services at St. Paul’s, pausing only long enough for a trip into Krogers to purchase several six-packs of my favorite carbonated beverage (Ale-8 – a regional soft drink sold mostly in Kentucky). Stopped for lunch in Columbus, where we met my sisters for a mini family reunion, and then it was back on the road again, headed back to my little corner of the DFW Metromess by way of Fayetteville Arkansas.

All in all, we had a very good trip. Wish we had more time for other people and other places. Give it a few months. I may be willing to do that trip again!

Be Seeing You!

Getting Together Several Final Times

Getting Together Several Final Times

My recent trip to Ohio had one primary purpose, the 50th anniversary of my matriculation from Chillicothe High School. The reunion featured several events between Thursday and Sunday – my interest focused on the two big events on Friday and Saturday nights.

With 50 years behind us, us being about 18 at the time, we are in Medicare/Social Security territory – having existed longer than we expect to exist. Indeed, many of us have ceased to be between 1972 and 2022. It’s just a fact of life. Getting together on that 50th anniversary will, for many, be the last time some of us will see each other.

The first “Party” was just that. A party, held at the Elk’s Hall in downtown Chillicothe. The good news is that the Elks can accommodate a large crowd. Very good, considering the number of people who actually showed up. The bad news is that the acoustics were terrible, as would be expected in a large room. Add to that, everyone talking with each other at once, and an alumni band, and you have a cacaphony which may get noise complaints from the local airport.

A month or two before the first party, I was asked to speak for a few minutes to the assembled throng. I had spent a few years as a radio announcer and had a way with words. When we got to the point where I was supposed to perform, I decided it better to tell anyone listening to go ahead and keep doing what they were doing. Which they did.

At one point in my life, my ego would have been crushed. But, not this time. I was happier just getting together with friends and going with the flow than I would have been with making a dull and boring speech. After all, it had been fifty years. Some of us had a lot to catch up on.

After the Friday party, there were a couple of events I was going to make on Saturday, the first being on Saturday morning when a few classmates would gather to take a walk on the city’s flood wall. It wasn’t until after the better half and I did our walk did we learn the reason no one else showed up was that the organized walk didn’t happen until half an hour later than we started.

The other event was the “Formal” dinner at the Chillicothe Country Club. Again, a large room, but with better acoustics. I was more than happy just to attend and not have to worry about making speeches or offering entertainment. The company at our table was amicable, and we had a good time chatting about this, that and the other before and after dinner.

Both evenings were enjoyable, despite the din. I got to see a few of my favorite people, got to meet some people I don’t remember ever meeting, and heard bunches of interesting stories from classmates from every walk of life. It wasn’t until after I got home that I discovered that there were a few other people there I didn’t get to at least speak with, despite being in the same room. I’m sorry to have missed them, although maybe some of them were deliberately avoiding me. Nah… wouldn’t happen!

The only regret I had was that some of the classmates living in Florida didn’t make it, due to the recent passing of the hurricane Ian. It was a darn shame, really. Oh, and there was at least one who didn’t make the reunion because she had been going through Cancer treatment.

Other than that, I had a really good time. Hope to be able to do it again in another five years!

Be Seeing You!