Tag: family

The Perfect Santa

Cruising through Facebook on the last day of November, I ran across a woman’s plea to find a Santa. She did not want any old Santa, but a particular Santa, who, for at least three years, had captivated her daughters’ hearts. As far as that woman was concerned, she had found the perfect Santa. No one else would do.

Many of us want to believe in the “Jolly Old Elf” residing at the North Pole, even knowing that Santa is a myth. There are thousands, if not tens of thousands people out there willing to put on a red suit and a fake beard to keep the myth alive.

I quit believing in Santa when I was quite young. A combination of being growled at by one of a legion of imitation Clauses in the Men’s room of the Brookpark (Ohio) Civic Center at the end of a party, and discovering my Dad stuffing my stocking by my bedside in the middle of the night. After telling my parents of my discoveries, I kept my disbelief to myself as a courtesy to my younger siblings.

I began to believe again twenty-five or so years later when I owned and operated a combination balloon delivery business and costume shop in Chillicothe Ohio.

It was mid-November when I met Tim. The previous owner of the shop had used him to play Santa for the previous two Holiday seasons. We talked, I liked him. We came to an arrangement where I would arrange dates and he would show up, collect the fee, and cut me in for 10% just for making those arrangements.

I didn’t realize that Tim had a following until just after Thanksgiving. The phone in the shop was ringing almost constantly by people more than willing to put cash on the barrelhead for his services.

Tim Lived in Circleville, working at the box plant driving a loader all day. He wasn’t a burley man – to look at him he was probably the last person one would believe as being Santa. But he worked around his physical self, creating an illusion that he was the real deal. Even adults believed the illusion he created.

Tim and I were quite pleased with our take that first Christmas Season and agreed to do it again the following year.

That second year went on as well as the first. Unfortunately, Tim as Santa was one of only three bright spots in my first year in business. I ended up throwing in the towel the following Summer, barely able to pay my outstanding debts and feeling sorry for myself.

Six years after losing the business (and losing touch with Tim), I ran into another “Real Santa” working in the Santa House in Central Center.

The Gentleman in question, Jim, was the proprietor of the Dairy Queen over in Bainbridge Ohio. His store was closed for the season and he decided to buy a Santa suit so he could play the “Jolly Old Elf” at his leisure. Jim had more of the Santa build, but he also had the magic.

We chatted one afternoon about a problem I had with my then pre-school daughter, Sarah. Sarah was dead set against any sort of costumed character, especially Santa Claus.

I ended up taking Sarah on a shopping trip one evening, suggesting we go visit Santa before going into the store. Somehow I managed to coax her into the Santa House. She was immediately impressed that Santa knew who I was, and just as impressed that Santa knew who she was!

Magic Managed.

My daughter believed.

I believed.

Thirty years down the road – Both of my Santas are gone. But they live on, at least in the mind of a woman in Southern Illinois who is looking for that one person to re-create that magic for her family at least one more time.

I hope she finds him.

Be Seeing You!

Lemonaid

Back to the old saw, “When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.”

Yes, I realize that I misspelled lemonade in the title, but that was deliberate as it has to do with my previous post.

I left you, the reader, with the better half and me poised to head up to southern Illinois to look at homes where we could retire.

Thursday evening of the weekend before Labor Day weekend, the dog Filbrix was due at “Doggie Camp” the next morning, our hotel room was booked, and we were nearly packed for our trip when my daughter called in a panic. It appears that at the last possible moment, she and her significant other were told to vacate their premises because they were “Out of Control.” It sounded to the better half and me that my daughter and her significant other were deemed “Out of Control” because they were in a same-sex relationship.

Relationships aside, they needed a place to go. I didn’t hesitate, nor did my better half. Life had handed my daughter a lemon. I was going to aid them by offering our hospitality… hence, the term “Lemonaid” in the title.

A few back and forths later, it was determined that my daughter would make her way from Georgia to Texas at the same time the better half and I were on our way to house-hunt in Illinois. Since she would arrive in Texas in our absence, we arranged for a key to be held by a mutual friend so my daughter could gain access to the house.

Crisis averted, for her. More lemons to come for us.

When we went to Illinois, we had a specific house in mind to look at and/or to make an offer for. In-town, close to a dog park (one of the dog Filbrix’s favorite things), nicely done back yard, and solar panels already installed and running. The better half was sold when she saw the solar panels. Two-thirds of the way to our destination, our Realtor called and told us that the house had been taken off the market. Sold. Dang!

Fortunately, we were forearmed of the possibility that the house we wanted would be unavailable, so, we had three other places we would look at.

The first was an older grey stucco in an historic district with a detached garage which looked like there would be a Studebaker hidden inside once the garage door was opened. It looked lovely until we went inside. Apparently, the previous owner had passed on to his reward and the house was being sold as part of his estate. There was trash (neatly bagged) in the living room and other indications that nothing had been done to make the house more saleable. Not only that, but the garage was empty. No Studebaker.

We then moved on to a newer place, a ranch house, with what could charitably be called a pie-shaped backyard. There were signs that the neighbors were potentially noisy and the house had a weird layout. We passed.

The third place was perfect. Large, fenced-in yard, fantastic master suite, well laid out, and a sunroom where we could install a hot tub!

We made an offer, but someone beat us to it.

Back to the drawing board.

We had a chat with the finance guy and a chat with the Realtor. The upshot was that while our credit was swell and we could pull the money together for a down payment and closing costs, we needed to sell our house in Texas before we could buy a house in Illinois.

Now, our trip wasn’t a total wash… we did manage to connect with the other half’s children (and the grandchild) while we were there. We also found a decent place to get barbecue. The trip back was scenic (although it involved a few more hours of travel than we would have liked), and we got a few ideas of places we’d like to visit once we relocated.

Once we got back, though, we knew what needed to be done. We were determined to make the move, but now we had a clearer vision of what needed to be done and in what order. And then there was the task of getting the house in order with two more humans to either help or hinder.

But that’s a tale for another time.

Be Seeing You!

Who Needs a Gym Membership When They Have a Dog?

This morning, I took the dog Filbrix out for an extended walk on the Chaparral Trail from the Farmersville trailhead while strangers came to look at my house.

The strangers were there for a good reason. The better half and I have put the house up for sale so we can move ourselves and the dog Filbrix to southern Illinois. Our hope is that the strangers who came to look at our house will find it at least tolerable and will want to move in straight away.

Or at least after the fifth of November.

Why the move is because of several factors… among them being two stepchildren and one and two-thirds of a grandchild already living in southern Illinois. After making several trips up there over the past few years, we have found less expensive housing (some of that actually “cheaper” as you will find out as you continue to read this essay), the people are generally friendly, and there are actual hills and forested areas nearby.

Shades of southern Ohio!

After having suffered through Chemotherapy in the past twelve months, both the better half and I decided it was time for a change. Except for one stepdaughter, we no longer have a good reason to stay here in what I have called, “My own little corner of the DFW Metromess.” The strongest tie we had was my Mother-in-Law, until recently, living in San Antonio. My wife drove there once a month or so over most of the past year while the M-I-L wasted away due to Parkinson’s. She passed in May. Her ashes, as well as the ashes of her late husband, are in what the better half calls our “Conservatory.”

One other reason for us to “Head for the Hills” is that the better half’s job will come to an end in early November. She is a day nurse for a juvenile with physical “issues”. Her patient will age out of the system, meaning he will turn 18, meaning she will no longer have a patient to attend to. So, she has decided that she will retire at about the same time the two-thirds of a grandchild will make his appearance among the living.

Two-third’s older brother can hardly wait. A brother, Nana, and The Colonel (an inside joke) will all be in Illinois along with much of the rest of the family.

The decision to move was made in early July. I started perusing Zillow and found several houses available in what I thought would be an attractive price range. That in mind, I girded my loins and made a solo trip to look at a couple of candidates in a town once known for producing washing machines.

I made an appointment with a Realtor to look at what I thought was the best candidate for the money. The appointment ended up being a total bust. The neighborhood was nice, the house looked nice from the outside, but once inside, it was a total disaster. It seems that the house had been repossessed and that the lein holder was anxious to get at least some money for the money he or she was about to lose. If someone would have left the electricity on, the basement would not have gotten wet, leading to several other problems.

One of the other homes I was half interested in viewing was a rambling place on the other side of town, again at a bargain price. I had a quick glance and that was all I needed to convince myself that I didn’t want to even think about the place. There was a four to six foot ditch in front of the house. Seriously. Evidently, it was on the wrong side of the tracks.

My trip in July wasn’t a total wash, though. I left with a favorable impression and was able to touch base with the kiddos. It became a further win-win on the way back to Texas when I concluded that there were certain stretches of road in Oklahoma I didn’t really want to drive on.

I returned with a determination that I wanted to relocate. Plans for a second trip in August, this time with the better half, started to come together. We made reservations, found a place to park the dog, worked on getting pre-approval for a mortgage, had a handful of houses we thought we might be interested in viewing, and were practically on the road when something came up.

More later. The story will get interesting, I promise.

Be Seeing You!

Past Due for an Update

This one may take a while.

For those of you who follow me solely on WordPress, I’m still here and I’m relatively healthy. Chemotherapy is now four months behind me. From the looks of it, I’m thriving. I had a CAT scan, a visit with my Oncologist’s Physician’s Assistant, and a session with the nurse in the infusion room to clear my port. The only lingering effect has been the neuropathy in my fingers and my feet. My Primary Care Physician put me on a drug that was supposed to help… two months (and $120) into the recommended therapy and I don’t feel as if there has been any difference. The PA at the Oncologist’s office told me that healing takes time. (Lord give me patience… RIGHT NOW!!!)

Part of my tardiness on this platform was due to my Mother-In-Law’s illness and eventual passing back in May. She had been having a tough time with her health, exacerbated by the death of my Father-In-Law just before Christmas last year. My wife, with my blessing, drove down to see her mother in San Antonio on average once per month. I pointed out to her that while the distance was daunting, she would appreciate having time to spend with her mother before her eventual demise. Not to pat myself on the back too hard, but I was right in my assessment. My wife returned to the house from her last trip to see her mother less than 48 hours before her mother died. My wife was grateful that she went on my insistence.

With death comes responsibility. We have spent more than a little time attending to details involving my M-I-L’s estate and planning a get-together for a memorial service in San Antonio. We were able to gather for the memorial service with little or no problem. I arranged for hotels and a couple of meals for an assortment of family from as far away as Southern Illinois. It was good to see the grands and to marvel at how much they had grown in the past two years or so since we last saw them. The service was on Saturday and some of us deliberately took time on Sunday to go down to the Riverwalk in Downtown San Antonio. It had been a while since I last went there, and it will likely be a while before I head back down there.

Now I could say something to the point that life returned to normal after we returned to our home base in our little corner of the DFW Metromess… but that would be less than truthful.

During the last of my Chemotherapy sessions, I started taking a look at our family’s fiscal position in anticipation of my wife’s retirement. Not long before losing her mother, my wife’s hours as a nurse for a patient in the next town over were cut to accommodate a situation with her patient’s care. Her patient was allocated so many hours of care per week. She had been working overtime – a situation not appreciated by the agency she worked for. After doing some calculations it was decided that she would continue with fewer hours with her income supplemented by Social Security. In the short term, we would be a bit better off. In the long term, we came to the realization that since her patient turned 18 in the first part of November, her job would go away. Since she turned 67 in March, she decided that enough was enough and that she would just go ahead and retire at that time.

So the question came up – “What comes next?”

Three years ago, my stepdaughter and her husband moved to Southern Illinois. Her brother, my stepson, joined her about a year later. The attraction was a lower cost of living (as compared to the DFW Metromess). Both of the stepchildren were able to purchase homes of their own for considerably less than what they would have to pay here in the Metromess. I did some prowling on the internet and found more than an ample supply of housing we could purchase, again at a reasonable price, leaving us with a considerable nest egg after selling the house we are living in now. I started prowling on the internet well before the demise of my Mother-In-Law, keeping it mostly to myself until a few weeks after the memorial service. My wife warmed up to the idea after I took a solo trip to the area to get a feel for it… well, that and the presence of a grandchild (soon-to-be grandchildren).

I’m still running the numbers, but it looks as if a move could be likely in a few months. Allow me to expand on the idea at a later date.

Be Seeing You!

Story Time

One of my sisters sent me a packet of information about a distant relative – Cousin Julius – a Civil War veteran whose 102nd birthday was celebrated in Life Magazine. Part of the package included a story written by my father. I transcribed the story, intending to print it and send it to my siblings. Well, somehow the writing program didn’t recognize my printer. So, here is the story. As written by my father nearly 75 years ago – along with all his little misspellings and quirks that made the story uniquely his…

MacPheerson and the Smiling Nude

 

        “Whenever I visit you in Norfolk there are always two things of which I can be sure: First, you like me as a friend but do not wish to put any money in my venture. Next, there will be an ad in the Sunday paper which will ask for information concerning Doris Batker.”

               “Right on both counts.”

          “Now you insist on the reason that you will not back me is that you think that my ideas are good in theory but will not be good in practice. The reason for mentioning Miss Batker is to disprove your ideas of me. Look at this ad.”

                    Reward: For information of the whereabouts of

                    Doris Batker who was last seen boarding a train

                    for Washington 15 March 1943. At the time she

                    was wearing a mink coat and had but one small,

                    leather bag with her. She is blond, has a star-shaped

                    scar on the left side of her face, and should be now

                    twenty-six years old.

                    No other information is known.

                    Contact J.M. Mason, Selden arcade, Norfolk for the

                    reward.

          “I have seen the ad; I do not need to read it again.”

          “Well, Tom, here are my ideas on the subject. Miss Batker is of no relation to Mason. He is a well known bachelor and so would hardly be a foster parent. He is the best and most expensive lawyer in town. The cost of employing Mason, together with the mink coat, tells us that more than the girl’s personal safety is involved. All the facts tell us someone other than Miss Batker is to gain, else there would not be this long ad each Sunday.”

          “Mac, you have done nothing but tell me what is obvious. What you do not know is that the girl is my cousin. The exact reason for wishing to find her is this: Soon after Doris vanished an uncle left a will which divides his estate among Doris, my mother, and me. The will is so worded that the money will be in the form of trusts, but the money from the trusts will go to certain charities until Doris is found or is proven to be dead; she cannot be declared dead.”

          “And so you still offer the reward.”

          “Not I; mother is the one offering the reward. My interest in the case ended when Doris’s parents were killed in an auto crash. But all of this puts us back where we started: you are rather good with theory, even if the theory is a well known one.”

          Tom stood up.

          “Would you care to see a copy of the picture which Pinkerton’s used while trying to find the girl? See how the scar shows there by her eye.”

          MacPheerson studied the photo of the girl for a while before he spoke. “Tom, if I were to find the girl, say within a month, would you be willing to add enough money to the reward, but in the form of a loan, to put my venture into action?”

          “Only to say no more of the loan if you do not find the girl.”

          “Agreed.”

Three weeks later, Tom opened a thick envelope that had come in the morning mail. He found it to be the following report from MacPherson:

          To Tom Ashman, Report on Doris Batker.

          The face in the picture of Doris that you showed me was a face I had seen before. Three days before, my brother-in-law had, as a joke, given me a photo of a sexy nude. The face of the nude was that of Doris. The question that presented itself was one of tracing the photograph to the model.

           My brother-in-law told me that he had gotten the photo at a shop on Madison Avenue in Chicago. So I took the next plane. The keeper of the designated shop refused to admit that he had sold this or any other photograph of a nude. He was not open to bribery, so I threatened to call for intervention by the police if he did not wish to aid me. Just how I should have gotten the police to do something was not clear to me; but it was not clear to the shop-keeper, either. Quickly he told me that the photo had come from an establishment on the south side.

          When I gave the address to my cab driver, he told me to wait while he made a phone call. He returned and we were off on a brief but hazardous ride across town. The number that the shop-keeper had given me turned out to be over a bar; the sign on the door said that it was a photographic studio. My driver followed me in like a faithful dog. At the top of the steps two large and unshaven men grabbed me by the arms and told me to come with them; there was nothing else that I could have done. Two other gentlemen cared for my faithful dog.

          We were taken into one of the nicest offices that I had ever seen. Every object was expensive and well chosen. From the far side of a desk we were viewed by a well dressed Italian of about forty.

          “The boys and I found out you were on the way to see us. Now why?”

          While I told him that I wished to find Doris, my two escorts emptied my pockets and put what they found in front of the Italian. It was more than obvious that he did not believe a word I was saying.

          “The boys and I do not wish to get rough; tell me who sent you.” His voice was not rough, but it was one of authority. His lighting a cigarette was the signal for one of my escorts to slap me soundly on the left side of my face. Till then I had thought of such a blow as being a sort of token resistance offered by a woman. I hope that they never find what a deadly weapon they have. “Who sent you?” My lack of what he considered a proper reply was rewarded by another blow in the face, but this time with a closed fist.

          This sort of thing could have gone on for a long while but I thought it was time to use my head and not let it be used. “Let’s stop all this nonsense, and I will give it to you straight,” I said picking myself up from the floor. The Italian offered me a chair near the center of the room and I gladly took it. “Where is my driver?” I asked.

          “The boys took him into the next room. But remember this: from now on I ask the questions. You had best be full of the proper answers.”

          “If you do not believe that there is a Doris Batker, send one of your lads out for a Norfolk paper; there should still be one in the stands. And if you do not believe that I am trying to find her, you may phone Tom Ashman at my expense.”

          “You are doing nothing but playing for time. It may be that you enjoy being knocked in the face. So, if you do not…”

          At this point the place was alive with police. They took one look at my battered face and muttered something about assault while they put the cuffs on the Italian and his boys. “If those lads are sent to gaol,” thought I, “I should never find more information of Doris.” So I spoke up: “Officers, you have the entire thing wrong. You would never arrest a mother for spanking a naughty child, would you? Well, these gentlemen are of the opinion that I am not a very good in-law, and they are right. As long as we were not disturbing the peace, and as long as I don’t mind, let us drop the matter. What do you say?”[1]  

          Their leader said that if I did not press charges he could not take them to the station; he also said he thought I was a fool for not doing so. He gathered his men and left.

          “Look,” I said to the Italian when the last of the police left the room, “I could have gotten out of here when they left, but I did not. I could have even pressed charges. But that would not have helped me with finding Doris.”

          “You know, I liked that remark you made of ‘in-laws’. I was almost ready to believe you when the police arrived. Now, tell me why is finding this Doris Batker is so important to you?” His voice was no longer one of authority; he had reached a personal level. “Are you in love with her?”

          “I told you I was searching for Doris for the reward offered, but I did not tell you that this Tom Ashman will let me have a tidy sum if the girl is found. I must have every cent from both sources in order to try a little venture that I have in mind. Importation of certain optical glass.”

          The Italian smiled in a friendly way. Offering me a glass of brandy, he said, “I am glad that you are not in love with this girl. That would complicate matters greatly. You see, those police would have loved to have gotten me to the station on any charge. They know that I am mixed up with white slavery, but they do not know how and they cannot prove a thing. But still, they would like to have a chance to question me. It stands to reason that if you had been from the police, as we first feared, we should have made that trip to the station.” He went on: “Einstein is a well known man not because he discovered anything new, but because he knew how to put Hamelton’s system of math before the scientific public. He used his head, not his strength. Suppose that you play Einstein for a week and let me be Hamelton. I will find the girl in the next seven days and report to you at your hotel. Register at the Bismark at my expense. Do not feel that was about the matter; white slavery is not my only income. And at heart I am an honest man.”

          There was little to do but to follow his advice. He insisted that I should most likely be murdered if I were to try to find the girl without his help. Some other person might not believe my story.

          My cab and driver were at the curb. “The police got here just in time. I phoned them before we came here. Always have them check me around here. Oh, I made some money at cards while you were being ‘questioned’.” I marveled at the insight of my driver, and I should like to have known how he got his keepers to play cards. And I wondered whether or the Italian, whose name I did not know, would be able to find the girl… or if he would try to find her at all. At that point it was interesting, but I was in no physical condition to honestly care.

          By Saturday I had begun to care very much. When I thought that my month was a quarter gone and that I had nothing to show for it, save the promise of an unknown man, I began to feel uneasy. There had been no word from the Italian. He ha d said he would give results in a week, and the week would not be over until Monday; but my inactivity had made my fears of never having my import company grow to enormous sizes. I had made up my mind to go out for a drink when there was a light knock at the door. It was the Italian. Behind him stood my cab driver.

          “I have good news for you. I had feared Doris to be dead. We generally do not use pictures of our girls while they work for us. Doris is alive and well. Anything else you wish to know of her you can ask her yourself. In the morning your old cab driver, whom you now see dressed as a chauffeur, will drive you to see Doris in my car.” The Italian was in a jovial mood. “Whenever I am looking for honest work, I shall expect you to give me a job.” He was out of sight before I could say a word to him.

          “I wish I was smart like you and the Italian. He told me that he checked on you and found that you made better grades in college than he. Yes, sir, he is a Harvard man. He told me to be by for you at six in the morning. Good night.”

          I had expected a short ride, but three days later we came to a medium size town in central Texas. My driver told me that in the morning I was to visit the doctor. And the following morning I was driven to the office of a Dr. E. S. Lowe. Just before I entered the office my driver handed me a note which told me that Dr. Lowe’s wife is Doris Batker. I found that she is more than his wife; she was his good right arm, in the form of a skilled surgical nurse.

          But there are some questions I am not able to answer even after these days at Dr. Lowe’s: Who the Italian was. How Doris came to be a nurse. And so on. But I have found out why Doris left. And her return will not be at all welcomed by your mother who offered the reward in the first place. For the past six years Doris has supressed evidence that will convict your mother for murder.

Notes on this story –

With just a couple of exceptions, I transcribed this story exactly as written by my father over 70 years ago. I would guess that this was written in 1949. It was a class assignment for which he earned a B+ with the notation that while the story was good, it could have been balanced better. Thanks to Janice Sing for including this with materials having to do with “Cousin Julius” sent earlier this year. I may have to toy with this story a bit after I’m clear with the Chemo.

Until then, have a Happy Christmas and a Merry New Year!

[1] Two notes on this paragraph: The word “gaol” used by the writer is another term for “jail”. For the other, this was an assignment. After the mention of “the Italian and his boys” the instructor left the words “Where from?” in red and off to the side.