Our Furry Friends

Much has been written about the benefits of having pets to keep you company. Your disposition will improve, your cheeks will glow with good health, and you will live to a ripe old age gracefully. Assuming that is true, our household musty be the happiest, healthiest, longest-lived family on the block because of the four furry friends who inhabit our house.

Katsumi is our Bengal mix princess who treats us all as her minions. She has plush gray hued fur that is as soft and luxurious as a stuffed Teddy bear. Stroking and rubbing her ears is something to be tolerated but any further petting is strictly at her command. She will climb on my desk, sprawl on whatever I am reading or writing and let me know that she wants to petted. When she has had enough she, without so much as “thank you” meow, heads off to one of her favorite napping places.

Then there is Baby, AKA Rex. His personal space is the window sill in my bedroom where he sits for hours looking out at the neighborhood. Baby is a handsome black and gray longhaired tabby with four white paws like sox. He is as graceful as a cat should be and you would never guess he was the best escape champion of all time as a kitten. No matter what obstacles were placed in his way to keep him from leaving the backyard he would find a way to get out. It was fun to see him watch intently how the holes in the fence were blocked and then watch as he promptly found a way around, over, and or through the blockade.

The new addition is Joey, a gray and white Siamese mix, who followed me home one day, came into the house, chowed down, looked around, and promptly decided to adopt us. Joey is, unquestionably, the epitome of a curious, mischievous, ever active kitten. If a cat can be said to have personality, Joey has it. But it may be because he is addicted to catnip. The first place he visits when he goes out in the morning is the catnip patch along the side fence. Frankly we are considering kitty rehab to see if that will slow down the mischief he wreaks in the house as he knocks things over, chews up paper towels, teases the other two cats and wrestles with the dog.

And then there is Bastian the double Pom, so called because he is twice the size of normal Pomeranian but retains the characteristics of the breed. He is yappy, energetic, and affectionate. He also has an identity crisis in that he sometimes thinks he is a cat since he is surrounded by felines. But his dog traits do come out when he guards the house against imaginary intruders who walk by the house, keeps track of when people should come and go from the house and when it is time to go for his morning walk around the neighborhood.

That is our pet inventory for now. They are a constant source of comfort to us and life would certainly be much less fun without them.

A Solution to Rising Crime rates

Almost daily the newspapers publish statistics on how the crime rate across the United States is on the rise. Local police departments decry the lack of personnel, police cruisers, and armament to deal with criminals that roam our streets and alleys. Citizens hire off-duty cops to patrol their neighborhoods and petition their lawmakers to let them carry guns. The time for a modern day “OK Corral” shootout may be nearer than you think.

Fear not fellow citizens, the solution to rising crime rates is as close as your television set. Daily, hourly, minute by minute, murder, child abuse, rape, robbery, extortion, kidnapping culprits are being arrested, tried and convicted on TV series like “Law and Order” in all its forms, “CSI” in all its permutations, “Without a Trace”, “NCIS”, “The Mentalist”, “Lie to Me”, and on and on and on. Just think of how the load on police agencies would be alleviated if we were to parcel out crime to the appropriate TV show. Not only that, but think of the time saved by the judicial system when the criminals are brought to justice in an hour, minus time for commercials of course.

And speaking of commercials, surely Congress could find a way to share in the millions of dollars that sponsors would pour into these real “reality” shows. And don’t forget product placement fees. Cops would prominently display the Starbuck brand on their coffee cups, chomp on Dunkin Donuts, and offer the reluctant guests in their interrogation rooms a choice of regular or diet Coke. The nation’s trillion dollar budget deficit could be wiped out in the click of a remote.

So people arise! Demand that Congress launch an initiative to establish a Department of Television Justice in an Hour (DTJH) to distribute the pursuit and adjudication of all crimes across the full spectrum of related TV series. It is our patriotic right to demand that all crimes be solved and that all the perpetrators be appropriately punished in an hour so that our police officers can more fruitfully spend their time giving tickets for parking and jaywalking as soon as they get back from their coffee and donut breaks.

Cars I Have Known

I am driving around in brand spanking new Toyota Corolla and enjoying the smell of a new car and the feeling that I m going to get to my destination on time. This was always problematic with the Chevrolet Blazer that preceded it. I will swear that I logged more miles behind a tow truck than useful miles in the last few months before the Blazer became a trade-in. But to it's credit, the Blazer was twelve years old and ready for the big scrap yard in the sky

But this got me to thinking about the cars I have owned and how they, in a sense, reflect where I was at a particular phase of my life. For example, my first car was a 1932 Ford Model B coupe which my Dad bought for me after a winning day at the horse races. It was a perfect car for teenager who did not know anything about cars and whose sole commitment to basic maintenance was to wipe the windshield from time to time.

My second car came after I returned from Navy service after World War II ( yes, I’m that old!). It was an orange 1938 Mercury convertible. I fitted it out with twin mufflers and a set of ripple disk wheel covers. But I soon found out that putting the top down in the hot California sun was not as glamorous as it appeared in the movies.

Following the Mercury, due to demands of a growing family, there was a spate of nondescript no-character cars whose main job was hauling kids and groceries around. The brightest spot during this period was the acquisition of a second car, one that I always dreamed of but could never quite justify in my mind --- an MG-TD convertible roadster. It was sheer pleasure to join the sports car fraternity and buzz around town waving to other sports car aficionados.

But the era of the sports car lasted only a couple years until a cracked crankshaft relegated the MG to the scrapheap to be replaced by a totally unhip Plymouth two door coupe. The family car, however, continued to be succession of station wagons, an Aero Star van that leaked oil like a sieve, a Ford Explorer, and ultimately the aforementioned Chevrolet Blazer which I hoped would last forever. And it almost did, until it developed a mysterious ailment which caused it to die at the most inconvenient times. When my mechanic finally threw in the towel and told me there was no remedy, I knew it was time to admit defeat and invest in a new vehicle.

So I threw in the towel as well, in a manner of speaking, and got the most dependable, gas efficient, and prosaic car I could think of --- a Toyota Corolla. I guess that will curtail my trolling for chicks but at least I will get to where I’m going.

A Maybe Farewell to a Morning Pleasure

As I finish my coffee and turn the pages of the newspaper on the table it struck me that maybe the days of this morning ritual may be numbered. There is no doubt that the paper has fewer pages than in the past. Sections have been combined. Alongside a movie review there is a recipe for meat loaf and next to it a comparison of mats for yoga.There are fewer full page ads for anything from women's clothing to home furnishings. And the daily classified ads are reduced to a paltry four pages attached to the sports section. There is also news that another east coast newspaper had filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy. For a moment I almost have a panic attack.

But the more I thought of it, the more I considered that it was just another human endeavor that is headed for eventual extinction like the tintypes of old. First television news, then the computer began conspiring, with their ten second spots and blogs, to eliminate my daily routine of going out, regardless of the weather, to retrieve the paper and then returning to spend the next hour or so leafing through it on the kitchen table to catch up on what happened in the world at large overnight.

It is not likely that I will ever develop the same cozy relationship with my computer that I have with my morning paper. For one thing it does not rustle and also there is no odor of fresh ink. And if I should spill coffee or smear butter from my toast on my newspaper, I do not have to worry about what electronics I just short circuited.

Anyone for IKEA?

Admittedly I am well past the age of dreaming of furnishing a house, but I like to wander through the exhibit rooms and admire all the accoutrements that might have made my daily life better organized. If IKEA had been around some thirty five years ago, my late wife would have turned our home into a shrine to IKEA.

It’s not so much that I have a thing for home furnishings, it is just somehow reassuring to watch the young couples roaming the exhibits, she with a tape measure and a list and he pushing a cart half full Swedish labeled boxes maybe with a toddler or two in tow. It gives me a sense that the world is not coming to an end soon when these young people are still looking to build their lives regardless of the turmoil in the world at large. Those problems fade as they try to decide between the color and design of a living room settee or a bedroom suite.

But the fun doesn’t end there. Take a stroll through the market place area with its bins chock full of mysterious boxes with Swedish labels which are impossible to decode. Kitchen ware, lamps of all sizes and shapes, linens and towels, and closet fixtures fill the aisles on the way to check out. There must be something there that you cannot live without.

And did I mention the food? The chief attractions are Swedish meatballs and a wondrous assortment of Swedish torts and cakes. These are not only delicious but inexpensive. I have read that IKEA in Germany is a prime dining location, maybe not so in epicurean Dallas, but certainly worth a try.

But that is not the end. Exiting the store there is the aroma of fresh cinnamon buns filling the air. Huge cinnamon buns oozing with icing are just waiting to go home with you. What better way to end the day.

The Western Flyer

Every time I passed the Western Auto store on the way home from school, I would stop and look in the window. There it was, a shiny sky blue Western Flyer with a red lightning streak on the crossbar. It had balloon tires, fenders, a back fender rack, a kick stand, and best of all a huge suspension spring above the front wheel that would supposedly smooth out all the ruts in the road. Without doubt it was the most beautiful bicycle in the whole universe. I could see myself pedaling like the wind down the street and jumping curbs with abandon with the rest of my friends.

But things had not gone well with my parent’s jobs that year. Mom worked in Chinese owned
department store and made just a little over minimum wage. Dad’s job with a caterer had been slow and he had been taking fill in jobs in local restaurants as he could find them. So I just knew in my heart that I and that Western Flyer would never be together on the streets of Pasadena.

Christmas morning I woke up early. Mom had told me the night before not to come out of my room until she called. I could hear rustling and the front door opening and closing. The suspense was excruciating.
Finally Mom called and I rushed into the living room and there was the Western Flyer with a huge red ribbon tied on the handle bars. I thought my heart would jump out of my chest as I hugged my mom and climbed onto the saddle.

There have been many Christmases since then but never one so fondly remembered. Many years passed before I came to understand what it took for my parents to give me that bicycle.

Safety Trumps Fashion

It occurred to me the other day as I was slipping on my pants that here is a not-subtle sign that I am approaching my dotage --- suspenders! Somehow as a man ages, some of that flesh that made his derriere look like buns of steel has mysteriously slipped around to his lower abdomen. This new anatomical configuration has therefore flattened out said derriere to where it can no longer keep a belt from slipping down and exposing what is endearingly called “plumber’s crack”.

I am not talking about those so called patterned “braces” which are shown in men’s fashion spreads and are color co-ordinated with a striped shirt, a fanciful tie, and a subtly pinstriped pair of trousers. No siree! What’s needed here is a two inch wide industrial strength Dickey brand set of suspenders with gorilla grip clasps that will not unclasp under the most strenuous activity. Fashion must give way to safety.

So farewell to the cool low slung hip huggers. Hello to safety, never mind fashion. Better that than em-bare-ass-ment!

"STICKS" - A Cautionary Tale

Some years back I saw two young boys playing in the yard across the street. They had what looked like branches from a tree. They thrust the “STICKS” at each other in mock sword play, waved them in the air like torches, put them on the ground and jumped over them, and swirled them around like flag poles. There seemed to be no end of what these sticks could be in their imagination.

A few years later I saw these same two boys, now in shiny blue uniforms with yellow numbers and names emblazoned on them. They each carried “STICKS” about four feet long, painted the same colors as their uniform. An enormous SUV driven by a harassed looking woman pulled up and the two boys jumped in to the cheers of a mass of similarly dressed boys inside.

In the newspaper later that week I read that the local “STICKS” team was heading to the East Coast to compete for the national championship and that the winner of that competition might be selected to go on to a newly formed Olympic sports association. And sure enough the team won the national “STICKS” tournament and went on to win a gold medal in the next Olympic year.

But with victory came scandal. It was alleged that the wood from which the “STICKS” were made had been infused with a compound that made them unbreakable, that the players had been treated with human growth hormone, and that the officers of the “STICKS” association had absconded with the funds. Thus discredited the team members were stripped of their medals and the “STICKS” association dissolved.

The other day I watched two young boys kicking a “CAN” around ……….

Another of life's milestones

Last week Robyn, my granddaughter, married Kurt in a civil ceremony in the county courthouse just a few blocks away. They had planned to get married in April but circumstances intervened and they decided to marry earlier. No, it was not a shotgun wedding. We will have the reception later with lots of fun and food.

Whether or not there is a great grandchild in the future remains to be seen. But if it should happen, it would be another happy mile stone in my life.

Terminal Island

The island is still there under the six lane elevated bridge that connects Long Beach to San Pedro. It is a narrow strip of land which is now a forest of warehouses and industrial buildings. There is little to identify it as the summer place it used to be for my family in the early thirties. The camping site that was in the seaward side of the island is gone and probably no one remembers it but me.

I looked forward to each summer when in early August we would load up the car with provisions and camping gear and Dad would drive us to Terminal Island. He would set up two tents, one for sleeping and the other for storage and cooking. Then he would leave us, me, my Mom, and Nana, my grandmother, and return to the city where he worked as a cook. He would return on Saturday and go back to work late Sunday evening.

First thing in the morning just as the sun was rising, I would take my surf fishing pole along with the bait I had bought the night before and head for the water’s edge. I would attach two baited hooks to long leader and a two ounce sinker and cast out into surf that rippled onto the shore. I would dig a hole in the sand to hold the pole and settle down to wait for some hapless hungry fish to strike my bait. More often than not I would return to the camp site empty handed.

Later in the day I would join the other kids in the camp to play in the surf or hunt for shells or other treasures washed in by the high tide. All of that was fun but it was later after supper when the magic started. The campers would drag out their chairs and encircle the communal fire pit to gossip and sing or just enjoy the starlit sky and the sound of the waves breaking on the beach. Us kids would play tag in the dark beyond fire light and maybe toast some marshmallows as the fire logs turned to embers. When the fire finally died we would head back to our tent to sleep and wait for a new dawn.

Apricots

It's summer and as I make my way through the aisles of produce section of the super market the bins are full to the brim with all manner of seasonal fruit, peaches, nectarines, plumes, grapes, and, of course, orange gold apricots. Inevitably I am taken back seventy or more years to when I lived on Mentoria Court in Pasadena. Summer meant raiding the apricot trees that were heavy with fruit in the abandoned lot that was on the corner. It was a challenge as to who would get the best fruit --- us or the birds.

By us I mean, Ethyl, Billy, and I who were the only kids who lived on this dead end street with four houses on each side. Ethyl and Billy were older than me. I was eight or nine and lived in the second house from the corner with my mom, dad, and Nana, my maternal grandmother. It was a rather ordinary ranch style house just like the others on the street except for the house next door where Mrs. Le Ritz lived. Her house was a white gingerbread house surrounded by glorious rose bushes and an impossibly lush green lawn. Mrs. Le Ritz was a widow lady who kept much to herself and tended to her roses. She had few visitors. From time to time someone would come and pick her up. I think it was her daughter. Mrs. Le Ritz looked every inch the picture of a lady in a floral flock and big hat as she walked down the drive and got in the car. In the few years we lived there we never go to know Mrs. Le Ritz well except to say “Good Morning” occasionally. It was just that we had nothing in common.

Ethyl was Ethyl Jacobs and her father was a junkman who roamed the streets with decrepit truck and picked up scrap metal and anything else people might discard that might be salvageable. They lived directly across the street and their backyard was a treasure trove . It was great fun and adventure to scrounge through the latest acquisitions and wonder where they had come from.

Billy Williams lived at the end of the street. Billy’s father had a good job and their house was well kept and had huge front porch where we used to hang out. Billy had a marvelous talent. He had a knack for building model airplanes. His father built him a little shack where he could keep his supplies and build his models. I spent many hours there with Billy watching and wishing I had his skill.

But let’s get back to the apricots. The vacant lot did have a house that had been boarded up for years but we never got up enough nerve to try to explore the empty house. It was enough that there were four huge apricot trees that bore golden fruit faithfully each year. I have not been back there for many years. I doubt that the street even exists any longer. It is probably buried under a new freeway. But never mind, the memories are freshened each year as I stop in the produce section and fill a bag with apricot memories.