Nice World

We didn’t know it when we went to live in France, but the community in which we moved (La Celle St. Cloud) was in an economic crunch. The American agency, the name of which I forget, SHAAF or SHAPE – one of those “Supreme Headquarters...”sort of outfits, had recently moved out. The economic consequences had been unpleasant for the natives and they blamed the Americans (probably with good reason). Anyway, there were enough Americans in the neighborhood for a social life. The kids went to the American School of Paris so they got to know other kids.. Our French neighbors could act snobbish and stand-off-ish and we concluded that was just “them”. Until the day our youngest daughter was running home from the school bus stop Her glasses flew off and hid themselves in the underbrush. Now, she was really cute at that age (still is) and her tears soon drew a small group of the French, suddenly helpful, searching for her glasses. Turned out that her Mother was the one to find the glasses, but we learned something that day about the basics of humans, no matter the nationality.  

I Wonder ...

I wonder if boys and young men have as much fun as we did.  There was a  Minsky Burlesque Theatre about 15 miles away from our town. It was something of a tradition that senior boys at the high school would sneak off in small groups to “go to the opera”. No one was fooled. Teachers, parents, everyone knew what was going on.  The irony was that the chorus line was funnier than the comedians and the strippers -- didn’t. The fun was the intrigue and the rush to catch the bus home in time for supper. And, of course, the suppressed guilty feeling. Today, I'm sure, one click on the computer can provide a more risqué show. But I’ll bet that our way was a lot more fun.

My clearest memory of those shows (I didn’t say I only went once) was the kid at intermission walking up and down the aisles calling out, “Sordid Chocolates! Get your sordid chocolates."
It was an example of the power of environment. We finally figured out he was really saying “Assorted  Chocolates” with a deep Jersey accent.

I Wonder ...

I wonder if college kids still mail their dirty laundry home in a “laundry case” with the thin strap around it., then get it back all clean and folded neatly courtesy of Mom. Any extra space in the case on the trip back filled with fresh baked cookies. I tried to continue this after I was married, but it didn’t work. Had even less luck with the mother-in-law.

I Wonder ...

I wonder if schools today are creating future generations of swayback adults. I go out in the morning or afternoon and I see little kids hefting backpacks that would flatten a donkey -- all because they don’t give kids lockers any more.  Are they doing this up north also?. Where do the students store their galoshes and heavy coats?  Gee, we used to keep all sorts of things in our lockers. We even had dry socks so we could change if our feet got wet walking to school.  I know, no lockers is so children can’t store guns and drugs in them. Seems to me there ought to be a better solution. This strikes me as chopping down the tree so you don’t have to rake leaves.

I Wonder...

I wonder if any of today’s football stars would be stars if the game were still played by the rules I grew up with. Then, if a player came out of the game, he couldn’t come back in within the same quarter. Thus, there were no such things as “kicking teams” “offense” and “defense” and all the specialty teams. You wanted to play football, you did everything.  The game was a closer reflection of life -- you didn’t succeed being half good.

Hong Kong steps

Hong Kong steps
Originally uploaded by Lantana Lad.

This is our youngest grandchild on a visit to Hong Kong. She's a cutie. I am fooling around with using Flickr as a way of posting pictures. So far I am confused aplenty.

A Verdict

That was a time of freezing hell. The room was cold.  We sat for hours on end on cold, hard wooden benches wishing severe retribution for the perpetrators. We rooted for the prosecutor and prayed for the jury to see the horrendousness of the crime. We briefly wondered whether we were motivated by a desire for justice or vengeance, then settled in our minds for a large dose of both. We tolerated a judge that needed neither a cigarette (we knew he was a smoker), nor a bathroom nor a food break. If our side won it would cause widespread sadness, but we consoled ourselves with the children’s cry of, “That’s what you get for...” Concentration was needed and it was exhausting. Witnesses sped by, first building an indisputable case, then trying to dispute it. When the jury left after days of silence to decide on their joint voice, we fretted. Would they be smart enough and brave enough to reach the right verdict? Though we were aware that the jury’s decision would make little or no difference to the victim, we wanted it to punish the villains who caused so much pain.

GUILTY!  While our joy was somewhat undercut by the fact it would have been better had none of this ever happened, we hugged the prosecutor and hurried to hug the victim. Now, let us get on with life.

Short Pause

Friends, Romans, and Casual Visitors,

Personal business will take us out of town for the next couple weeks. We will take the laptop, but do not know whether we will find a coffee shop with wireless facilities to communicate with the outside world. So check back here near the end of March for more of the fast waning memories of the grouchy old man. Thanks, Floridora.

ps. See Archana, You aren't the only one to take a break.

No Television?!

What did you do before television? Old goats like me get that question a lot from the younger generation. First, today’s children can’t really believe that there ever was a time without television, cell phones, microwaves, computers, etc. Yes, Virginia, there was joy in the non-tech world.  In the evenings when our generation was still in school we did home work. We played quiet games like Monopoly. It is still around, but not the rage it once was.. We read books, newspapers and magazines. There was radio in my youth. Tom Mix, Bobby Benson, Buck Rogers, Little Orphan Annie, Flash Gordon – were all fifteen minute adventure serials that many of us listened to. They were on in the early evening before our parents switched to Lowell Thomas who read fifteen minutes of news. In the New York area there was a great music program on every afternoon called the “Make Believe Ballroom” on WNEW. The host, Martin Block, was the first of the great disc jockeys. That was all AM radio with static a frequent interruption to listening pleasure.

Ipods were unheard of in those days, but we did have our big clunky phonographs. We collected 76 rpm records which were about 10 inches in diameter and had about 3 minutes of music (one song) on each side. We played them until they wore out or got so covered with scratches that they sounded horrible.

Without television, movies were a more popular source of entertainment, particular after sound and then Technicolor came along. They were a lot cheaper then also. We, the kids, used to go to the Saturday afternoon double feature complete with two serials for twenty cents. Adults wouldn’t be caught dead at that show. Too much hooting and hollering. We used to take a candy box (empty) and blow in one end making a very rude sound. Great fun
.

Building models from kits was a big time kids’ hobby in those days. Balsa wood, glue and paper properly cut and assembled could create neat model airplanes, ships and automobiles. Kits came in various degrees of complexity and detail to match abilities.  There was a company named Heath that put out Heathkits (imaginative name?). These were based on the growing field of electronics. They provided the parts and instructions for anything from simple radios and accessories to complete weather stations. My first wind meter was home made.I made a fine short wave radio with which I spent hours listening to stations around the world.

Oh yes, another lost art that kept us busy – writing letters. There were no e-mails or text messages or IM with their cryptic shortcuts. We spent evenings writing legible letters to friends and relatives. Stamps were two cents and then went to three cents later.

Technology didn't first enter my Mom's kitchen with the microwave oven. I think it was just before WWII(long before the microwave) that the pressure cooker became the thing the Jones had to have. It was a pot made out of heavy steel that cooked things very much faster than the usual pot or pan. Veggies in two or three minutes, for instance. It was sealed so that very little water was turned to steam under pressure. They had safety valves that released steam at critical pressure so the whole business didn’t blow sky high. Our kitchen ceiling was repainted several times to remove evidence of untended beans or peas. The microwave came along and only a few diehards still use pressure cookers

Net, net, what we did without TV and pop technology was enjoy ourselves just like you do with it.

All the "-mans"

Back when and where I was growing up there was no such thing as "pre-school". We were at home until we were about five when we went off to Kindergarten. During the summers we were home all day long. Oh, some rich kids went off to camp, but most of us were home full time. Of course, our Moms were home full time also. Working Moms were a rarity. We kids all liked the arrangement, but then, we knew nothing else. We found lots to do and managed to get in trouble with some regularity. My folks had no car until I was well up in my teens. This meant that all sorts of delivery men came door to door. We would tag along with the breadman, the laundryman, the eggman, even the scissor-grinder. The paper boy ran all the way so he was no fun. In the summer, the iceman was a favorite of ours. His horse knew where to stop like the other delivery horses did. When he stopped down at the bottom of our hill, Mr Hirsh, the iceman, would chip off pieces of ice for the kids to suck on. Nice man, but probably very dirty ice. We lived. The milk man came on the days when he was collecting his bill. The same day he would take orders for the next week and sell butter and such off his wagon.He would also supply pieces of ice to the kids when he was there in the daytime, but he made his deliveries before dawn.

One day the vegetable man's horse lost control of the wagon. It rolled down the hill after the horse fell. At the bottom it crashed and turned over . Obviously, Mr. Lewis, the vegetable man was more concerned for his horse than for the veggies. The neighbor ladies came out and each scooped up all the vegetables they could possibly use from the ground, then paid Mr. Lewis a little more than they were worth. Nice people in those days. The horse was OK, but Mr. Lewis rested him a few days while the wagon was repaired. Mr. Lewis was one of the first to convert to a little truck. Wish I had a picture.

I have a hunch little children knew more random adults then than the children of today do.

Glamorous Paris

I was reading the blog of LaCoquette (www.lacoquette.blogs.com/) that she wrote on arriving back in Paris after a work vacation in the States. She described her trials and tribulations with the flight and then described her glee at being back in Paris. She spoke of the feeling of Paris . No other city feels the same. I agree with her. It is like nowhere else.

So why was I so anxious to return to New Jersey after working in Paris? Let me count the ways - oh no, that's something else. Anyway, first, we spent the Christmas holiday in Switzerland. My 11 year old son and I were on an elevator and someone asked him, in English, where he was from. He said, "Paris". That stuck in my craw. I wished he had said, at least, the United States, if not the town.

Then, one Saturday morning we were out of working flashlight batteries. I went down to the local Prisunic, a sort of prehistoric Walmart. A department store with everything from clothing to groceries. I doubt I've spelled it right. The manager had appointed a little girl as translater for our family. Her response was to hide every time she saw one of us. (You who are fluent in French know where this is going) In truth, her English was not a lot better than my French. I found her and started my charade game. But how the heck do you do a flashlight, say nothing about the thingy that makes it go. I know I should have brought one of the dead ones, but I didn't. She was completely baffled. Finally in frustration, I almost yelled, "BATTERY!" She said , "Oh, battery." And walked me right to them. When I got home I looked it up in the dictionary. Same word - two languages. I brooded about how much easier it is to do business when everyone speaks the same tongue.

The final straw was one morning at Orly Airport. I was on the way to somewhere and stopped in the men's room just before getting on the plane. I was standing there doing what I came in to do when a female voice behind me said, "Bon Jour". Without a thought, I looked over my shoulder and said, "Bon Jour, Mademoiselle". On the plane I thought about it and decided I really didn't want to get used to ladies in the men's room.

I decided we should go home.

I can't seem to get these posts into the correct order. It will make more sense if you read the following posts in reverse order. Thank you.

Sequel

I can't seem to figure out how to reverse the two posts here. It will make more sense if you read "An Explosion" first and then come back to this one. Thanks.

The school year had progressed without major disruption and spring arrived. The war continued. We lived with rationing of food and fuel and with shortages of necessities. Johnny had gone off to dodge the German torpedoes. School was somewhat of an oasis of calm. Another friend, also named John, and I went to work at a Boy Scout Camp for the summer. As senior year of high school started we were met by the realization “this was it! The boys of the class would be heading into the service soon after graduation. Reports were coming back of casualties among people from classes that graduated before us and the war seemed closer every day. Maybe that had something to do with what happened six weeks or so before the end of the year. I was in English class and there was a stir. Classmates were smiling and waving toward the door. I looked over and through that clear glass pane in the center of the door window was the scarred face of Johnny, grinning in at us. Without a thought several of us just got up and walked out the class. We had a noisy reunion in the hallway and then at our urging Johnny started recounting his adventures sailing to Russia and back. The class bell rang and we ignored it and the last class of the day. We hung with Johnny, our own personal veteran.

I had a pretty good academic record in high school. I think I have written before this that I left for college before high school ended. I was there when I got my final high school report card. The English teacher gave me a “C” for walking out of her class. With all that was going on in my life I didn’t care much. But I heard later that she caught hell from some of the other teachers for messing up my record. We all have our war stories.

An Explosion

I recall it was one of those sparkling clear and chilly fall mornings. The war was all around us. The radio counted the dead each morning. There were reports of the night bombings over Europe. We lived with rationing of food and fuel and shortages of necessities. School, however, was something of an oasis of calm. I was a Junior in high school. We were sitting in our homeroom. I can’t remember why I was there. I didn’t have any classes with my homeroom teacher; but I was there, perhaps I had a study hour. I do remember that there was simultaneously a flash of light and a clap of thunder right outside our room. A bomb?/ We were all stunned and deafened. When we could hear, we were engulfed in the sharp, shrill sound of fire alarmseverywhere in the building. Our homeroom teacher, Mrs. Simms, bless her heart, took charge quickly. She herded us to the door, but having figured out what was happening, she headed us to the left down the long hall, toward the staircase in the center of the building. At fire drills we had always gone right, to the close-by staircase, but that led us by the chemistry lab. It was full of smoke which was pouring out into the hall. I don’t remember much more except faculty members all yelling, “DON”T RUN!” repeatedly and frantically.

Next day the newspaper headlines were “High School Explosion Hurts 4”. In those days of no TV, no cell phones and no local radio, we had lived on rumors since it happened. One of the rumors had a friend of mine as a culprit. The paper confirmed that and the fact he was the most seriously injured. He and two buddies had decided to makes some fireworks during Chemistry Club. Johnny, my friend, had been grinding ingredients in a mortar. Boom! Johnny lost an eye, several fingers and was cut up quite badly. Two others who were in kahoots with Johnny, had less serious injuries. Mr. Tome, the chemistry teacher had been with other students in the back of the room. He received some minor cuts.

By the time Johnny got out of the hospital and had fully recovered, it was spring and too late for him to get back to school. The school board had held an investigation and Johnny told them that the Mr. Tome had no idea what Johnny and his buddies were doing. He was a good teacher and a heck of a nice guy. It was wartime and teachers were hard to find, so they kept him on. Johnny and buddies got a public scolding which had them hanging head pretty low. Johnny tried to join the Army and the Navy, but both turned him down. The Merchant Marine accepted him and he went to sea.

Tomorrow...the rest of the story

Upon Returning

Upon Returning

I realize that I have contributed little to the blathering online lately. I apologize, either for the lapse or for the return, which ever suits your mood. I have been occupied. Yesterday was the day we were to meet with the CPA to go over the income tax situation. Such a date inhibits my playing around on the computer. Every time I would sit down, I realized I should be working on the taxes. That is out of the way.

I’ve had tummy problems and so the GI man made arrangements for me to have a rather new test. Some emergency, I know not what, befell the nurse that was to set it up and I have been waiting almost a month. The thought of it rode around in the back of my mind for a long while. Tuesday, I swallowed the TV camera and went all day with a receiver for the signals from the camera strapped around my waist and to the sticky things stuck on my chest and abdomen. Couldn’t eat anything for almost 24 hours. Not something that induces one to write blogs. They tell me it can take up to two weeks to analyze the pictures the camera takes. Walgreen’s probably could develop them faster.

When soon I come back, I will tell about the chemistry lab explosion that livened up our Junior year in High School.

Early Air Travel

Today when we think of “Air Travel”, we imagine giant jets zooming in and out of Charles de Gaulle, Heathrow, JFK and the other modern city airports. Multiple gates for boarding and deplaning, trams and conveyers to carry passengers and luggage to and from wherever. The very image of “modern” with voices out of the sky and announcement boards that flash and point. It is all quite romantic and next-worldish with computers determining everything.

BUT... back in 1950, we were going to Lake Champlain in northern Vermont for vacation. We were taking my grandmother (“Gram”) and my wife’s mother (“Mimi”) along. Our car was small and with all the stuff and nonsense we felt it necessary to take, we didn’t have room for every one. It was agreed that Mimi, a certified character and willing to try anything, would fly to Burlington, Vermont, from Philadelphia. Mimi arrived at the Philadelphia airport early and decided to buy a new dress. (Why? Heaven knows! that was Mimi.) Her suitcase already given over to the airline, she carried the dress in its box until boarding time when it was checked. This was before “carry-ons”.

Her plane, on its way to Montreal, stopped at Burlington about 9:00PM. We were there to meet her. She got off and stood waiting beside the plane for her luggage. Her suitcase was dug out of the fuselage by the co-pilot, but there was no sign of the dress. Much arguing ensued. My wife and I were back behind a low chain link fence and couldn’t join the fray. But Mimi was doing fine. The Captain was insisting that there was no dress box on the plane and Mimi insisting she had seen it come on aboard. Finally, the Captain said he was going to take off and climbed aboard. Mimi said, “Not until I get my dress!” She walked right out in front of the two whirling propellers and stood with her arms folded. The Captain gunned the engines a couple times but this gray haired old lady stood perfectly still. He saw his on-time record going down the tube and he surrendered. He climbed down and at that time, my wife and I were drawn into the situation. The Captain asked us to pull her away from the plane (HA!) and she agreed to leave if we gave him directions to our camp on the lake and he promised to find her dress and have it delivered the next day.

Sure enough, a taxi from the Burlington Airport arrived the following day with her dress. Custom markings on the box showed it had crossed the border north into Canada the previous night and come south in the morning into the US again. I sort of wish I could tell you she never wore the dress while she was there, but I can’t. It was a very appropriate vacation dress and she wore it frequently. As usual, Mimi was right on all counts. And the Air Travel industry survived her first flight.

Times Change

Just one little story to illustrate the “Old Days”. Back in the early and mid- 50’s college graduates in the sciences capable of doing research were pretty well able to write their own ticket. All chemists with any clout would go to the annual convention of the American Chemical Society. My company would agree to send us, but they would only pay for three-in-a-room accommodations. I arrived in Atlantic City somewhat early and went to check-in to one of the big hotels there at that time. The stereotypical, supercilious room clerk took my name and, noting the three in a room reservation, rather haughtily told me, “Ah yes, you will be sharing a room with the Drs. ‘Smith’” I replied that I felt that wouldn’t be satisfactory. The poor jerk would not believe that one of the Doctors might be a Mrs. Dr. Smith that went with a Mr. Dr Smith. Then he blamed everyone else for what he called the “error”. Finally a Hotel Manager calmly gave me a single and left the Smiths alone in the triple. So all but the clerk were happy. It made for a standing joke between the Smiths and I for years. One of the Dr. Smiths went on to be a big wheel in the chemical industry. ...but I won’t tell you which.

Recipe for Good Pancakes

A few week,s ago we went to the mall shopping and missed dinner at the "Institute", "Home", what ever you want to call where we live. We went down to Cracker Barrel for some pancakes. They were as good as ever but reminded me of the best pancakes I have ever had.

Sixty -seven or -eight years ago, our Boy Scout troop went on a camp-out along with a bunch of other troops. We went on Friday night, set up tents and slept out doors that night. Three or four troop fathers had come along and the next morning they decided that they should do the cooking for breakfast, despite having only the most rudimentary knowledge of the art. A committee of mothers had packed the food supplies (for meals thru Sunday noon). Using these supplies the fathers made the troop pancakes for breakfast and were they ever good!?!

Saturday afternoon were the big knot tieing, etc.,competitions between the tro0ps and all the Moms arrived to watch. Of course, they heard about the delicious pancakes the fathers had cooked. Suspicious, some Moms checked the larder and found that the week-end's supply of eggs had all gone to into one meal's pancakes. The fathers got as close to catching hell as they could come at a Boy Scout affair. But I'll always remember, to make good pancakes throw in all the eggs you have.

To the right of the First Class Scout Badge above is today's Cooking Merit Badge. It looks to me like a souffle or a pop-over behind the silverware. That sure doesn't jibe with the cooking I ate in the Boy Scouts! What's happening to this world?

South Florida Fair

We went over to the South Florida Fairgrounds yesterday. The Annual Fair is running down. It will close tomorrow. As you can see, they let the little kiddies sit right up close to the ice show, one of the features this year. The Ice Show was surprisingly good. All the performers were top-notch and could bring a gasp to the large audience with their grace and sometimes with their flamboyance.

Each year we see the space given to farm tractors, cows, chickens, rabbits , veggies and the like shrink back. That is a little disappointing to we old timers, but understandable. The entertainment and food areas increase to compensate. This year they had a new outfit in to bring in the rides attractions, etc. It was quite an improvement, particularly in cleanliness.

Everyone should go to a country fair at least once a year.

A Lesson at Harvard

I hope I haven’t told this story before, but, heck, my memory or lack of same is one of my weak points. There was a large group of us attending a summer course at the Harvard Business School on managing Research and Development. There were 60 or 70 of us from all across the country and overseas residing in a dormitory building. The building was on a corner where a local road crossed a bridge over a sunken highway. A characteristic of the course we were taking was the tremendous load of homework we had each evening. The evening when this story took place was “hotter than the hammers of hell” This was before air conditioning was popular and we were all studying in our skivvies with windows wide open and fans spinning at max velocity.

Suddenly, there was the sound of a tremendous explosion! It echoed on and on, mixed with terrifying after-sounds. My first thought was on an atomic bomb and my family. In an instant, everyone was out of their rooms and asking what had happened. Someone ran to the edge of the sunken highway and yelled that there was a horrendous accident. That got our attention and this mob of self anointed Research Directors climbed down to the highway below. (I have no memory of how we did that.) Every one of the 60 or 70 of us sought to take charge. We saw that a truck had found its way on to the “cars only” highway. At high speed it had stripped its top off trying to go under the three feet too-low bridge. Cars following and cars going in the opposite direction were flattening their tires on the wrinkled sheet metal. Out of control, they were crashing into each other and the sides of the depressed highway. Some of we pseudo-executives ran back in both directions to stop on coming traffic. Others sought out the injured and performed first aid, others were tossing debris to the sides of the road.

Believe it or not some order came out of the bedlam. Things quieted down and were well under control when a single voice cried out, “Who called the police?” “Did anyone call the police?” OOOPS! In an instant realization struck and five or six ran for the dorm phone. They must have given a livid report because in no time an army of police and ambulances were there. And that is when the students got a real, live lesson in management and organization! Those officers were great! They were all fully dressed and each performed his function efficiently without panic or fuss. Soon the students filed back to the dorm in their skivvies to mull over the fact that while our performance wasn't that bad for amatuers, we had each forgotten the obvious first, simple step: Call in the professionals. Lesson learned.