A Voice and Memory From the Past

The Ancient One spends too much time on Facebook. But every now and then something happens that makes it all worthwhile. A few weeks ago I received a "friend request" from a woman who wondered if I was someone she knew many years ago when our families were friends and near neighbors. As soon as she mentioned her maiden name I knew who she was; I had not seen her or anyone in her family since some time before I left Detroit nearly 50 years ago. I accepted the friend request.

Earlier this week, my new old friend posted the following photo on Facebook:

When I saw the post, I gasped. I recognized it immediately. It was taken around 1943. It shows my mother, Martha Cohen (on the left) and her good friend Dorothy Masserman, in their Motor Corps uniforms. They were among a large group of women serving their country during World War II. With so many of the men away fighting in Europe and the Pacific front of the war, these women drove newly manufactured military vehicles from the automobile plant assembly lines to the railroad yards where they were shipped to military bases to be used by the troops.

The Ancient One was only about 5 years old when the picture was taken. But I clearly remember mom in her uniform. I am not sure who the photographer was but it might have been my father who was a photo buff and took a lot of pictures during that period, many of them of the Motor Corps women and troops who passed through the USO in Detroit.

Oh, what a memory. Thank you Sally.

Memories of Old Homes

The Ancient One has lived in many locales over his 6-dozen+ years. Born and raised in Detroit (MI), he spent 4 years in Chapel Hill (NC), followed by 7 in Albany (NY), then 9½ in Springfield (IL) and finally bringing back Donna home to southern California nearly 30 years ago. Memories of some of those early homes were brought to mind (and eye) earlier this year.

First, son Seth and friends started the MLB baseball season touring stadiums "back east." After watching my beloved Tigers at Comerica park in downtown Detroit, he called and asked for my "boyhood address." Soon thereafter, my cell phone vibrated and the following visual message appeared:

That is a photo of 2265 Chicago Boulevard in Detroit where The Ancient One spent much of his youth. His family moved in 1-week before his 7^th birthday (1/19/45) and remained there for 12 years. It looks better now than I remember it being then. Looks like folks have taken good care of that old house in the more than 50 years since I left it. (As a side note, most of the time we lived in that house, the house to the left was occupied by the Campeau family and for a few years the house with its edge just visible on the right housed my aunt and uncle Sibby and Sam Glucksman.) It was a grand old house and at some point in the future I may proffer some memories of momentous occasions that took place within its walls.

Then, a couple of months ago, oldest son Bill's boyhood friend Derek Reynolds was back visiting his parents in Springfield, IL and posted a picture on Facebook of the house they still occupy. I messaged him and asked if he might have a chance to take and post a picture of the house 2 doors away where I lived. A few minutes later, this appeared:

There you see 820 S. Park in Springfield, IL. I'm not sure exactly what year I moved into the house; my guess is that it was about 1975 or 76. Bill spent summers there when he was visiting from Hawaii. I was living there when Donna moved to Springfield and married me and that's where we lived when daughter Alicia was born. Central Illinois was so flat that Donna liked telling folks that our driveway was the steepest hill in Springfield. We always liked that big front porch and it looks like the wooden swing is still hanging there. That house is now nearly 100 years old. There are interesting stories about it that I hope to share one day.

Well, that's it. Two houses from The Ancient One's distant past. Thanks to Seth and Derek for the pictures. Enjoy!

Inky Finger Tips and Old Memories

A little over a month ago, I applied for a temporary job with the Census Bureau and took the qualifying exam. About 10 days ago I received a call offering me a position as an enumerator which I accepted. That means I'm a counter of some sort working in the field, possibly interviewing families although I think that part of the job won't come until next year which is the official U.S. decennial census year. This year involves all the preparation for the census itself.

My training was scheduled and rescheduled. I asked a few questions and know that my work will be in the area where I live and the job is part-time for 12 weeks. I figure that the income will finance a couple of east coast trips we have scheduled this year. So, what does all of this have to do with inky finger tips and old memories?

Before I can start training, I had to go in for fingerprinting and the filling out of forms. My appointment was yesterday (Friday) afternoon. The line was appropriately long but moved right along. The pleasant lady who took my prints was very talkative and had a lot of questions as she was rolling my fingers one-by-one on the ink pad and applying them to the cards on which the prints were recorded.

She asked me when was the last time I had been fingerprinted. I thought for a moment and told her the only time I could remember was when I enlisted in the Marine Corps Reserve in March of 1956. She then asked me about that service; how long, where and that kind of stuff. That's where most of the memory kicked in.

I was 18 when I enlisted for 6 years in the Marine Air Reserve. I was assigned to VMA-222, a fighter squadron at Grosse Isle Naval Air Station down river from Detroit. After testing, I was given an MOS of 6600 which classified me as an air radio technician. The squadron flew AD-4 sky raiders, a prop driven plane that served yeoman duty in the Korean War. (In fact, one of my brothers and a cousin had served in the same squadron in Korea.)

Yes, The Ancient One was a weekend warrior in his youth. I had enlisted under the Reserve Forces Act of 1955 which required that at some point during my 6 years of service, I was to do 180 days of active duty training. The rest of the service would be in the form of one weekend a month and 2 weeks during the summers. But there was a loophole in the law; it did not say when that active duty was to take place and the squadron leaders seemed to be oblivious to the fact that I had not gone to boot camp or been designated for my active duty training. (The loophole was closed in late 1956 or possibly 1957 when the Act was amended to state that new recruits were to be assigned specific dates for their active duty at the time of enlistment.)

In my case, the fact that I had not been called up for my 180 days of training wasn't discovered until the fall of 1961. I had moved to Chapel Hill, NC to attend graduate school at the University of North Carolina. To complete the final 6 months of my enlistment, I was assigned to a squadron based at the Naval Air Station in Norfolk, VA. That was when it was discovered that I had not done my 180 days but since I had less than that amount of time left in my enlistment, the Commanding Officer decided that it made no sense to send me to boot camp at the end of my term of service.

Yes, I was among a small cadre of Marines who volunteered to be available if my country needed me but never went to boot camp or received any combat training. I did get pretty good at removing and installing the radio gear in the AD-4's and that's what I did on my service weekends and summer training for 6 years. These are the memories evoked by my inky fingertips yesterday afternoon.

One last memory of that time. One morning, as I was getting ready to leave for my weekend training, my father (the original cantankerous old curmudgeon) saw me as I came down the stairs in my uniform. He looked up with a mischievous grin on his face and commented: "This is protecting me?" Dad's been gone over 44 years now and I still miss his sense of humor. At least I think he was kidding.

My Draft Card. . .

I was cleaning out my wallet the other day and I came across my Draft Card. Actually, its formal name is my "Selective Service System Registration Certificate." It looks like this (front and back):

What is this, my children might ask. When I was young, all males were required by law to register with their local "draft board" within 10 days of their 18^th birthday. The front of the card indicates that I complied, having registered on January 27, 1956 (the 56 disappeared over the years as the card became a bit frayed); it was the day after my birthday and (as noted in a post last month) my graduation from high school. You can see the selective service number assigned to me and my address. (This was a time before zip codes and the local postal zone was entered after the city name.) There was no draft at the time but registration was designed to help the government find eligible young men if it should ever be reinstated. With the exception of a few volunteers, women were not in the armed services in those days and there was never any intent to include them in a draft if it became necessary to conscript citizens into the armed forces.

On the back of the card you can find my vital statistics at that time and the fact that I was registered with "Michigan Local Board No. 97." I really can't recall when the requirement to register ended. But apparently I took the bottom admonition seriously. I have carried my draft card with me ever since that day over 53 years ago although I'm not sure exactly when I stopped providing the Board with my changes in address.

Times certainly have changed. Now we rely entirely on volunteers to fill the ranks of the military. I must confess that I was never completely comfortable with the idea of a volunteer, or professional army. For some reason, I felt there was less chance of the military becoming a political force in this country if it was filled with conscripts counting the days until their discharge back to civilian life. I guess my fears were a bit misguided. But I do feel badly for those who stayed in the reserves or joined the National Guard after their tour of active duty only to be recalled to service in a time of need, separated from their families and sent into combat.

But I'm a dreamer. I somehow still think it is possible to achieve the kind of peace that does not require combat ready militias ready to go into battle at a moments notice. Donna does refer to The Ancient One as a Pollyanna.

The Day I Turned 18

It was 53 years ago today on my 18^th birthday. I graduated from high school; Central High School in Detroit, Michigan to be exact. The following week I started college at Wayne State University (also in Detroit).

I mention this because I recently came across my final high school report card, both sides of which are pictured below:

This report card is interesting for a number of reasons. To start with, it is far different from the computer generated reports that are turned out by schools today. The writing on the front of the card (other than the grades themselves) is mine. At the beginning of each semester, every student had to fill out his/her own card. The back of the card shows my mother's signature for the first two reporting cycles. In the mid-1950s, my mother would never sign anything with her own first name; it just wasn't done. It was signed as "Mrs." before my father's name. That was a married woman's identity; in some ways we have moved forward a long way in the past half-century even if the glass ceiling has yet to be fully shattered.

Another curiosity: at that time, the school system in Detroit (as in many other communities) operated strictly on a semester system. Children entered kindergarten in either September or January, depending on birthday. And high school seniors graduated in January or June when they completed 12^th grade. Since I started school in January, I graduated in January. The grade "12A" on the front of the card indicates that this report is for my 2^nd semester in the 12^th grade. The first 12th grade semester, which had begun the previous January, was "12B."

The listing of courses is rather sparse. I was a graduating senior and I was able to have a relatively light load my last semester; my 2^nd semester of Chemistry, 4^th of composition and 3^rd of Journalism. Economics was required. During my 1^st 12^th grade semester I took Trigonometry (which at that time was the highest level of math offered in high school in Detroit unless you were at a "technical" high school"). The periods of the day for which students had no classes, they were assigned to Study Hall. I still remember Henrietta Carr, my study hall counselor, who oversaw the records, progress and behavior of all the members of my family.

An interesting sidelight: When I graduated, I completed 2 generations of our family to attend Central High School, although when my parents were students, the school was in a different location (which later became and still is the Old Main building at Wayne State). To my knowledge, the Central my generation of Cohen's attended is still there and in use. I last was in the building when I went back for my 35^th reunion.

Oh, the memories this old report card has conjured up. It just seems fitting to share it on my birthday.

A New Year, Anniversary and HDTV

It must have been a good New Year's celebration. It's been a week since I last wrote anything. And it has been a good and busy week. New Year's Eve was spent with friends; movie (Frost/Nixon), dinner and back to our house for desert and greeting 2009.

And then an anniversary! Donna and I were married on New Year's Day in 1981. She has put up with me for 28 years which is no small feat to which both she and previous wives can attest. Basically, it was a quiet day. No offspring around this year. We did get out to dinner although our preferred restaurant was closed.

We also began the search for an appropriate anniversary gift. Many years ago we established a tradition of buying a mutual gift rather than giving each other separates gifts on this momentous day. Usually it takes several days or weeks before the purchase is made.

This year we decided to join the 21^st century and buy a High Definition television set (HDTV). We visited several stores and learned about such things as LCD v. plasma, 1080p v. 770p and 120 Hz v. 60 Hz. Then we started revisiting stores, leaving one when the salesperson who only wanted to sell us the most expensive brand proceeded to lie to us and say that an opposing store did not sell the brand we were interested in (although I had seen that brand at the opposition the day before). We moved on and ended up at our friendly Costco where, much to my surprise, we found the most knowledgeable, least pushy sales person. Needless to say, we bought ourselves a 42" LCD, 1080p, 120 Hz set at Costco (with the added n bonus of an additional 2 year warranty at no extra cost).

Once home, Donna and I started the unpacking/setting-up process. Luckily, son Seth stopped buy which sped things up dramatically and we are now enjoying high definition television. It is a far cry from the 10" Philco my father brought home in 1948 when an appliance store owner client of his couldn't pay his legal fees and provided us with the "first TV on the block" instead. (In those days we watched a lot of test patterns and I remember watching the Howdy Doody show and Milton Berle's comedy hour sponsored by Texaco. It was long before coaxial cables and live TV and all the new fangled stuff.)

Hopefully, I will not become too enamored of the new TV; that might take me even further away from my writing. Now that the anniversary gift is taken care of, I plan to get back to regular posts and more focus on family history, events and photos. And knowing how my mind works (or doesn't work), I might even repeat some things I've said in the nearly 2 years I've been a member of the blogosphere.

So welcome to 2009 and thank you for stopping by and checking on what The Ancient One has to say. If you're in the neighborhood, come see our new TV.

Mother Was (Almost) Always Right

One month from today will be the 25^th anniversary of my mother's death. She was 79 years old at the time. I mention this because the weather in southern California today leads me to offer a memory about Mom now rather than on January 17.

I moved to the L.A. area from Springfield, Illinois to start a new job in January, 1982. At that time, my mother was living here. The weather was delightful! I moved from snow and slush and cold to sunny days and warm weather. That seemed like heaven. Then as Spring arrived, the sun was harder to find. It seemed like it appeared only briefly during April, May and June (contrary to Chamber of Commerce claims). I learned new terms from local TV weathermen; they referred to fog as the "marine layer" and the daily lack of sunlight as "June gloom."

One day as I was complaining about the continually overcast weather, my always optimistic mother proclaimed to me, "The sun shines every day in southern California. Some days you just have to wait a little longer for it to appear." For the most part Mom was right. There were only a few exceptions; today was one of them. We are having our 2^nd rain storm in a week. (I'm not looking for sympathy from my freezing, snowbound friends in other parts of the country.) Today, I did not see any sunshine.

Alas, my mother's assertion was wrong today. But that's all right. Just thinking about her and that statement brings a smile to my face nearly 25 years after her death. Once again I think of how "wise" I was in the "selection of my parents." :-D

I still miss you Mom!

It Felt Good. . .

I was driving home from a doctor's appointment this morning when my cell phone rang. It was Donna who proclaimed, "It sure felt good to vote!" She had just left the polling place after experiencing only a short wait before she cast her ballot. At first it seemed like a strange comment to make. Then I thought about all the years we cast our ballots for the "lesser of two evils" and came away feeling that we had fulfilled our civic duty even if it didn't feel very good. I understood exactly what Donna meant. I sent in my absentee ballot over 2 weeks ago and, yes, it did feel good filling it out and posting it.

My first presidential ballot was cast for John Kennedy in 1960. That seemed like a momentous election. But I do believe that this election is the most important one in which I have participated since I became eligible to vote in 1959. So much is at stake this year. While I have not broadcast my political preferences, I suspect that all who know me assumed, correctly, that I voted for Barack Obama. He was not my favorite at the beginning of the year. I voted for Hillary Clinton in the California Democratic Primary but once the convention came, there was no question about how The Ancient One would vote.

I must confess that I have never voted for a Republican in a general election in my lifetime. My political consciousness dates back to the 1940s when I was growing up in Michigan. When I first started teaching political science and my students would be curious about my own political biases, I would tell them that I was a G. Mennen Williams Democrat. Williams (nicknamed Soapy because he was of "that Mennen" family) was a Democratic Governor of Michigan in my youth; it was a time when my deepest political convictions were formed. During the 1950s, before I was old enough to vote, I became active in Democratic Party campaigning in my home state. As I recall, the party's electoral slogan was: "Make it emphatic, vote straight Democratic." I haven't wavered from that behavior my entire adult life and, if pushed, I can give very cogent, rational reasons for my long voting record.

But there is a lot more than the presidential race on the ballot today. There are congressional and legislative races to be decided. And here in California there are far two many referenda on the ballot. One of those has resonated more with me than the others. Proposition 8 attempts to reverse the recent California Supreme Court decision by rewording the California State Constitution to define marriage as only between a man and a woman. I proudly cast a NO vote on Proposition 8. If it passes, I see it as clear discrimination against one group of citizens. In previous posts, I made clear my belief that majorities cannot be allowed to abrogate the rights of minorities. And I also deeply believe that we all must be respectful of the beliefs and lifestyles of others as long as they do not take away from our own right to live our own lives. To those proponents of Proposition 8 who are so sure of the "truth" of their position, I would ask you to ask yourselves, as I suggested earlier this week, "What if you are wrong?"

Okay, time to get off my soapbox. I held off writing these thoughts until today because it is not my purpose to use this space for political discourse. But I do feel good today. I just hope I feel as good when the votes are counted and the results are known.

It's Been A While. . .

This has not been an active blogging month. In addition to being busy, at the moment I am in Houston; arrived here 2 days ago and will head back to L.A. tomorrow afternoon.


My sister (from the Detroit area) and I are here visiting my brother and sister-in-law. He had coronary artery by-pass surgery last spring followed by complications and did not get home for 3 months. He has no memory of the first 7 weeks of hospitalization. But, for the most part, he is now fine.


We have been sharing stories and memories. And we have been eating. We do that a lot in this family. Some of this I will share in the future along with pictures of our reunion.


It has been an emotional few days. And it has been important. Of the 3 of us remaining (our oldest brother died 12 years ago), The Ancient One is the baby. And we realize how deeply we are tied to each other even though we were not terribly close in our youth and we now are separated geographically.


So many memories of our parents and family life have been revived. We have brought each other up-to-date about our own children and grandchildren. The Cohanim truly live and our progeny are scattered across this country. We realize how important it is to keep our parents legacy alive and we will carry the memories of this week back to our own branches of the family tree.


More soon!

Baseball Memories. . .

If you are a baseball fan, stop over at BillyBlog when you get a chance. The Ancient One's first-born son recalls attending a Detroit Tigers-California Angels game in August, 1974.

I can tell you that he warmed his old father's heart with his memories. And they brought a smile to my face as I recall the game about which he speaks as well as taking him to his first Major League game at Busch Stadium in St. Louis earlier that summer.

Thanks Bill!

Who Are Those Girls?

Nearly 28 years ago when Donna and I first really met, she came from Los Angeles to visit me in Springfield, IL. While she was there, we went through a carton of old family photos which included the below picture:

I mentioned to Donna that I knew who the girl on the right was but had no idea about the other girl and the man. Donna knew who they were. The picture was taken sometime in the 1920-22 range; we aren't exactly sure. The man is Peter Rycus, the blond girl is his daughter Sadie and the dark haired girl is Martha Morritz. The girls represent a friendship that eventually led to the bringing together of 2 families.

Peter Rycus was Donna's great grandfather. Sadie, who met her husband Abe Max at my parents wedding, is Donna's maternal grandmother. Martha, who later married Bill Cohen, is my mother. Sadie and Martha were close friends. There is no way they could imagine that 60+ years after this picture was taken, Sadie's oldest granddaughter (Donna) would marry Martha's youngest son (now known by his children as The Ancient One). Their friendship was the beginning of a trail that led to the combining of two families that was formalized when Donna and I married on January 1, 1981. (Actually, the blending of the families came in 1972 when Abe and Martha, both widowed at the time, married each other.)

Occasionally, we have had to assure people that Donna's marriage to me was not incestuous. While it is true that my mother-in-law is my step sister, we are not related by blood. When my kids explain the full range of relationships within our family, e.g. Donna is my step niece as well as my wife, it is reminiscent of that old song, "I'm My Own Grandpa."

We do have fun explaining it all to those who are curious.

A Voice From The Past

The phone rang yesterday afternoon. When I picked it up, a woman's voice asked, "Do you know who this is?" I paused for a moment and she continued, "Don't you know who this is?" Hearing the combination of voice and tone, I quickly replied, "Evelyn."

Evelyn is my last surviving aunt; my mother's youngest sister. She said that she is now 91½ years old. I had not talked to her in 13 years. She said that she was talking to my sister and asked why I was mad at her and never called. My sister told her that I was convinced she was mad at me. Evelyn asked me why I felt that way. I recalled for her in great detail the last phone conversation we had in the late spring of 1994. She has no recollection of the conversation and is convinced it never took place. I remember it as if it had been just last week.

We talked for a while. She asked about my children and I filled her in on their accomplishments in life. She gave me great, wonderful details about her grandchildren. We shared some stories and by the end of the call we were friends again. That is the way it should be!

Family is too important to let old disagreements get in the way of the common memories of good times and loved ones now gone. Aunt Evelyn also is my godmother. I wonder if she thought that was an awesome responsibility when she accepted the role. I was born when she was just 21 years old. I always liked her. She was a bit brash and sassy! She always spoke her mind. Where my mother was a quiet and refined "lady," Evelyn made sure that everyone knew exactly what she thought. In those days long ago I thought that was refreshing in my vibrant young aunt.

I am not sure when I last saw her. It may have been at my mother's funeral in Detroit in January, 1984, at that time the coldest day ever recorded in the local area. At the cemetery, as everyone was leaving after a necessarily brief graveside service, Evelyn, who had come from her winter home in Florida, stood at the grave after others had left, shouting at my mother for being so inconsiderate to be buried on a day when temperatures were well below 0°F (not including the windchill). Oh, Aunt Evelyn loved her oldest sister and one way she showed her own grief (as well as the degree to which her own bones were frozen that day) was to give mom a piece of her mind. That was vintage Evelyn.

Now that our "feud" is over, I feel a bit more at peace. That which seemed so hurtful 13 years ago is not very important today. Thank you for calling me Evelyn. You are the last surviving family member from your generation and you will hear more from me in the future.

Memories on the Treadmill 1

This may, or may not, become a recurring theme. I have talked in a handful of earlier posts about old memories that were brought to the surface while I was working out at the Cardiac Rehab center (my health club). All of us using the facility are heart patients. I started my 3 times a week workout about 6 weeks after my August 30, 2004 triple coronary bypass operation. Most of us there are in my age group and we have long memories (although the short memory is sometimes missing). Many new friendships have developed across the rows of treadmills and stationary bikes. And we trade stories of growing up and our younger days.

This morning my conversation with David was triggered by the sight of, what I am told, is an F-114 parked at the Torrance Municipal Airport across the way. That led to talk about military aircraft and planes in which we have flown. For me, the memory was of flying cross country in 1958 aboard the Navy's version of the DC-3, which I thought at the time was appropriately designated the R4Q. From there we moved on to airports. David, knowing I grew up in Detroit, remembered flying into Willow Run airport outside Ypsilanti which served the area in the 1950s before Metropolitan Airport was built. We reminisced about now defunct airlines like Capital, Mohawk, Allegheny and Air Illinois.

Somehow, we started talking about summer jobs when we were young and I was able to recall the time I was a gas station attendant (in the days when drivers were not allowed to pump their own gas) at a Speedway 79 station in the Detroit area. And I thought about other part-time jobs I had in my high school and college years: driving a limousine for my uncle's funeral home, stock clerk in a woman's clothing store, selling coal door-to-door during the summer (that didn't last too long), telephone solicitation of leads for an aluminum siding company, parking lot attendant. I worked at a lot of odd jobs but, thank fully, never experienced working fast food. Of course, this was all before McDonalds came along.

The stirring up of old memories is a pleasant additional benefit that comes with the physical activity at the rehab center, especially those conversations on the treadmill.

Memories of Making Chopped Liver

It all started with a conversation among friends this morning at Cardiac Rehab. One of the guys (Steve) mentioned that he had gone to the new deli that opened at a nearby mall. We talked about the food and the prices and the ambiance and all that. He made reference to the difference between ordering a corn beef sandwich as opposed to a "lean corn beef sandwich." Another fellow mentioned that his favorite at the deli was the sweet and sour cabbage soup.

My mind wandered to my youth. I remembered the incredible sweet and sour cabbage soup my mother made and often served at the Shabbat dinner. And then I mentioned my mother's wonderful, made-from-scratch, moist chopped liver and how I rued that I could no longer eat that or many of the other foods that regularly appeared on our dinner table as I grew up. That rich, fat laden diet contributed to my excessive weight in adulthood and the health problems that went with it, including Type 2 Diabetes and high cholesterol and, ultimately, my triple coronary bypass surgery of nearly 4 years ago.

But the memories are still wonderful. And somewhere buried in the boxes in the garage is the original 70+ year old meat grinder that my mother used when making the chopped liver. Steve said he had one too and that his wife still used it on occasion

Isn't it interesting how a casual conversation among friends can evoke long buried memories. That sure brought a smile to my face this morning. :~D

My Little Girl Has Gone Away. . .

Alicia will always be my little girl! As she approaches her 27^th birthday, she has gone away to start a career. She is living life as exactly the person we raised her to be. She left today for Wilmington, DE where she will be the Director of Engagement for Hillel at the University of Deleware. While we are sad to see Alicia go so far away, we are incredibly proud of her.


Below is a photo of her heading up the aisle after receiving her M.A. in Jewish Communal Service last month from Hebrew Union College here is L.A.

As she leaves, I think of one of my favorite phrases about parenting (not clear as to source): "You raise your children to be independent, self-sufficient and to live their own lives. And when you are successful, you really get pissed off at them." Not really! But it is hard to let go and watch my little girl who is now a beautiful, self-confident young woman begin a new journey in her life. And by moving across country, she's doing to us exactly what I did to my parents 47 years ago.

Good luck Alicia! We love you!

A Baldacci Double Entendre. . .

The title of David Baldacci's 1999 thriller, Saving Faith, is a double entendre. Much of the focus of the action is directed at saving the life of lobbyist Faith Lockhart. But I saw a challenge, after reading the book, in "saving faith" in the American political system as it operates in Washington, DC.

In this novel, Baldacci does a good bit of character development in the early chapters. I came to appreciate the likes of Lee Adams, Danny Buchanan, Faith Lockhart, Brooke Reynolds, even Robert Thornhill. I found the clandestine competition between the FBI and CIA interesting. But I found some of the early going a bit tedious as Baldacci talked about the inner workings of Congress and lobbying; it was almost like I was back in my political science courses of over 40 years ago. But that's me, not the average reader. My having specialized in legislative politics and behavior while pursuing graduate work in political science and having a brother who shared much of what he experienced as Staff Director and Chief Counsel of a U.S. Senate subcommittee in the 1960s must have been the reason.

But once what seemed like overly descriptive lessons were completed, the pace picked up and by the end I reached that "can't put the book down phase" which saw me finally finish Saving Faith about 1:30 a.m. the other day.

All in all, I enjoyed the book and have moved on now to a 1970 Baldacci wok, Last Man Standing.

Baldacci is a wonderful, prolific writer who also has done outstanding work supporting literacy efforts through the Wish You Well Foundation.

The Summer of '84

I haven't written much about family lately and then I came across this picture:

The time: 1984. The place: Our first home in Palos Verdes. The people: A young version of our family. (After all it was 24 years ago). That's The Ancient One during his "bearded era" holding Alicia (age 3). A very young Donna, the happy mother, has Seth (age 1) in her lap. In back is 17 year old Bill who was with us for the summer from his home with his mother in Honolulu. This picture brings back a flood of memories; there is a lot of "back story," as they say.

The careful observer, for example, might ask why teenager Bill is wearing a white shirt and tie in the middle of the summer in southern California. He was in uniform! He had a summer job at the nearby Thrifty Drug Store as a "hand dip." That means he spent his working hours scooping out Thrifty ice cream for cones that sold at a nickel a scoop. He didn't get a lot of pay for this but he had to look good. By the way, this is also the summer Bill got his California driver's license (but that is another story).

It was also the summer of the 1984 Olympic Games here in L.A. Ah yes, that was the best driving I ever had in the area. It seems that all local folks went on vacation during the games to avoid the traffic. Local factories closed down so they would avoid contributing to the expected gridlock. The result: extremely light traffic during the Olympics. It was glorious.

Just prior to the games, the Olympic torch had been carried around the world, ending up in the L.A. area where some lucky people were selected to run/jog a short leg with the torch. It was scheduled to pass a half-block from our house, coming by on Hawthorne Boulevard. Donna and I took Alicia and Seth to see the torch as it passed. (Bill was at work hand dipping at the time.) Well, you could hear it coming long before you could see it; sirens, loud music, all sorts of noise. And there it was. Donna, Alicia, and the then not so Ancient One jumped up and down and cheered as it passed. Seth; well there he was in his stroller. . .fast asleep. The torch passed and he never stirred; he never saw it. (It probably didn't matter because it is unlikely that, being only one, he would have remembered the event.

Also, it turned out that even though he was working, Bill was not left out of the festivities. It seems that all the runners were given a replica of the torch after they finished their leg. The fellow we saw ended his portion of the run right near the Thrifty's where Bill worked. He carried it into the store and he let the hand dips (and others, I am sure) each hold it for a few seconds. Bill had his Olympic moment.

Those are just a few of the memories of the summer of '84 evoked by an old photograph sitting on a kitchen counter.

Middle of May Musings

It seems like more than just 4 days since my last post. The middle 1/3 of the month of May has been a potpourri of events, activities and happenings that have kept The Ancient One very busy indeed.

There have been the CCPT auditions and callbacks. In addition to a hoped for role in To Kill a Mockingbird, I am taking on a first-ever theater task for me this summer as I assist Director Heidi Dotson as a Producer for the Children's Popcorn Theatre production of Sluefoot Sue and Pecos Bill. It should be interesting.

There have been numerous events surrounding Alicia's completion of her 2 Masters Degrees including a Saturday evening reception/ceremony and Monday's graduation at Hebrew Union College's Los Angeles campus. To celebrate her accomplishments as well as Seth's new teaching credential and "permanent substitute for the rest of this school year" as drama teacher at Palos Verdes Peninsula High School, we hosted a party on Sunday evening. It seemed like at least a 100 people were here at the house (and in the yard) drawn from family, friend and the worlds of both Alicia and Seth as well as older brother Bill (even though he could not get here from New York). Then yesterday, Alicia left on a 2 week trip to Germany.

It's also been an intense "medical" period for the family. Back on March 28, I posted about my brother Andy's quadruple bypass surgery and his wife Sandy's hospitalization with MRSA. Fortunately, they found the right anti-biotic to which her infection responded a few days later. But it was 7 weeks before Andy was able to be awake and breathing on his own for any length of time. Finally, he is doing well in rehabilitation and late last week I was able to talk with him for the first time since the surgery. A great weight was lifted from my heart when I heard his voice.

Two weeks ago, my older sister Bobby, who lives in the Detroit area, had shoulder replacement surgery (a relatively new procedure). She is now doing very well in rehabilitation and is delighted with the near disappearance of what had been years of incessant pain. She can't wait to reach the point of having full use of both arms again.

And then today; Donna went in to have arthroscopic surgery on her right knee. It went well and quickly and the entire time at the hospital was only about 5 hours. She is home and resting. Hopefully it will be many years before she will have to go back for knee replacement surgery.

Our two visits to Dodger Stadium were discussed earlier here and here. And there were even a couple of other events I may talk about later. Well, I guess that's it for our Middle-of-the-Month-of-May-Madness. Soon to bed; after all, I was up at 4:00 a.m. today and it could take days for this old body to recover.

Mothers Day at Dodger Stadium

We were back at Dodger Stadium yesterday afternoon as Alicia and Seth took Donna to see the Dodgers play the Houston Astros. They let The Ancient One tag along. The seats were wonderful, upper deck reserved, Section 10, Row A with this view as the game began:

The Dodgers took an early lead on a home run by 1^st Baseman James Loney who is seen here approaching home plate after his blast into the right field stands:

All was well until there were 2 outs in the top of the 7^th when Pitcher Hiroki Kuroda yielded his first hit. He seemed to tire and was having trouble throwing strikes after that hit. The Dodgers went to the bullpen and the rest is history; 6 Houston runs that inning. The Dodgers went down to their 4^th straight defeat.

But it was still a wonderful day; the sun was shining and we all had a great time at the stadium followed by a wonderful dinner at El Cholo, a Mexican restaurant near downtown L.A. that dates back to 1923. What more could I ask for; the family together for baseball and good food on Mother's Day. Well, it would have been better if the Dodgers had won.

Thanks to Alicia and Seth for a great day.

What Did He Really Mean?

A couple of weeks ago an e-mail arrived from son Bill over at BillyBlog to let me know that a package of "belated" holiday gifts had finally been mailed. He then went on to say that part of the delay was because he wasn't sure how I would react to the gift designated for me. Last week when the package arrived and was opened, I understood his concern. Donna was obviously pleased with the piece of Lenox china which has been added to her collection. But, partly because of what Bill said in the e-mail, I wasn't sure how to react to receiving the book Clear Blogging by Bob Walsh.

Now, I am relatively new to blogging, having recently passed the one year mark. Bill had a significant head start on me. I thought I was doing okay. I should actually reach the 5,000 hit mark later today according to my site meter. But how was I to react to my oldest son sending me a book on "clear blogging?" Are my posts unclear? Is my amateur blogging status that obvious despite being a bit long in the tooth as they say? Bill and I have always had a very close, open relationship and he knows he can just come right out and say what he means.

Then I skimmed very quickly through the book and discovered that Walsh seems to have a lot to say that would help me improve on what I write as The Ancient One. While I have not delved very deeply into the contents, I can see where I might learn ways to alleviate some of the frustrations that comes with learning how to maintain a blog. I really should not have been suspicious of Bill's motives. I generally pride myself on saying what I mean without hidden agendas. I'd like to think that my children learned at least that much from me.

So. . .THANK YOU Bill, Mel, Jolee and Shayna. This is a gift that, while arriving late which seems to be a family tradition, will be put to good use. Who knows, this book might turn The Ancient One into a blogging monster! Just check back regularly to see if it is having a positive impact.