tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33167753791846678002024-02-23T18:02:01.804-08:00Hey You HoserAn assortment of different subjects, whatever comes to mind, requires a commentary, catches my attention, irks me, pleases me, and triggers my urge to write.Gerry Mandelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08516124652849272879noreply@blogger.comBlogger149125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316775379184667800.post-71704395418062067522022-07-11T10:59:00.001-07:002022-07-11T10:59:25.910-07:00 武蔵屋呉服店 and Spring Fashion: A Colorful Time of Year<p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><i> This colorful story and history lesson is from my recent book, "Selected Writings." The article was written in Spring of 2017, which helps explain the "weather talk" at the start of this. Happy to say, I still have two of these special shirts.<br /></i></span></span></span></p><p></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Spring arrived early this year in St. Louis. You probably remember that first day of Spring when the temperature hit 86°, following a winter of virtually no snow. I have three unopened bags of ice melter in my garage to prove it.<br /><span> </span>My subject today, however, is not weather, climate change or the end of humanity. It’s Fashion. To be more specific, Hawaiian shirts, aka Aloha shirts. This is the time of year when we put the woolens and insulated garments away and bring out the lightweight cottons, rayons and silks, right? And nothing says Spring faster than a colorful Hawaiian shirt.<br />I’m happy to say that these distinctive garments are still in style, as long as you’re open-minded about style. I used to wear Hawaiian shirts frequently in college and my carefree single years. Then I got married and was gradually weaned away from them.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe0fPC9F4bdX3GU3LhZoCLW0EElyy7pxbLVInqlJNVq-eiR7OSKgcBOqeIWxy75EVXRIDHh-x0bjfSdswuYE_i89N9NC5wB0irgFSMdev-wsO52cNQSOXI6dxGLSgiYeTynjid4bwbLD826YZVpVclcJpv2iOEEShVRHPVJVGDhe2UyJioQAxYuJTu/s3264/HAWAIIAN%20SHIRTS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="331" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe0fPC9F4bdX3GU3LhZoCLW0EElyy7pxbLVInqlJNVq-eiR7OSKgcBOqeIWxy75EVXRIDHh-x0bjfSdswuYE_i89N9NC5wB0irgFSMdev-wsO52cNQSOXI6dxGLSgiYeTynjid4bwbLD826YZVpVclcJpv2iOEEShVRHPVJVGDhe2UyJioQAxYuJTu/w441-h331/HAWAIIAN%20SHIRTS.jpg" width="441" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span></span></span><p></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span><span> </span>It’s difficult to explain the style’s longevity. Some sources trace its origins to the early 1900’s, but there’s general agreement that the shirt began hitting full stride in 1935 out of a shop in Honolulu run by a Japanese gentleman named Miyamoto (that’s his name up there in the title). While looking for information to add credence to these musings, I discovered a most impressive website. It’s The Museum of Hawaiian Shirts (themohs.org). Really. Their mission statement: “To celebrate the history, art, and design of Aloha shirts.” These obviously are much more than shirts. They are works of art, collectors’ items, clothing of rare vintage and cultural significance. By the way, this isn’t only a “guy” thing. Women wear these shirts as well, the only difference being a lower cut, y-neck style.<br /><span> </span>My first exposure to Hawaiian shirts was negative. My dad had a friend named Sid. He smoked cigars, talked like a bookie (which he was), and wore Hawaiian shirts. My mom hated him. As a result, I hated him, even before I had ever met him. When I finally did, he was smoking a cigar, talking like Tony Soprano and wearing a bright blue shirt emblazoned with big-busted women and palm trees. I’ve never been able to shake that image of him. It took years for me to overcome that early influence and develop a fondness for this colorful garb - sans cigar and wise guy talk.<br /><span> </span>When I Googled “Hawaiian Shirts,” a world of color and design opened up to me, a virtual “Open Sesame” of style. Also a world of prices. You can order a shirt for as little as $5 (plus shipping) or as much as $179. Here are a couple that will set you back a few bucks: a Saint Laurent for $850 (but it’s free shipping!) and a Hale vintage from the 50’s for $2400 (plus $8.95 shipping).And if you’ve got really big bucks, consider a rare “Map of Hawaii” Reyn Spooner shirt for only $2500. What is a Reyn Spooner, you ask? It’s a fashion design company that was founded in 1956. I have no idea what makes this one shirt so special. <br /><span> </span>If you need a shirt right away, several stores here carry them. The Mother Lode of Aloha Shirts, however, hangs in the re-sale shops. Used clothing, if you will. I visited Salvation Army, Goodwill, and the ScholarShop, though there are others, such as Plato’s Closet and Avalon Exchange. Also garage and yard sales. You get not only low, low prices, but a built-in “spirit” of the previous owner, a sense of transferred joie de vivre that will certainly enhance your outlook on the world. I get the feeling that these shirts were donated by grieving widows who cleaned out late hubby’s closet ASAP. But that’s just my imagination working overtime.<br /><span> </span>I had a blues band (The Taylor Young Blues Band) a few years ago. While visiting New York City, I wandered around Times Square and passed one of those stores that sells everything from shot glasses and hats to cameras and - yes, Hawaiian shirts. So I bought 6 very sharp and beautifully designed shirts for the guys in the band. Truth be told,we looked better than we sounded. But hey, it was the blues. “Sweet Home, Chicago,” with the Aloha visual.<br /><span> </span>Here’s a closing fashion tip: Add some color to your life. Guy or Gal. Go Hawaiian this Spring and Summer. Put on that shirt, maybe a straw hat, grab a pina colada and shout “Aloha.” You’ll be amazed at how good it makes you feel.</span></span></p>Gerry Mandelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08516124652849272879noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316775379184667800.post-67251165903507526142022-06-14T11:08:00.000-07:002022-06-14T11:08:53.808-07:00The Kid I Tied to a Tree<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> <i>My brother Barry would have been 82 years old on June 24, 2022. But he didn't make it this far. Metastatic melanoma. Two years of trial drugs, then he was gone. I wrote this shortly thereafter, when the words came a little more easily. It's in my book, "Selected Writings." I still feel the urge to call my little brother at times. Unexpected times.</i></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span> </span>"Hey, B. How about lunch?" </i></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span></span><span></span><span> </span><b>_________</b><br /></i></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> An oncologist, a neurologist, and a cardiologist walk into a bar. The bartender says, “What’ll it be?” <br /> They say in unison, “A miracle.” <br /> The bartender looks under the bar, on the back bar, says, “Sorry, we’re all out of miracles.” Then he adds, “How about a round of hope...on the house?” <br /> “Too late for that,” says one of the three and they leave.<br /> Actually the three specialists meet in room 7104 at Barnes Jewish Hospital. They are there for a good reason: my brother, Barry, who lies silent on the bed.<br /> The oncologist says, “I think he needs A.”<br /> The neurologist says, “I’d like to pursue B.”<br /> The cardiologist says, “I suggest C.”<br /> The patient says nothing. It’s Barry’s life they’re discussing, but it’s all he can do to maintain his breathing, keep his heart pumping and his mind from floating into that nether world where the line between reality and illusion has been erased.<br /> Eventually the scene plays out. The three caballeros agree on next steps, Barry is wheeled into three different rooms over the next five days, with brief stops in ICU and cardiology before the sensors are disconnected, the monitors switched off, the drip stops dripping, and he takes a chauffeured ride in his own personal ambulance 23 miles west to his villa in Chesterfield, to await the arrival of hospice, a special bed, raised toilet seat, little bottles of vanilla Ensure, pads and swaths and other appointments associated with “End of Life” care. <br /> You know as well as I that it’s really a “Death Watch” but everyone wants to avoid the dreaded “D” word. “End of Life” sounds like a play that is over, and everyone goes out to get a bite to eat.<br /> For five days, we - the family and those closest to him - wait. None of us are really interested in the St. Louis Blues or Mizzou Tigers games but they dominate the large-screen TV in the living room. No one is really hungry but we eat whatever is set out on the table. This is the kind of scene that calls for a grandfather’s clock ticking loudly down the hall, chiming away the hours, a cold wind and swirling snow outside the windows, candles flickering in the drafty room. That’s one version, had it been described by Charlotte Bronte or Charles Dickens. <br /> Then there’s the Norman Rockwell version of “The Wait”: Gentle days and feathery clouds, a lowering sun, the family gathered as for a Thanksgiving dinner or birthday portrait, from the bed a faint smile, a few final meaningful words, the gentle sendoff. That is the ending we had expected. <br /> That’s not how it happened. Eventually it became a silent ship, slipping away from the dock, headed through the dense fog to a rendezvous at an unknown destination. <br /> When Barry exhaled for the last time, about 12:20 on the afternoon of Monday, December 8, I expected the world to perhaps pause a little, a slight hesitation or flicker, just for a nanosecond in recognition of the passing of this most extraordinary man. But traffic continued to speed by on Olive Boulevard, Venti Lattes were brewed and served without cease, the gray clouds maintained their slow crawl across the heavens, and CNN didn’t break into its never-ending tales of protest and politics.<br /> Where is it written that the older brother give a eulogy for the younger brother? If it is indeed written, it must be in the chapter titled “Planning Your Life and Other Misconceptions.” Because just when you think you have it figured out, along comes a surprise. His eulogy was difficult to write, even tougher to say aloud to the more than 200 witnesses at the temple on Wednesday. But, later on, I was lifted by the stories I heard about his acts of kindness and charity, his role as mentor, organizer of lunches and dinners with old friends, and his exemplary decisions throughout the highs and lows of his life.<br /> Barry and I were different. <br /> His passion was sports. Mine, music. <br /> He was a short, chunky kid. I was tall, thin. <br /> He had fun at Washington U. I studied. (Got mediocre grades. I should have done it his way.)<br /> He was a CPA. His career was numbers. Mine, words.<br /> But in so many ways, important ways, we were alike. A product of loving parents Milt and Diana, a recognition of the importance of family, love and support for our kids. And we cared deeply about each other, stayed in touch over the decades through lunches and jazz concerts. <br /> How quickly the older generation is replaced by the younger generation, as they themselves soon become replaced by the next. With each passing, we lose part of ourselves. On that Monday, part of my foundation broke away. I now feel off balance, slightly askew. I know what’s missing but have trouble finding solid footing. For now.<br /> A good friend of mine sent these beautiful words:<br />“Every loss is just that, something not to be recovered, but remembered well in the swirl of memories that make up our lives.”<br /> Memories.<br /> When Barry was three years old and I was eight, we lived on Midvale, across from Flynn Park. He used to follow me everywhere. I would leave with a couple of buddies to go across the street to play in the park, and he would tag behind, his knickers down to his ankles, his nose running, his shirt out. My little brother. On this particular day, I didn’t want him following us. So I got a long piece of rope from our garage and tied him firmly to a tree in our front yard. We left. Barry yelled and cried, but couldn’t get loose.<br /> Now I realize that whenever I look back, my little brother will not be there. Not a footstep, not an echo, not a shadow. But I know his spirit - a warm, shining presence - will always be with me. And with his family and many friends. Perhaps that is a form of eternal life. I hope so.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzHc-hRKVLX5Y_DEDZvQn-jfadIbR9wEwvkfCTZhlbr18hZTo_9tN6VreWDrk6PRK3Usppoz8f4AERpBv24hTTXGpZ46HJjQkjBhyZWmtz7z9jcrKtJO6A8Qogs3M-IfKwr5iwOleEfG_HNJKNg2Ir1y1qHpqCcjn0wHH5J5hHEzLB_-M5ywDpyxPh/s1340/barry_NEW.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1340" data-original-width="960" height="359" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzHc-hRKVLX5Y_DEDZvQn-jfadIbR9wEwvkfCTZhlbr18hZTo_9tN6VreWDrk6PRK3Usppoz8f4AERpBv24hTTXGpZ46HJjQkjBhyZWmtz7z9jcrKtJO6A8Qogs3M-IfKwr5iwOleEfG_HNJKNg2Ir1y1qHpqCcjn0wHH5J5hHEzLB_-M5ywDpyxPh/w257-h359/barry_NEW.jpg" width="257" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTrfhoweUxpOzDL7r9BUtDK8bxSbeCGS3KYNwisa9SY-dBU7IuGngO1EHvJjiCVejzewGt3fKrrtVKIGWUs6L26nSZ4t8ZmAFwnr3C_fjd_jj88On5jwqyYMwZ66Rz_zXhQvQXK0QtbA0rW_YVl400T2zJ68hVh3yRIgPHQKFYTCL8lQCaWhPDYR-2/s1544/Bman%20video_0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1544" data-original-width="1088" height="359" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTrfhoweUxpOzDL7r9BUtDK8bxSbeCGS3KYNwisa9SY-dBU7IuGngO1EHvJjiCVejzewGt3fKrrtVKIGWUs6L26nSZ4t8ZmAFwnr3C_fjd_jj88On5jwqyYMwZ66Rz_zXhQvQXK0QtbA0rW_YVl400T2zJ68hVh3yRIgPHQKFYTCL8lQCaWhPDYR-2/w252-h359/Bman%20video_0001.jpg" width="252" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEqOp3EG_AdNocQn6-P7A00hwOYe3E7ftvOt_dMMcW7drLKLOlDmugzmfDRSvJg8ENopmL9SwHVvf0s3TZK-LduOearCq-FG9gvZxze3rryHyugdDrY6a0JQ5Y5s9XBMzg3byyDI1GRXsYJVK4-r6ZtjUbS7_V68ZCCT0tlBsw_Eq-C8OZTqI4K3OJ/s810/family%20port.9-10-11%20036.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="540" height="431" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEqOp3EG_AdNocQn6-P7A00hwOYe3E7ftvOt_dMMcW7drLKLOlDmugzmfDRSvJg8ENopmL9SwHVvf0s3TZK-LduOearCq-FG9gvZxze3rryHyugdDrY6a0JQ5Y5s9XBMzg3byyDI1GRXsYJVK4-r6ZtjUbS7_V68ZCCT0tlBsw_Eq-C8OZTqI4K3OJ/w287-h431/family%20port.9-10-11%20036.jpg" width="287" /></a></div></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><br /><br /></span><p></p>Gerry Mandelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08516124652849272879noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316775379184667800.post-48862527122549765422022-06-04T13:46:00.001-07:002022-06-04T13:46:09.778-07:00A Guy Named Chuck<div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span><i><span style="font-size: small;">In 2016 I was still playing Senior Softball at Kirkwood Park. </span></i></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span> </span>That's when I <span></span><span></span><span></span>wrote this. That might have been my last year </span></i></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span> </span>playing <span></span>ball, <span></span>after I broke two <span></span><span></span>ribs and stopped trusting my reflexes. </span></i></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span> </span>I miss the game, and guys like Chuck. <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span></span></span></i></span></span><br /></div><div style="margin-left: 40px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></div><div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><b>Occasionally a name appears in the obituaries</b> that triggers a memory, a face looks out that is faintly recalled, a forgotten connection is restored. The deceased may not have played a significant role in your life, yet he or she shared a part of your past. You may not even recognize the photo next to the name. Frequently the family pulls a picture from an album or a dusty frame that shows him "in better days." Yet there is an echo, like a song or a voice, faintly distinguishable but impossible to ignore.<br /><br /> <b>Such a name showed up not long ago i</b>n the local papers. Charles "Chuck" Murphy. I knew a guy named Chuck Murphy. Played senior softball with him, years ago. But I didn't recognize the small, square photo. A young military man, he wore what looked like a Navy cap, the dress kind with a bill and, on the front, an anchor, the Navy symbol. This was not the Chuck I knew. This guy was a kid, barely old enough to shave, a smile and a look that held all the promise of a bright future. An American flag headlined the short obituary that began "Beloved husband for 70 years to his soulmate..."<br /> Truth be told, I'm not in the habit of reading the obituaries. I think it's a lousy way to start the day. I don't want any reminders that my name and photo will be in there one day. Hopefully not next Thursday. But sometimes, when I'm standing in the kitchen waiting for the coffee to perk, the water to boil, or the toast to pop up, I'll skim the dearly departed. It's like a treasure hunt where you hope you don't find the treasure.<br /><br /> I read the complete obit, maybe 180 words, including information about the memorial service coming up on the following Sunday. This was Thanksgiving weekend, certainly a time to give thanks for being alive. What I learned about Chuck in those few words made me realize how little I knew about him.<br /><br /> <b>The year I met him was 2000.</b> I had discovered the Senior Softball League at Kirkwood Park. You had to be 65 or older to play. I had barely made the cut. So I tentatively stuck my bat into the sport I had been absent from for many years. In fact, I didn't have a bat. Or a glove. Or the right kind of shoes. I had nothing but curiosity and maybe a modicum of ability. I would be one of the young players. I signed up at the Community Center. Games were to begin in two weeks. My next stop was Sports Authority for a fielder's glove, a can of Neatsfoot oil, and black shoes with plastic cleats. The bat came later, when I discovered that most players brought their own bats.<br /><br /> Of the 30 or 40 guys who showed up two or three days a week for the morning games, one of them struck me as supremely gifted. He hit the ball solidly - to right, left, or up the middle. Anyplace he figured they were playing him too deep or too shallow. He ran the bases with a deceptive speed, often stretching a single into a double, beating out a ground ball on a slow throw from third. But it was his dominance of left field that made the greatest impression on me. He was graceful. In the same way that Joe DiMaggio had been graceful in the Yankees' outfield. At the crack of the bat, Chuck had a sixth sense where the ball was going. He immediately knew where he had to be, how quickly he needed to move to get there, where to hold his glove to snare the ball. He scooped up line drives, chased down long balls hit between him and the center fielder. No hesitation, no false steps. Just a sureness as beautiful to behold as Joltin' Joe. If you were on the opposing team, the word was "Don't hit it to left."<br /> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>I knew very little about Chuck beyond his athletic skill.</b> He wanted to win but not at the expense of friendship and fun. One day, someone mentioned to me that Chuck was 81 years old. I was astounded. Eighty-one belonged in the upper tiers of life. On the softball field it achieved even greater importance. Age, they say, is only a number. For Chuck, it was a number to be ignored, not even given consideration. I didn't talk with Chuck much. No conversations, at least nothing any deeper than the play of the moment. The only words we exchanged were "Nice catch" or "Good try" or "Way to go." Sincere but expected phrases revealing very little of either one of us.<br /><br /> No, I didn't know Chuck. After reading his obituary, it hit me just how precious an opportunity I had let pass by. In that short column in the paper, I learned that Chuck was a four-sports varsity letter man. That was evident on those summer mornings in the fields of Kirkwood. What wasn't evident was that he had served as a Navy pilot during WWII. That he had won many medals in the Senior Olympics. That he loved jazz. That he travelled extensively.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> Right there were two of my favorite areas of interest: the War and Jazz. I wondered, What did he fly? Where was he based? Did he see combat? How did he end up to be a fly-boy in the Navy? Would he be willing to let me do a video of his stories and life? Questions I would never have an answer for.<br /><br /> And jazz. What kind of jazz did he like? Who were his favorite artists? Did he like big bands, or small groups? Did he ever see Benny Goodman or Louis Armstrong in person? Where did he go to hear jazz? Could we go out together some night to hear jazz? </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I was too late. The sounds had faded.<br /><br /><b> I loved the last sentence of his obit</b>, a strange place to find poetry. It said, "He was a man of his generation: honest, kind, generous, ethical and responsible." Those seem to be qualities more rare these days, attributes that should be imbedded in our DNA if we are to succeed as a nation and a race.<br /><br /> I am now 81 years old. I still play softball. I sometimes stand where Chuck stood. But not with the grace and talent of Chuck. I'm sure no one looks at me with awe. But that's not the point. Here's the point. We know so little of the people we think we know. We don't take the time or trouble to learn more. Only at their passing do we realize what we have truly lost, what rich and interesting lives are no longer available to us to absorb, to fascinate, to make us revel in the full wonder of what life can mean to us. And to others.<br /><br /> So what do we do? Maybe all it takes is a word, a question, a shift of focus from yourself to that someone else. Perhaps it's as simple as listening for that small detail in someone's life, like a partially open door that leads you into an incredible room where you finally see what that person is all about, where their life journey has taken them. Quite possibly, you may find one or two items in there that compels you to know more about them. In fact, you might just meet one of the most interesting people you've ever known. You will have enhanced your world. Then you won't have to read about what you missed.<br /><br /><br /><br /><i></i></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE6SNuqWvrZsyyHJHEF1OLGP9QVgVDiZbMMzlYVNABGOgCpb1H3ig9jQdhRHyitiJT2-itW0SjM5cG0PkT2Nrcg_Em9EqqUYuwjT4DcviDJTTqcuyaX0tbTjICUC-pvoX-D_vaWtcfTd6pb4NfJP8mEaCsdAx-MbvQa7MwpSbKKft3vhxt-SfrDlRV/s2599/CHUCK%20SOFTBALL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2599" data-original-width="1831" height="498" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE6SNuqWvrZsyyHJHEF1OLGP9QVgVDiZbMMzlYVNABGOgCpb1H3ig9jQdhRHyitiJT2-itW0SjM5cG0PkT2Nrcg_Em9EqqUYuwjT4DcviDJTTqcuyaX0tbTjICUC-pvoX-D_vaWtcfTd6pb4NfJP8mEaCsdAx-MbvQa7MwpSbKKft3vhxt-SfrDlRV/w351-h498/CHUCK%20SOFTBALL.jpg" width="351" /></a></i></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>(I took this photo of Chuck in 2001, when I was photographing many of the softball players for an exhibit at the Kirkwood Community Center. It remains one of my favorite portraits.)</i></span><br /><p></p></div>Gerry Mandelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08516124652849272879noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316775379184667800.post-32497871836563447632022-05-24T13:21:00.000-07:002022-05-24T13:21:13.576-07:00Discovering Our Past at the George Vashon Museum<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span>The folder sat in my file cabinet for a very long time. Over 40 years. I knew it contained contracts and a program booklet. Occasionally, when looking for something else, I’d flip it open, look at the contracts, then slip it back into the drawer. I don’t know why I kept its contents, except they reminded me of a time of life when all the possibilities were ahead of me, when my view of the world was somewhat naive, and I was connected to the music and musicians in St. Louis.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOcsbWml4dHFAP4QB9K0xP3zwmqZKz5bl8h9PQSh3U-5UJS2-WfGE8jLhaxokrs6MobPOMc7Y3SqkuyDZmKEAUzJWNLCU0LA74uHrBCsyYPo-oVpPfmdh0vu6jQR_KFSxihYM6fxvjwgrTQ9vg54SnaIIbMEpREk9MjaLM09EIEn9a3JU02B4LU2-n/s640/IMG_5225.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOcsbWml4dHFAP4QB9K0xP3zwmqZKz5bl8h9PQSh3U-5UJS2-WfGE8jLhaxokrs6MobPOMc7Y3SqkuyDZmKEAUzJWNLCU0LA74uHrBCsyYPo-oVpPfmdh0vu6jQR_KFSxihYM6fxvjwgrTQ9vg54SnaIIbMEpREk9MjaLM09EIEn9a3JU02B4LU2-n/w190-h254/IMG_5225.jpeg" width="190" /></a><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span>Now I’m in the downsizing phase of life, getting rid of “stuff” that no longer interests me, takes up room, has lost some of its meaning. So I revisited this same file folder recently and thought there’s no reason to keep this. I also thought it’s too good to pitch or relegate to a cardboard box in the basement. Maybe someone else would be interested in this, a collector or historian. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span>Through the power of Google, I found someone who was interested. Which took me to the 2200 block of St. Louis Avenue, a part of the city I had not visited in several years. It’s just a few blocks west of Crown Candy Kitchen. I discovered the George B. Vashon Museum, which is dedicated to the preservation of the history of African American culture in St. Louis. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyCGa9weAm3yWnlT1Giym3HHWaaBtGMN7cVHC5aokImCi1MgNKESol8akm1Tu67fpwYh7FXdtR0v1i_sB6jvIZN8-Uo1IvrLpv2w1PO7vP-zyWijhW9tI_w8of66qrh62qyDieicH4YPWJ1WyfIN5WjkQmluRtiVvXCag4Dq2gsaSERrxauhv1Z1I2/s640/IMG_5226.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyCGa9weAm3yWnlT1Giym3HHWaaBtGMN7cVHC5aokImCi1MgNKESol8akm1Tu67fpwYh7FXdtR0v1i_sB6jvIZN8-Uo1IvrLpv2w1PO7vP-zyWijhW9tI_w8of66qrh62qyDieicH4YPWJ1WyfIN5WjkQmluRtiVvXCag4Dq2gsaSERrxauhv1Z1I2/s320/IMG_5226.jpeg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span>The contents in my file were relevant to the Black community in the late 1950’s. That was before the term “black” or “African American” became the accepted phrase. Three musicians’ union contracts, a program for a Regal Sports event for which I had written the script, and several newspaper articles from the St. Louis Globe-Democrat and the St. Louis Argus held a part of my past I remember fondly. At Washington U, from 1953 to 1957, I was in a fraternity and responsible for hiring bands to play at our events, such as winter and spring “gala’s” and small combos for frat house parties. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span>At that time, St. Louis had two musicians’ unions - one for white, one for black. I went to the black union because, frankly, they had the best musicians, the kind of music we wanted, and was easy to work with. The union representative was Hughey Webb, who had signed these contracts. I enjoyed stopping by their headquarters to talk with him about the music scene in St. Louis, the gigs he was booking, some new players to keep an eye on. Through him, I hired the big band of George Hudson, an influential band leader, teacher, and disciple of Basie and the big bands of that era. Never once did I think how strange it was to have a separate union, Local 197, that represented Black players. Looking back, I realize I ignored the obvious racial situation in St. Louis. That’s just the way things are, or so I believed. And I never thought about the reasoning my fraternity house was off-campus, along with four other Jewish fraternities. “That’s just the way things are.” </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRt8PZIFrQjkmGz0jgHP2Vw0xTrtLn23Sy-Dc2oML9-w7YdbmfnL9hJE5NOCaodO6WHc4ZMrKXUJ1a1tte5X0P3bxAiVl7XHwgzqsOb-W9aSCMI8-arhmqSq9_jNWnVtqgr1UIC1kOZeNPnLPjxpSJcOoC3QIS9QlM1yA8tGpkXiflxzbxuF-VzbV9/s447/IMG_5224.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="229" data-original-width="447" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRt8PZIFrQjkmGz0jgHP2Vw0xTrtLn23Sy-Dc2oML9-w7YdbmfnL9hJE5NOCaodO6WHc4ZMrKXUJ1a1tte5X0P3bxAiVl7XHwgzqsOb-W9aSCMI8-arhmqSq9_jNWnVtqgr1UIC1kOZeNPnLPjxpSJcOoC3QIS9QlM1yA8tGpkXiflxzbxuF-VzbV9/s320/IMG_5224.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: medium;"></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaqEUuv-NkASuuSdKIjBA2BJuJYzoalzklYw1bP44bxJCU_QqR3Z3P0HcAusZHEU-Cf6rCE1izLIvJ4zfiTYKSjeizFGuMIlr-EUZX2fmkY5IIve6u-jtHtrVOvsIOGPQm2iSYRTR_ygAcUoLVd4iaNvvMBMSDY3Iu7N2cCVTwhb8A6nLC416QQOrK/s480/AF1QipPi4QfMucvm4vvPmCQ0CLBaKnDp_Njj7IVGxy3Z=w480-h300-k-n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="480" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaqEUuv-NkASuuSdKIjBA2BJuJYzoalzklYw1bP44bxJCU_QqR3Z3P0HcAusZHEU-Cf6rCE1izLIvJ4zfiTYKSjeizFGuMIlr-EUZX2fmkY5IIve6u-jtHtrVOvsIOGPQm2iSYRTR_ygAcUoLVd4iaNvvMBMSDY3Iu7N2cCVTwhb8A6nLC416QQOrK/w256-h160/AF1QipPi4QfMucvm4vvPmCQ0CLBaKnDp_Njj7IVGxy3Z=w480-h300-k-n.jpg" width="256" /></a></span><span> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span> To return to the matter at hand: I contacted the head of the Vashon Museum, a remarkable man named Calvin Riley, a retired teacher who had bought a stately mansion at 2223 St. Louis Avenue, on what was once “Millionaire’s Row.” He needed lots of space to house his extensive collection of over four thousand Black historical items. And many more he has collected since the museum opened. Calvin was gracious with his time, his enthusiasm was contagious, and I got a fascinating tour of the museum. I realized St. Louis is fortunate to have Calvin here, with his mission to preserve and present the past. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKozjnOUG-Wl5frAt8BbMwB3btnDqrvz1m1nNhShAc9_lZq6cyKTuhHKp8dzgXBR4aWY4iNlN049pZFmUBLSr-Yl7mc8iR1VcybFIVvETuN8kgTfmXmFUaDavEet795_xk0Mt5ekefa5EtblcFatLorRoBjaMEacof-XhiCByxb8RFSbd3Qn0uZm-T/s640/20170117_VashonHistoryMuseum_0165-copy.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="478" data-original-width="640" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKozjnOUG-Wl5frAt8BbMwB3btnDqrvz1m1nNhShAc9_lZq6cyKTuhHKp8dzgXBR4aWY4iNlN049pZFmUBLSr-Yl7mc8iR1VcybFIVvETuN8kgTfmXmFUaDavEet795_xk0Mt5ekefa5EtblcFatLorRoBjaMEacof-XhiCByxb8RFSbd3Qn0uZm-T/s320/20170117_VashonHistoryMuseum_0165-copy.jpeg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span>As the author William Faulkner wrote, “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” So true from the evidence at the Vashon Museum.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span>If you want to get an idea of what you’ll find there, I suggest you either visit it in person, or check out the website. GeorgeVashonMuseum.org. Or both. You’ll learn a lot about our city and culture. And maybe even about yourself.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3FjQMVg3BL930_afdqBIlvqmxwkmfcM5tU43Q5C3PtzZI-BhpfdTLx-WxwCFXsGfdBxBKxsxoVIMg9imwWxxVGTbeD4X_OmgKZG6FNcPhaAgzxGxKv_IY9flHlT4AyFp3k13GMKWXI47dKy3wFij2bO_qcMoRBPr1fkk7WdbB9w5UehILe0KnHUJ0/s640/IMG_2151.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3FjQMVg3BL930_afdqBIlvqmxwkmfcM5tU43Q5C3PtzZI-BhpfdTLx-WxwCFXsGfdBxBKxsxoVIMg9imwWxxVGTbeD4X_OmgKZG6FNcPhaAgzxGxKv_IY9flHlT4AyFp3k13GMKWXI47dKy3wFij2bO_qcMoRBPr1fkk7WdbB9w5UehILe0KnHUJ0/s320/IMG_2151.jpeg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: medium;"></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span>Thank you, Calvin. I am pleased that Hughey Webb and Regal Sports and the rest of my 50’s music experience in St. Louis belong to the Vashon Museum.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://www.georgevashonmuseum.org/">A Look at the Vashon Museum</a><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>Gerry Mandelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08516124652849272879noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316775379184667800.post-11253485335787256942022-04-28T09:43:00.000-07:002022-04-28T09:43:14.973-07:00PASTA, WINE, AND A LAMBO - A Tribute to a Friend<ul style="text-align: left;"><li><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I wrote this in October of 2018, after an evening at Alan Londe's home. I had known Alan since U. City high school days. Last Sunday, April 24, on what would have been Alan's 87th birthday, I attended a Celebration of His Life, roughly one month after he had died. From COVID. Alan was one of a kind, an extremely gifted physician and generous human. He loved being with friends and acquaintances, of which this story is an example. <br /></span></span></i></li></ul><p><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></i><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> <br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>PASTA, WINE, AND A LAMBO </b> <br /><br />A friend named Alan recently invited me to his home for an evening of “hanging out with the guys.” These were friends of his whose wives were enjoying a “Girls Night Out.” Sounded like a proper thing to do, even though “girls” seems like a risky term these days. <br /><span> </span>“You don’t know these guys,” said Alan, “but you’ll fit right in. We’ll sit around the pool, have some wine, and some pasta dishes I made for dinner.” I accepted. I had nothing else going and I liked the idea of pool, wine and pasta. He asked everyone to bring a bottle of red. Alan's rather particular about having the right wine to go with one of his meals. It's an admirable trait, one that is foreign to me since I'm not into wines. Give me a Tito's vodka or a Knob Creek bourbon and I'm happy.<br /><span> </span>That evening I was the last one there, having stopped at Total Wine for a bottle of medium-priced rose’, a good choice for summer drinking, so I’ve been told. Besides, red wine gives me a migraine. From the moment I pulled into his driveway in my 2013 Hyundai Elantra, I knew I had no business being there. It’s that “car thing,” a big deal with guys that closely ties the size of their net worth to their car. Mine is clearly reflected by my shiny red Hyundai.<br /><span> </span>I parked behind a 2018 white Mercedes convertible. It’s the model that grabs my attention when it passes me on the road. The Mercedes was behind a sleek new Infiniti SUV. Which was behind a new Lexus sedan and a sporty BMW or an Audi - I confuse the two. Sitting by itself, away from everyone else so it wouldn’t get scratched, was a white Lamborghini. This is a show stopper. These beauties start at $200,000 and rapidly escalate from there. <br /><span> </span>I could own at least twenty Elantra’s for the price of one Lamborghini. Why, I wondered, would someone pay that much for a car to drive in a state where the maximum speed limit is 70 mph? The answer, of course, is because they can. <br /><span> </span>As we sat around the pool - actually, next to it, on a patio; no one went swimming - a big, entertaining guy named named Bob asked a perfectly sun-tanned guy with a full head of beautifully-styled white hair a question I’ve never heard before. “Steve, how do you like your Lambo?”<br /><span> </span>Lambo! At first I wasn’t sure what a Lambo was. I started to laugh but realized it was a serious question. About what, I had no idea. “What’s not to like in a “Lambo?”, I almost said, always tempted to go for the cheap laugh. Steve casually said, “It’s a lot of fun.” Two or three hundred thousand dollars worth of fun on four wheels??? I don’t know what passes for fun in a Lambo but it sure isn’t going to Home Depot for a can of Rust-Oleum. <br /><span> </span>And so the night progressed. The group was easy to be with. Lots of laughs, a relaxing banter, jokes both good and bad, golf stories. And I felt included - except for the golf. Never touch the stuff. After a delicious dinner of four different pastas prepared by Alan and a salad and a little more banter and wine, I was the first to say goodnight. I didn’t want them to see that pitiful little car I was driving. It didn’t work. They all decided it was time to leave. So there I was, trapped in the driveway while they climbed into their chariots and began to pull out.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>Look, I’m not saying it’s a bad thing to spend a pile on a vehicle. If I had the money, I’d probably go for something that gets people to stare with envy and, as Mose Allison sings it, “makes little girls talk out of their heads.” The language of cars belongs to guys. I never heard women talk about their “Caddy” or a “Jag” or especially a Lambo. Of course that may change with the changing times. Along with “girls night out.”<br />One thing I regret - not asking Steve if he’d take me for a ride. Even to Home Depot. It’s probably as close to riding in a Lambo I’ll ever get.<br /><br /><i>(NOTE: After this article ran in the Fall 2018 issue of County Living Magazine, I received an email from Steve. He offered to take me for a ride. To Costco. Fine by me. I like Costco better than Home Depot anyway.)</i></span></span></p><p><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></span></i></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>(FINAL NOTE: Steve never followed up on this. I never got to ride in his Lambo. Doesn't matter, though. I had spent a delightful evening with my friend Alan, and his - at the time - lady friend, Sandy. They were married a couple of years later. This approximates a happy ending to the story.)<br /></i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span></p>Gerry Mandelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08516124652849272879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316775379184667800.post-74780593321801165782022-04-19T17:25:00.000-07:002022-04-19T17:25:23.507-07:00Conversation with a Renegade Hen<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> <br /><b>The Backstory:</b><br /><i>During the summer of 2010, a crisis hit egg lovers throughout the country. The epicenter of this hard-boiled tragedy was a group of farms in Wright County, Iowa, all owned by the same company. Many of the eggs from there caused salmonella outbreaks from coast to coast. This was nothing new for the company. It had happened several times before, causing an outbreak of sickness and death. More than 500 million eggs were recalled. Infected hens were thought to be the source. Thousands were targeted and “eliminated.</i>”<br /><br /><i>This is my tale from late that summer.</i><br /></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span></span><b> </b></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>Conversation with a Renegade Hen</b></span></span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The road runs from Hannibal, Missouri, to St. Louis. The passing scenery offers abundant beauty. Lush, green hills; stands of oak, elm and cedar; occasional glimpses of the Big Muddy, just as Tom and Huck might have seen it. <br /><span> </span>I had spent the night in Hannibal at a quaint B&B (aren’t they all “quaint”?), attempting while there to conjure up the spirit of Sam Clemens. I had questions for him about how to write humor. He never showed. Probably tired of writers asking him that question.<br />The second “B” at the B&B was excellent: scrambled eggs (farm fresh, I was told) with cheddar cheese and onions, whole wheat toast, homemade strawberry preserves, and a thick slice of country ham. I knew about the diseased eggs and asked if my scrambled specimens were from Iowa. “No, sir,” said the landlady. “Those are from right here in Hannibal. I’ve been eating them all week and feel just fine.” I believed her.<br /> After breakfast I looked at a map in the living room. Keokuk, on the Iowa border, is just 65 miles from Hannibal. “Pretty close,” I thought. The enemy at the gate, if you will. Seeking a little exercise before driving back home to St. Louis, I took a long walk in the woods that border the B&B. My thoughts were not on Huck and Tom but on eggs. The ones that were being recalled. Tens of millions of them, all originating in Iowa, just a stone throw from Indian Joe’s Cave. <br /> I was little prepared for the encounter that awaited me on my walk. <br /> I left the main path, worked my way through elder bushes and low-hanging pines. (I’m not sure what an elder bush looks like, but it sounds good.), and stepped into a clearing, still in morning shadows.<br />And there she stood. Or, rather, huddled. A chicken. Actually, a hen. Brown and russet, rather thin, scraggly feathers, eyes wide with fear. She didn't move. I approached her, moving slowly, a smile on my face, thinking loving, positive thoughts. <br /> She looked me right in the eye.<br /> “Hello, my feathered friend,” I said. “What are you doing here?” I spoke as though to a child. <br /> I expected silence, maybe a slight squawk. Instead she said, ‘You’re not with them, are you?”<br /> “Excuse me?” I said. I’m not sure what surprised me more, the sound or the suspicion.<br /> “I asked if you’re with them.” She looked behind me, checking for others.<br /><span> </span>“Who is ‘them’?”<br /><span> </span>“The guards. The keepers. The gatherers.”<br /><span> </span>I felt a chill. “I don’t under - “<br /><span> </span>“Don't interrupt.” Her voice became more strident. “The crooks, the handlers, the egg Nazis.”<br /><span> </span>Suddenly it made sense. “You must be from - “<br /><span> </span>“Iowa. Wright County. The Factory.” She spit out the words, scratched the ground like a bull about to charge.<br /><span> </span>I sat down on the ground next to her. She backed away. In my gentlest voice, I said, “No, I'm not one of them.” I introduced myself. <span> </span><span> </span>“I’m Gerry. With a ‘G.’”<br /><span> </span>“Phrances, she said. "With a ‘Ph’".<br /><span> </span>“You’re kidding.”<br /><span> </span>“Did I make fun of your ‘G’?”<br /><span> </span>“Well said.” I held out my hand.<br /><span> </span>She gave me a weak high five. Actually a high four. She hadn’t eaten in days. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a slice of wheat toast, lightly buttered. She grabbed it and quickly tore it apart with her beak. “Thanks,” she said. “It’s not cracked corn, but it’ll do.” The toast disappeared in seconds.<br /><span> </span>“So…Phrances…tell me about it,” I said.<br /><span> </span>She sat in silence, gathering her thoughts. I waited as the sun edged into the shade. Finally she began her story.<br /><span> </span>“It was a nightmare. Impossible demands. Despicable living conditions. A complete lack of sanitary considerations. And don’t get me started on the manure piled in there.” I shuddered at the thought. She continued. “No exercise, no socializing, no background music.” <span></span>She stopped, stared at the ground. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I thought that was the end of her story. There was more.<br /><span> </span>“I’m a good layer. I know I don’t look like much now. That’s what six days on the run will do to you. But I dropped a lot of eggs, Gerry. Even got a Happy Egger award last month. But you think they care?? Not one wit. You drop three today, they want four tomorrow.”<br /><span> </span>“My lord,” I said, unable to help myself. I reached over and scratched her head.<br /><span> </span>“You can’t imagine the conditions there. Nobody writes about ‘em. I saw rats. They ran along the walls, scurried between the cages. I still have nightmares where I see their beady red eyes and wet twitching noses, probing between the bars.” She shuddered at the memory. “And the rain. There were holes in the roof. Besides the lightning and thunder, water dripped on us. Not on me. I was caged in a dry spot. But so many of the others…” She stopped, engulfed by memories of lost friends, most likely.<br /><span> </span>“You don’t have to go on,” I said.<br /><span> </span>“Do you have anything to drink?”<br /><span> </span>I pulled the half-full Evian bottle from my pocked. “There. As much as you want.” I tilted the bottle so the water dropped into her open mouth. She smacked her beak. “You don’t have any coffee by chance, do you?”<br /><span> </span>“Coffee?” She had to be kidding.<br /><span> </span>“They gave us coffee. Black. Strong. To keep us awake, increased production. I’m kind of addicted to it now. I get these headaches…”<br /><span> </span>I laughed. “I’ll take you to Starbuck’s.”<br /><span> </span>“What’s that?”<br /><span> </span>“Never mind. Go on with your story, Phrances. Please.”<br /><span> </span>She took a deep breath and ruffled her frayed feathers. “We had one guard, a sadistic sonofabitch. Skinny, pock marks, tiny black eyes like a weasel. He’d walk up and down the aisle, bang on our cages with a baseball bat. Shout ‘Drop ‘em, ladies, drop ‘em’ in a high-pitched voice. He got off on scaring us, hearing all the racket we’d make. You can imagine what thousands of hens sound like when they’re frightened.”<br /><span> </span>“Thousands!!! How big - ?”<br /><span> </span>“Tens of thousands, mon ami. This camp was huge. Thousands and thousands of us, squashed side by side, as far as the eye could see.”<br /><span> </span>The day had grown cold inside of me. The story became clear as she talked. Over a half billion eggs from the Iowa farm recalled. More than a thousand cases of salmonella poisoning across the country. An egg operation involving as many as half a million hens. Each cage holding four or five birds in an area no larger than an 8x10 sheet of paper. But the cruelest deception had yet to be spoken.<br /><span> </span>“You know, the name of this place I was at is the Wright County Egg Company. It’s run by a ruthless profiteer named Mortenson. He’s had run-ins with health officials before, but he keeps on doing business. And here’s the ball buster, Gerry.” She stopped and looked around. I could tell our time together was growing short. “Listen to this. You know how they sold their eggs? Not as Wright County. Oh, no, that’s too corporate. They packaged their eggs under names like Mountain Dairy. Hallandale. Shoreline. Sunshine. And, my personal favorite, Dutch Farms. Seriously, if eggs or any kind of food comes from Dutch Farms, you just know it’s gotta be healthy. Right? Talk about massive deception.”<br /><span> </span>“I never knew,” I said.<br /><span> </span>“Who knew? You go into a Ralph’s or Albertson or Kroger, you expect an honest egg. If they had been honest, the cartons would’ve been named Alcatraz Eggs, Sing Sing, Attica. Even Abu Ghraib. You like that? ‘Mr. Grocer, could I have a dozen Alcatraz eggs?’ Not in your lifetime, that’s for sure.”<br /><span> </span>“Look, is there anything I can do for you?”<br /><span> </span>She drew herself up, shook off the dust, trying her best to regain her former beauty, a hint of dignity. “Yes Gerry with a G, yes, there is. Tell people what went on. Let them know what we hens have been through, just how evil those people are. Above all else, don’t let us be forgotten.”<br /><span> </span>I felt a tear form in the corner of my eye, a lump in my throat. I reached out and stroked her lovingly under her beak. “I promise.” I held my hand there. "But what about you?”<br /><span> </span>“I’ll be fine, she said. “I have relatives in central Missouri. They live on a farm. Nobody cares how many eggs they lay, as long as the owners have their beer. And they don’t like fried chicken either.” She let out a loud cackle, possibly a laugh, and began to walk towards the woods. “It’s paradise, Gerry. Just remember your promise to me.”<br /><span> </span>“Safe travel, Phrances,” I shouted as she disappeared into the undergrowth of elder bush. “I’ll keep my promise.”<br /><span> </span>And she was gone.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>#</span><span></span><span></span><span></span><span></span><span></span><span></span><span></span><span></span><span></span><br /><br /> </span></span></p>Gerry Mandelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08516124652849272879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316775379184667800.post-79694587269976154762022-04-08T13:56:00.000-07:002022-04-08T13:56:13.212-07:00A Literary Event of Sorts: My New Book<p><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">A few select words to introduce you to "Selected Writings" </span></span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;"> The first short story I ever wrote featured a roach trying to climb up steep, white porcelain walls. Except you didn’t know it was a roach because I wrote it from the roach’s point-of-view. He was in a bathroom sink and I was in junior high school at the time, loved science-fiction, found my mind exploring strange and wonderful worlds. I might be another Ray Bradbury, I thought, a Poet of the Possible. I also liked “funny,” as in Max Schulman, S. J. Perelman, Art Buchwald and Mad comic books. This was another genre that appealed to me. Although at the time, I didn’t even know what a “genre” was.<br /><br /><b></b></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTB85tTbgT33KNe8yXeVzcVKfFvQYYy0Lf8RlRNgp8wnQnhsM0Wd3I-Ltek_7zIXaqa8sCKi7DYYZjuEJfOxb_BPrJhBgZJhWkk43N-0pwFy-zpJtDad26CYmBBC7uhOCcrHg5s9HtgEcZD0YkRxpirlTXowIp2OYOzBy90DM-kceNf4SloXjEiDlC/s216/Selected-Writings-lo-res_emails.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="216" data-original-width="144" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTB85tTbgT33KNe8yXeVzcVKfFvQYYy0Lf8RlRNgp8wnQnhsM0Wd3I-Ltek_7zIXaqa8sCKi7DYYZjuEJfOxb_BPrJhBgZJhWkk43N-0pwFy-zpJtDad26CYmBBC7uhOCcrHg5s9HtgEcZD0YkRxpirlTXowIp2OYOzBy90DM-kceNf4SloXjEiDlC/w194-h292/Selected-Writings-lo-res_emails.jpg" width="194" /></a></b></span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><b><br />Now, many words, many stories, many years later,</b> I have a respectable collection of writings. All kinds. They are in my book which has just been published. “GERRY MANDEL SELECTED WRITINGS.” I wanted them to be permanently accessible in a real book printed on paper. Much of what I have written are in digital files, which will disappear someday when the electromagnetic storm engulfs Earth and wipes out all files. Or the technology will change, making the stories inaccessible. Plus I just like the idea of being able to hold a book in my hands, feel its weight, its texture, and say, “Yep. This is my book.”<br /><br />Looking back over this collection, I realize just how many of them almost wrote themselves, how they were just lying in wait to be released from somewhere in my imagination. Occasionally I’ll read one of my old stories and have no memory of having written it. Like being in the zone. It’s a little scary, but also very exciting and revealing about how the creative mind works.<br /><br /><b>Writing is something most writers are compelled to do. </b>“Not writing” is not an option. I’ve occasionally gone days without writing, and grow increasingly irritable. Something is missing. Until I sit down at my computer - used to be “at my typewriter” - or with a pen and pad, the mood hangs in there. It’s been said that being a writer is a blessing and a curse. True.<br /><br />A writer/friend who has read my book, asked me if I had a favorite story. I can honestly say I like them all, some a little more than others, but believe I did what I set out to do - tell an interesting story that finds its audience and pleases them. Two are high on my list of favorites. One is an essay about my mother, called “Piano Sonata in Four Movements: L’Adieu.” The other is a humor piece, fictional, called “Renegade Chicken.” Highly recommended.<br /><br />The book also holds the first five chapters of my novel, “Shadow and Substance: My Time with Charlie Chaplin.” Also a novelette which, until now, resided only on Amazon Kindle. It’s “The Negro in the Basement.” I am still moved by the memory of how this came to be, a story of values, attitudes, guilt, and changing times.<br /><br /><b>“Selected Writings” is not a finale. </b>My writing continues weekly if not daily. A new novel about Chaplin making “The Great Dictator,” how he faced incredible pressure and risk during a tumultuous time in America. Also, the true story of a man who has lived with ALS for nine years. He says he has been “time stamped.” And, of course, my Random Musings column in County Living Magazine. Publisher Todd Abrams has been extremely supportive of my efforts here. Like many writers, I need deadlines. Todd gives me those deadlines, along with the freedom to pick the subjects. Thanks, Todd.<br /><br />Here comes the commercial. <b>To order my book,</b> send me an email, to 503spidermandel@gmail.com. I’ll mail you a copy, signed if you insist. <br />Or mail a check to 503 Taylor Young Drive, Kirkwood MO 63122. <br />Cost is $22, plus $4 mailing. A bargain for such literary enjoyment.</span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEYHtLtSSacDFETP0uOanAyDGXmizbhF9_A91Kw55m6CiZoVVDDdt2A3lWXtapRn7-lVEA0lPXf1umHog40PuccoozbS9llYhKi9W_6bSzRSv7IawavhUOR_GihKYrIz0066G--iQts2TkYKmV9YAHPA9ruSB90JJQMBmMM7cpXpYdCWOpmIYFLbX8/s4032/bookw:typewriter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEYHtLtSSacDFETP0uOanAyDGXmizbhF9_A91Kw55m6CiZoVVDDdt2A3lWXtapRn7-lVEA0lPXf1umHog40PuccoozbS9llYhKi9W_6bSzRSv7IawavhUOR_GihKYrIz0066G--iQts2TkYKmV9YAHPA9ruSB90JJQMBmMM7cpXpYdCWOpmIYFLbX8/w153-h204/bookw:typewriter.jpg" width="153" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /><br /><br /><b>Some comments from astute readers:</b><br /> </span><br /></span><p></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>“Gerry Mandel writes with a wit, charm, and irony that walks with us through the outer layers of our sensibilities before it opens the door to the spirit of the human heart. An authentic voice.”<br /> </i> - Dennis Fleming, author, <i>“The Girl Who Had No Enemies</i></span></span></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i> …a compelling collection of prose, dynamic fiction, non-fiction, humorous tales, and diverse topics. Mandel notes the power in words, music, and song to heal, strengthen, and awaken…impressive writing that leaves the reader with a sense of satisfaction.”</i><br /> - Linda O’Connell, writer, author, teacher<br /><br /><i>“Gerry Mandel approaches life with close observation, a wry smile and a sense of wonder and discovery. He has that acute sense of knowing how to make a story important.”</i><br /> - Dwight Bitikofer, poet, community newspaper publisher</span></span></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>“If you want a peek inside one of the most critical and humorous minds in this age and time, this is a treasure. Gerry Mandel sees the ordinary stuff we see but then rattles it around in that exquisite brain of his until it comes our as a polished gem of observation and wit. Trust me, you’ll like what you see.”</i><br /> - Harry Weber, internationally known sculptor, artist<br /><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /><br /></span></span></p>Gerry Mandelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08516124652849272879noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316775379184667800.post-6662153645935372572022-02-02T17:02:00.001-08:002022-02-02T17:02:42.196-08:00Big Doings in New York City. Down Beat #2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEghj4hwPwmoopVBAOdw5xZ0jGvh7kR3rRVjRrVXSG7M_wIhqp12zddFiONPuVsWfyXCZLHe4XdIR97l21EVNUSOceEohlbYYFct5Uiu7TVZiCifTX3770bTQWyKcN6NRMDhH0MS2yKbp2E4eLP9I8Z5dFeT0FyIgSYYWCvaTseyYcqVvzoW9UTi73m8=s640" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEghj4hwPwmoopVBAOdw5xZ0jGvh7kR3rRVjRrVXSG7M_wIhqp12zddFiONPuVsWfyXCZLHe4XdIR97l21EVNUSOceEohlbYYFct5Uiu7TVZiCifTX3770bTQWyKcN6NRMDhH0MS2yKbp2E4eLP9I8Z5dFeT0FyIgSYYWCvaTseyYcqVvzoW9UTi73m8=w243-h320" width="243" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"> There was a column in each issue of Down Beat called Strictly Ad Lib. Stringers from up to a dozen cities, in the U.S. and Europe, submitted news and bookings about jazz in their cities. I covered St. Louis, and there was always something going on to keep me busy. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>The issue I refer to here is September 12, 1963. </b><br /><br />First, however, to give you a taste of some of the musicians and vocalists that personified jazz in the U.S. during the early 60’s, <b>here’s who were mentioned in the New York item</b>, both as playing in NY or were leaving or arriving from gigs in other parts of the world. <br /><br />Cannonball Adderley returned from Japan. His sextet was unforgettable: Brother Nat, Lateef, Zawinul, Sam Jones, Hayes. Count Basie left for a tour of Scandinavia. Art Taylor departed for Paris. In NY, you could hear Randy Weston & his 12-piece band; Machito and his 16-piece band; Horace Silver with Blue Mitchell, Junior Cook, Gene Taylor, Roy Brooks, Sonny Red, Chick Corea. Wow!! At the Village Gate: Herbie Mann, Roland Kirk, Lambert-Hendricks-Bavan, the Coleman Hawkins quartet. Charlie Mingus. Nina Simone. Odetta. Around town, there were Max Roach, Abbey Lincoln, the Gerry Mulligan quartet (w/Bob Brookmeyer, Bill Crow, Dave Bailey). Bill Evans with Gary Peacock at the Village Vanguard. (I spent a lot of nights at the Vanguard on my frequent business trips to NY. Especially on Monday nights for the big band. The place was always jammed). <br /><br /><b><br /><br />Okay. Enough about New York. </b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhmXLtHVX7Ah2XfCTGIBEy2c4AzjvsqIHsVTAuzW_5pA_Eujz7XCirPoPl9bFDBC4ZgDD1Xa324Lfu2cm_UIpcyqEvq0kX2KEHbaCAmP-85Z7y1ldCDXM7D-Ey5Yszp4asKVESdI6nMI_WjBFxitGMyFESIbRkldDpQaBTDn9qhq0FrTcVN-60iE49V=s640" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhmXLtHVX7Ah2XfCTGIBEy2c4AzjvsqIHsVTAuzW_5pA_Eujz7XCirPoPl9bFDBC4ZgDD1Xa324Lfu2cm_UIpcyqEvq0kX2KEHbaCAmP-85Z7y1ldCDXM7D-Ey5Yszp4asKVESdI6nMI_WjBFxitGMyFESIbRkldDpQaBTDn9qhq0FrTcVN-60iE49V=s320" width="240" /></a></b></span></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">But you’ve got to admit, it’s a who’s who of the jazz world and jazz history. Following NY in the column came DENMARK, then TORONTO. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Then a rundown of jazz in ST. LOUIS.</b> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Nancy Wilson packed them in at a new downtown club, Jazz Villa. Jorge Martinez ran the place, booked the acts. Scheduled to follow were Junior Mance, Joe Williams, Gerry Mulligan. The big names in town quickly give way to local names, some incredibly good musicians that called St. Louis home. Dave Venn, piano. Lee Hyde, trumpet. Ralph DeRousse, bass. Harry Stone, drums. Also Tommy Strode, John Mixon, Gene Gammage, Herb Kaufman. Jim Bolen. Singleton Palmer, keeper of the New Orleans flame. <br /><b></b></span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>A couple of news items deserve mention here.</b> First, a West Coast bassist, <br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhJ2_O0kKCBCx0TqDrWTp_jUjiE2r-yFLlHP0fTfG9EQBQGUtJKCmvqyTQvr8WINYXPaHu5oe0QFZOSMDHqhk3gHI9aL2xZFODT439yvGpNylyWB88wmd_u16AEVbq8pyHYQ5GK4XS1GG0vvtqIYQivrzF2c1uEi7UDgh8b6rOAtAz5_JG0CWuwK_EQ=s640" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhJ2_O0kKCBCx0TqDrWTp_jUjiE2r-yFLlHP0fTfG9EQBQGUtJKCmvqyTQvr8WINYXPaHu5oe0QFZOSMDHqhk3gHI9aL2xZFODT439yvGpNylyWB88wmd_u16AEVbq8pyHYQ5GK4XS1GG0vvtqIYQivrzF2c1uEi7UDgh8b6rOAtAz5_JG0CWuwK_EQ=s320" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />Curtis Counce, died at the age of 37, of a heart attack. Curtis was born in Kansas City and became one of the few Black musicians to play with Shorty Rogers Giants. The other news item announced the closing of two well-known jazz clubs: Nick’s, the Dixieland spot in New York’s Greenwich Village; and the Black Hawk in San Francisco. <br /><br />I had been at both clubs over the years. Nick’s was a hangout for Eddie Condon’s fabulous Dixieland group. I was there one night when a guy sat down next to me at the bar. We started talking during the break and he told stories about growing up in the music world. It was Max Kaminsky, the Dixieland trumpet player. He had just written a book, happened to have copies at the club there, I bought one, he signed it…and I still have it. <br /><br />Now about the Black Hawk. I moved to San Francisco in 1960, following two years in the Army. The Black Hawk was part of my routine and I heard some great jazz there. The ones I remember are Cal Tjader, Stan Getz, Shelly Manne, Horace Silver. And, I think, Dave Brubeck. Oh, to be able to go back to those days, to those clubs, to hear those giants.<br /><br /><b>One more tidbit from that issue: the Blindfold Test, featuring bassist Ray Brown.</b> He struggled a bit, trying to name the groups.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgM0TiZmgCFD2oqlVj-adPfcbPXe6ZToA58txws6hIVbplbpdMee3qILXmLEcsGsomV2cPk3t6Yp3-2LU4sSGLItlOxsE-O9cFt5ISmI3RCMS9wI_fWWkI9ds4JQ8gYWyb2CjB5pVS4PGDYhrL6frYT5aXiEWr7cOMHpM79z7nOX6WQcUCsfAoZvCHA=s640" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgM0TiZmgCFD2oqlVj-adPfcbPXe6ZToA58txws6hIVbplbpdMee3qILXmLEcsGsomV2cPk3t6Yp3-2LU4sSGLItlOxsE-O9cFt5ISmI3RCMS9wI_fWWkI9ds4JQ8gYWyb2CjB5pVS4PGDYhrL6frYT5aXiEWr7cOMHpM79z7nOX6WQcUCsfAoZvCHA=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br /> But I love this comment about jazz in general: </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">“…I would go and listen to Charlie Parker or Lester Young, and I would retain a certain amount of what they played - I would wake up the next morning and be able to play it on my bass - plus the fact that rarely did Bird play a whole lots of, like 25, choruses. Those guys said what they had to say, and that was it.”<br /><br />I love that. Talk about attitude. I saw Ray two or three times with Oscar Peterson and the trio. In fact, I have Ray’s autograph in an autobiography of Oscar. Never got Oscar’s though.<br /><br />That ends this set. Stay safe, be well. See you next time. Sadie and I will be expecting you.<br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEja28mTOR8VZzwce2NWVDISK5Lflir5akzHz3LaYyS5oxB9U3TNJ50AZFNMqeMGmjPzaR9EhES1XdH_z5R34XCW-EMv6qbtR9jvX4yGj7IOmE6-5EojAYE-2gglXSmJLsWB_J9GF9RmDfBhOooBjw0qgls4ZHmKt0aDikwnb5XEFJcWUQp0pEAmeFr1=s3544" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3544" data-original-width="2383" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEja28mTOR8VZzwce2NWVDISK5Lflir5akzHz3LaYyS5oxB9U3TNJ50AZFNMqeMGmjPzaR9EhES1XdH_z5R34XCW-EMv6qbtR9jvX4yGj7IOmE6-5EojAYE-2gglXSmJLsWB_J9GF9RmDfBhOooBjw0qgls4ZHmKt0aDikwnb5XEFJcWUQp0pEAmeFr1=s320" width="215" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p></p><p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></p><p></p>Gerry Mandelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08516124652849272879noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316775379184667800.post-54613083223650638262022-01-28T22:58:00.000-08:002022-01-28T22:58:05.799-08:00The Young Man From Down Beat - Part 1<p><b> </b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>There was jazz in St. Louis. Lots of jazz.</b> I was a 28-year-old neophyte copywriter at a small ad agency. I had been in love with jazz ever since I got my first 33 1/3 LP…back in the vinyl days…Benny Goodman and the 1938 Carnegie Hall Jazz Concert on Columbia Records. I still know every note, every drum break, the next song. The music is still magic for me. And I have the album cover, framed and on my wall.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgfM8gsMhvevTlw2CKzz19wyihkPIN3m5tBDJb5IpyoPkxlerOEL4TrGbETjLEbZTiH0C2GqiUpiadSOSbmkmX9rxOG2DIoa1yyCE3dO_NUwIOxmLcrB9SvG8N4yU8VWgUMpsE3zPrajPKnvd85RtAQsJMAuIbb1YpK70wXYa3OtSkmBeJvtnJ7Pg0q=s640" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="350" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgfM8gsMhvevTlw2CKzz19wyihkPIN3m5tBDJb5IpyoPkxlerOEL4TrGbETjLEbZTiH0C2GqiUpiadSOSbmkmX9rxOG2DIoa1yyCE3dO_NUwIOxmLcrB9SvG8N4yU8VWgUMpsE3zPrajPKnvd85RtAQsJMAuIbb1YpK70wXYa3OtSkmBeJvtnJ7Pg0q=w263-h350" width="263" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>St. Louis had several jazz clubs,</b> ranging from elegant down to seedy. I liked the seedy clubs. Where people talked in low voices, occasionally laughed loudly, clinked their ice cubes in their watered-down drinks, smoked cigarettes and even cigars. Never saw a pipe, though. But it didn’t matter where I was as long as there were jazz musicians on the stand.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />Most of the clubs had a low cover charge. I was short on money. I thought if I tell them I’m stringing for Down Beat I’d get in for nothing. It worked. And I would give them a good mention in my column. I was a king maker, like Walter Winchell or Earl Wilson (look those names up; they’re part of American cultural history).</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJg3XtVkHk5r4Bzf0pOhIxnainUqvksWL5kRhMyIsITxELfo7cOykXAnhLo-zY0q-RTogztJ-AWR4j7qYUN_R3WHQ3GTDBEXxuVOM2MUm_IUHbYnj66FkCqoZWLyyHqmDCqotZdmNKwcQw0_jikI17gvNsY0FDCYJWKpbOaP7YTA_-fc0aUsl_OFZ1=s320" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJg3XtVkHk5r4Bzf0pOhIxnainUqvksWL5kRhMyIsITxELfo7cOykXAnhLo-zY0q-RTogztJ-AWR4j7qYUN_R3WHQ3GTDBEXxuVOM2MUm_IUHbYnj66FkCqoZWLyyHqmDCqotZdmNKwcQw0_jikI17gvNsY0FDCYJWKpbOaP7YTA_-fc0aUsl_OFZ1" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgdl4WhXBuI1IBENGgEjMH6TCJLPuR8ZCAQec2RTlZYvKgPzN2GwFD0BygmB6Un_iYeYE315j7xjvF_adcooG2Qc_m3BrSuhYzU0y7UuaBqsvBPjLcEsnJttMbG_NqnON0naN-FzUBnc70y0mN02XKAKuJzrBJlxKWyUkgG6eVQOJbFcERLEwPFTFKG=s272" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="272" data-original-width="241" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgdl4WhXBuI1IBENGgEjMH6TCJLPuR8ZCAQec2RTlZYvKgPzN2GwFD0BygmB6Un_iYeYE315j7xjvF_adcooG2Qc_m3BrSuhYzU0y7UuaBqsvBPjLcEsnJttMbG_NqnON0naN-FzUBnc70y0mN02XKAKuJzrBJlxKWyUkgG6eVQOJbFcERLEwPFTFKG=w190-h214" width="190" /></a></div><br /><b>This is Part 1 of a 3-parter, pulled from the pages of my March 28, 1963 Down Beat </b>which I keep in an envelope in the basement. This happened to be the 7th Annual Percussion Issue, with a “Spotlight on Drums: Elvin Jones. Chico Hamilton. Barry Miles. Kenny Clarke.” </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">There’s a full-page ad on page 1 for Ludwig Drum Company, with a terrific picture of Joe Morello. He was the incredible drummer for the Dave Brubeck Quartet for many years. Next time you listen to Dave and Paul, listen closely for what Joe is doing. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhlPYgPVvqiPjjYYq0NqnTITCsnI1DAqNNAtxIX1LShP_V9uGLNRI8Z0kz8pHGey42iBEE3fH9MZC3X6z2muFfB9UOmp1Hx6GdbkDnBCRvd_CdQnV3Dh_dGvH1x6ZQCPRPgoisKUO3KZRlfRLuqpCTMPF5SvWTVYURa0eK9Sdpybsn3HTlfxYNsqskc=s310" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="310" data-original-width="241" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhlPYgPVvqiPjjYYq0NqnTITCsnI1DAqNNAtxIX1LShP_V9uGLNRI8Z0kz8pHGey42iBEE3fH9MZC3X6z2muFfB9UOmp1Hx6GdbkDnBCRvd_CdQnV3Dh_dGvH1x6ZQCPRPgoisKUO3KZRlfRLuqpCTMPF5SvWTVYURa0eK9Sdpybsn3HTlfxYNsqskc=w176-h227" width="176" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjN2Hmsiz7OMLGzif4ewD9jXxecQUBswUKrMPj61YYhfSBWRG8j2Kko5gtMi7kb6eJ_78cuyU83WuTVhC7zHiJQmX64dAITK4in5dGsLTl6MyEBwvC1YIHi4LXuIhHeFkN_0Bk2DRkZw0NfCyO686nRv5VoWFG2y9QloZq6KV-VjVsjjzQmIqU-G5l8=s293" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="293" data-original-width="241" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjN2Hmsiz7OMLGzif4ewD9jXxecQUBswUKrMPj61YYhfSBWRG8j2Kko5gtMi7kb6eJ_78cuyU83WuTVhC7zHiJQmX64dAITK4in5dGsLTl6MyEBwvC1YIHi4LXuIhHeFkN_0Bk2DRkZw0NfCyO686nRv5VoWFG2y9QloZq6KV-VjVsjjzQmIqU-G5l8=w170-h207" width="170" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">There are ads in there for Horace Silver, Ahmad Jamal (the cat still plays!), Ellington, Roach and Mingus together, and a Blindfold Test with Shelly Manne. That’s where the cat tries to guess what artist he’s listening to. Shelly didn’t do well on the test, but he laid out an interesting quote: “I like to listen to music, not only with my ears and my brain and my eyes, but I have to listen with my heart too.”</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b> </b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b> </b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Now I’ll tell you about St. Louis.</b> My contribution was placed between Philadelphia and Chicago. It starts off like this:</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZuZPpajqoHEIPCIEyboZIARfF88VADWK99Jlfmn5uzNuf5KnCd6itB0cPvwcaY5fgaHMNtv-E_19_ZZavH49VvCQeSNEeKduNdwDdRB8i5cDAhh-V-FHurw2-1KKml1GGgZC6PuFRw9if3YOT5keBEtZoyCiWwxn85ZMs0TOESMRi8jPy0WV29N9-=s320" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZuZPpajqoHEIPCIEyboZIARfF88VADWK99Jlfmn5uzNuf5KnCd6itB0cPvwcaY5fgaHMNtv-E_19_ZZavH49VvCQeSNEeKduNdwDdRB8i5cDAhh-V-FHurw2-1KKml1GGgZC6PuFRw9if3YOT5keBEtZoyCiWwxn85ZMs0TOESMRi8jPy0WV29N9-" width="240" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />“Name jazz in this area is currently headquartered at Gino’s, a west-end club open since Thanksgiving. The attractions have included Sonny Stitt, Dakota Staton, The Three Sounds, Stan Getz, John Coltrane, Roland Kirk, and Herbie Mann. Sonny Rollins is scheduled next….Buddy Moreno did a guest stint for a march of Dimes telethon that included Rosemary Clooney, Eddie Bracken, and Virginia Graham…The Dark Side led off the new policy with King Pleasure…Harry Frost, KADY radio, did an unprecedented two-hour interview-with-music with Stan Getz.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />I met Stan Getz one night, with his young son, Steve, who had accompanied him on this trip. I thought the two of them would enjoy seeing some of St. Louis, so I suggested to Stan that he and I and his son go to the zoo. The next day, that’s exactly what we did. A magical day, for me and I think for them. We had dinner, pizza I think. And, I hope I’m not imagining this, stopped at Ted Drewes. Happy to say, Stan and I remained friends for the rest of his life. I saw him in Malibu, many years later, when his cancer was in remission. He wanted me to go swimming with him in the cold Pacific water, said it was good for his health. I declined, not particularly fond of swimming in really cold water. Now, looking back from three decades, I wish I had plowed into the waves with him, cold or not. Sometimes you just have to grab it when you can. Stan died about a year later.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />So that’s jazz ala Down Beat for March of 1963. I’ll be back with more. Stay cool. As Duke would say, “Love you madly.”</span></p>Gerry Mandelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08516124652849272879noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316775379184667800.post-71910099096490923452022-01-18T10:17:00.000-08:002022-01-18T10:17:41.939-08:00Take Your Good Intentions and Shove Them<p><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"> I've been cleaning out files. At least attempting to. But it's difficult to avoid getting caught up in reading some of the stuff I've written over the years. Make that "over the decades." I came across this one, written in 2010. I share it now with you. Remember, I'm 12 years older now, but the sentiment still holds. Probably more emphatically.</span></i></p><p style="text-align: center;">....GOOD INTENTIONS....</p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I've reached that time of my life when I'm a little sensitive about my age. Granted, I can't do anything about how old I am, but I can do something about how I'm treated by young people. So, if you're under fifty - that's young - and you're a waiter or salesperson or someone I meet, here's what you should know. When you look at me, I know what's going through your mind. You're thinking, "You're old." You're thinking, "I've gotta wait on this old fart and make him feel good."</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Well, I can't help what you're thinking, but I <i>can</i> tell you what not to say or do. First of all, when I'm waiting to be helped at a store, don't say "How can I help you, young man?" That just reeks of bs. It tells me you see an old man standing in front of you. We both know you mean, "How can I help you, you confused old fool?" And don't look down at my fly to see if it's zipped up. I'm not at that stage yet, when I walk around with the breeze blowing between my legs.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Another thing: If I'm standing on a bus or the subway, and you're sitting, don't offer me your seat. If I was able to walk to the bus stop or the station and could step up to get on, I'm sure able to stand here for a few stops. And if you're staring at my fly as you sit there, and it's open, I'm not forgetful. I'm just airing it out. My choice.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Let's talk about food. If you're waiting on me at Denny's or IHOP, just hand me the menu, tell me about your specials, then leave me alone while I decide. Don't turn the menu over and point out the Senior Specials. That just makes me want to puke. When I order two eggs over easy, a side of bacon, a short stack of pancakes, and coffee, resist the urge to tell me I can order the Senior Slam or the Golden Platter for only $4.99 and I get hashed browns with it. Between you and me,, pal, I hate your greasy hashed browns. Even a 20-year-old stud or beauty like yourself would be hard pressed to digest that mess. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And what I said about Senior Special goes double for the Early Bird Special. When I eat at 4:30, I call that lunch.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Another thing. When I'm in the cereal aisle at the supermarket, trying to decide between Cheerios and bite-sized Shredded Wheat, don't point out that high fiber crap to me. I know fiber is good for you. Unless you're Rip Van Winkle, there's no way anyone can escape the benefits of fiber. If I have trouble with my bowels, I'll go to Steak 'n Shake for a bowl of chili and a chocolate shake. That takes care of my problem and I can still enjoy my Cheerios and Shredded Wheat.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">When I need a new pair of pants - not jeans, but big-boy pants - I'll probably go to Macy's or Target and look for something pretty sharp. Please, I beg of you, don't ever suggest I try on a pair of Sansabelt pants. Who do I look like, Ed McMahon? The only reason he wears Sansabelt is because he gets paid to.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Here's what you need to understand. There's a difference between being old and getting older. As soon as a little baby is born, he or she is getting older. You're getting older even as you sit there. You'd better hope you keep getting older for as long as you can, because when you stop getting older, it's all over. I don't think of myself as being old. I'm just getting older. A little slower perhaps, a little hard of hearing, takes longer to get up from sitting on the floor. But am I an old man? No Way!</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">One last thought: If you're a doctor and I'm in intensive care, and the priest is waiting to give me final rites - and I realize just how serious it is because I'm not even Catholic - don't come into my room in your white coat and stethoscope and gung-ho smile and say, "We'll have you up and running in no time." I'm not a Lexus. I'm a Chevy with a lot of miles, and I never ran well to begin with.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> #<br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><br /></p>Gerry Mandelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08516124652849272879noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316775379184667800.post-56445291579662871922021-09-16T12:08:00.000-07:002021-09-16T12:08:02.339-07:00THE DREADED CURSE OF IMPULSE BUYING<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> <b> They know how to sell us stuff we neither want nor need,</b> but we buy anyway. It’s there, all spread out for us like a garden of delights. The trap is set. We have to pass by it. Or, worse, stand next to it while waiting our turn. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> You probably know I’m talking about check-out lanes at just about any store. The disease they’ve learned to profit from is “impulse buying.” It happens so easily, attracts us so effortlessly. </span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPK5vVqSejsibViMVCU4rMrlTP5ykrw3j376u4ZiLPtHp_WsQkzVLFLCNT1miCpf7e647UIIAb_wHZSTW9JALTEE7-xQgiynFHug_DjPxSIGXsleIEgLTpk9YmbdIIxw3cK_iGBG-rAA0/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="364" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPK5vVqSejsibViMVCU4rMrlTP5ykrw3j376u4ZiLPtHp_WsQkzVLFLCNT1miCpf7e647UIIAb_wHZSTW9JALTEE7-xQgiynFHug_DjPxSIGXsleIEgLTpk9YmbdIIxw3cK_iGBG-rAA0/w273-h364/IMG_1292.jpg" width="273" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Recently I was standing in line at Ace Hardware. I held a 2-pack of halogen light bulbs and a jar of gopher and mole poison pellets, “Guaranteed to rid my yard” of these burrowing creatures. Two people stood in front of me, so I kept my proper social distance. Next to me was an assortment of hard and soft candy in bars and bags, salty snacks, colorful bracelets, action figures with little or no action, small plastic animals, insulated cups…the variety was impressive. Like a mini-Woolworth’s. Remember, this was a hardware store. Nails and screws and pliers I would have understood, but this was far out of the category of hardware.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>I’ve got to confess here. I am a sucker for temptation,</b> a victim of suggestion, a consumer of the unnecessary. It usually manifests itself with a sudden need for sugar or salt or something crunchy or chewy. Even an occasional gadget that I didn’t realize how badly I needed it until I saw it was “New, Tested, Guaranteed, and Essential.” Guaranteed for what, it didn’t say. Those people have my number.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> <br /> So I bought a bag of licorice tidbits at Ace, “soft, chewy, delicious.” They were made in New Zealand or somewhere not usually associated with licorice. Switzer’s I would’ve understood. I ate three pieces in the car, then pitched the bag into the trash can when I got home. I probably should have given them to the gophers and moles in my yard. That would have speeded them along to a soft, chewy death.</span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiFPUuXmu47iYYqBwgfP9HjwI15H82vLpiBZgc3w0xWFNoszhOnjFl8vZadx5PoQxQP7xKd3mOVTxHL6gSznqF7u5SWWOwT7X3I7RWm_euAnR4Qj-e482AmB4IFlpw88FR0QX_Yy4I_aI/s424/IMG_1002+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3IXKBxVcZvS_6CgMJn4Vk3eMrVv7fxMo6LLfhOqdgPuRBsDJnx9BG1W111TnUJgVHidrpgn4lx8id6Dh799UXg8yTDTLR2wxqPogOOcaf3YarayumeaKO6NkKoyDfY_Aog6hRKSk6B3s/s424/IMG_1002+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="384" data-original-width="424" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3IXKBxVcZvS_6CgMJn4Vk3eMrVv7fxMo6LLfhOqdgPuRBsDJnx9BG1W111TnUJgVHidrpgn4lx8id6Dh799UXg8yTDTLR2wxqPogOOcaf3YarayumeaKO6NkKoyDfY_Aog6hRKSk6B3s/w267-h242/IMG_1002+%25281%2529.jpg" width="267" /></a></div><br /> The good people who design floor plans for retail stores most certainly keep a psychiatrist or two on staff. They have read us like a book, know what our weak spots are, and probably have a list of categories with projections of sales and inventory turnover. These are most certainly connected to the type of retail outlet in which they’ve been installed. Ace Hardware has different customer profiles from Best Buy, which are different from Schnuck’s and Walgreen’s and Bed, Bath and Beyond. Maybe those impulse items are what “Beyond” means. Further, they all seem to feature a wide variety of gum. Ever notice that? Every configuration of gum is displayed in this impulse purgatory. If you need to chew, you’ll find it here.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> Possibly the most fascinating category for me is the magazines. I have learned things about public figures I never see in the New York Times or Wall Street Journal. Just put me in a slow-moving line at checkout and I’ll be up-to-date on who’s getting a divorce or has a drug problem or is pregnant or has been messing around. I’m tired of reading about Prince Harry and Meghan and George Clooney and J. Lo and Ben and even Elvis. People I’ve never heard of fascinate me. Usually young celebrities who have gone viral for some unbelievable reason. It’s really hard not to read this stuff. Maybe that’s part of the reason reality TV shows are so popular. And I would know nothing about them if it weren’t for their accessibility at a vulnerable time. We’ve become a TikTok nation. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> Impulse purchases are not relegated to just the checkout line, of course. If you go food shopping without a carved-in-stone shopping list, you’re guaranteed to put a few extra items in your cart. Recently I went to get a half-gallon of 2% milk. I got it, along with a half-gallon of Oatmeal milk (“Made with organic oats”) and a half-gallon of chocolate milk (“Omega-3 Supports Brain Health”). That sounded pretty good, but there’s no way I can drink them all before they expire. I will finish the chocolate milk however.</span><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i>This column was published in the current issue of <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>County Living Magazine (Fall 2021)</i></span> </span> <br /></span></span></p>Gerry Mandelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08516124652849272879noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316775379184667800.post-33561677244250958402021-06-28T15:59:00.000-07:002021-06-28T15:59:52.147-07:00The Serendipitous Effect of the Second Banana<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That's a pretty heavy title. Here's why it's relevant. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> I think another word for what happened is "synchronicity." That's when events - in this instance, two events - appear at the same time but there is no logical connection that might have caused it. Carl Jung came up with this concept. He was a pretty smart guy with some stimulating ideas about you and me and everyone else. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span></span><span> </span>What I'm about to tell you could also be classified under the chapter called "Coincidence." That's an easy way to dismiss any deeper interpretation. We've all had those, right? Okay, enough preamble.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span>I wrote a column recently for County Living Magazine. It was about Second Bananas. The title was "Whatever Happened to Those Second Bananas?" Maybe you read it in the magazine, or on this blog a couple weeks ago. Second Bananas is not a subject you see very often. The printed version of the magazine was due off the press, and I was waiting to get my copies.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span><br /></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu4s9HRgzT8GTinh72G62Ups0b90FOjEARoPPncamPFGrI842XMThphjWq8l1k1PTz98ZIHfFcH1oAAk6M5_V_St9qLd5IfF7T2B_yYMkTq0tr_6yKBzmIkhGKf5_8xSxafRV6LMpb_Qc/s634/IMG_1011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="634" data-original-width="374" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu4s9HRgzT8GTinh72G62Ups0b90FOjEARoPPncamPFGrI842XMThphjWq8l1k1PTz98ZIHfFcH1oAAk6M5_V_St9qLd5IfF7T2B_yYMkTq0tr_6yKBzmIkhGKf5_8xSxafRV6LMpb_Qc/w222-h320/IMG_1011.jpg" width="222" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Yesterday - a Sunday - I was reading the New York Times, deeply engrossed in the Arts and Leisure section. The lead article was "Saying Goodnight To the Sidekick." The subject was Andy Richter, who was the sidekick for Conan. He said his job is like a dog or goat who is paired with a horse to keep it calm. "I'm the goat," he said.</span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIPojbyJkuhqtZS8THVckWS7ENkYdMNlRQAuc1D1P4Pefqys_GMkjioGLmoquxKhxyOTnzDNbXFuZ1_Q7hS04bTt1FoWT-5nUyzkY3ZLZtrKFOmCsG62Zeg4ncjztRvVrsKZnyzPi0Vfw/s640/IMG_1010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIPojbyJkuhqtZS8THVckWS7ENkYdMNlRQAuc1D1P4Pefqys_GMkjioGLmoquxKhxyOTnzDNbXFuZ1_Q7hS04bTt1FoWT-5nUyzkY3ZLZtrKFOmCsG62Zeg4ncjztRvVrsKZnyzPi0Vfw/w320-h300/IMG_1010.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span>Two more articles were inside that section. One had more about the various sidekicks, and one was titled "The Top Second Banana Moves On." That was about Richter. </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Captivated by the Second Banana headline,</span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> I was just starting to read that article when there was a knock at my door. </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> I opened the door and there stood Todd Abrams, the publisher and editor of County Living Magazine. In his hands he carried a stack of the latest edition, the one with my Bananas column. Todd believes in excellent personal service, which is one reason why his magazine is so professional and worthwhile.<br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span>So there I stood, the Times in one hand, the magazine in the other. This was synchronicity of the first order. Jung would have said, "See? I told you." I showed Todd the newspaper. Not just to let him know how impeccable my timing had been, but to provide proof that such things still happen, even in this digital, distanced, techno world. Or, perhaps, maybe <i>because</i> of it. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span>Here's my suggestion to you: Keep your mind and heart open for connections you may never have guessed at, for unexpected meetings beyond your imagination, for a direct link to the forces that are out there. They are watching us, listening to us, and just waiting to connect us, if only we let them in.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span><br /></span><b><i>Here is a link to the Second Bananas blog I posted in June.</i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>http://heyyouhoser.blogspot.com/2021/06/whatever-happened-to-those-second.html </i><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> <br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span> <br /></span></span></p><p><br /></p>Gerry Mandelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08516124652849272879noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316775379184667800.post-78978640660633106082021-06-13T18:05:00.000-07:002021-06-13T18:05:35.862-07:00Whatever Happened to Those Second Bananas<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>I passed a diner recently in Washington, Missouri. Wimpy’s Sandwich Shop. I didn’t stop but the name stayed with me as I continued driving, headed back to St. Louis.</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOvw6_Sx-LENVSTWeN2soicI-MOkUvDWfQ2s02SRrMnT3H_XptWsyEGGS4ePlOGjQF56PSqbKvT3ASiRRLWnkGThiPYtg8LTNEn9v7_KmbBNWLKal-Dzibshn3_bIrYt-leI7d4HDiGAs/s480/2546114-wimpy-1.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="480" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOvw6_Sx-LENVSTWeN2soicI-MOkUvDWfQ2s02SRrMnT3H_XptWsyEGGS4ePlOGjQF56PSqbKvT3ASiRRLWnkGThiPYtg8LTNEn9v7_KmbBNWLKal-Dzibshn3_bIrYt-leI7d4HDiGAs/w256-h256/2546114-wimpy-1.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Wimpy. Here was one of the great characters of the comics, Popeye’s buddy.</b> I assume Popeye is still around, in one media format or another. But Wimpy seems to have faded away, remembered only by his hamburgers. Frankly, I could never understand this duo: Popeye was energetic with big muscles and ate spinach from the can. Wimpy was overweight, wore ugly ties, picked up discarded cigars, and ate hamburgers. Still, they were buddies. Wimpy was Popeye’s straight man. </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">He was the “Second Banana.”</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span></span><span> </span>I love that designation: Second Banana. As compared to Top Banana. The term originated in burlesque as a designation for comedians. The Second Banana’s role was to make the Top Banana look good. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span> </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><b>That set me wondering about other forgotten or discarded Second Bananas.</b> I’m sure you know Porky Pig. But do you remember his girl friend? If you said “Petunia,” you win a pound of bacon. Introduced in 1937 by animator Frank Tashlin at Warner Brothers, Petunia went from co-star to minor roles to a discarded has-been several years later. A sad story indeed. I think Porky had feelings for her, but wonder if he still thinks of his lost love. I hope Petunia has found happiness playing bridge or bingo with friends at a pig-friendly retirement facility. </span></span><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>Minnie Mouse fared much better. Maybe because Disney had a more compassionate heart than Jack Warner. I was not a big fan of Minnie but was pleased to learn that she and Mickey got married, in 1933. Unfortunately it didn’t happen on-screen. But Walt attested to their tying the knot, off-screen. Seemed the American thing to do back in those days. I’m still waiting for news of their children. Assuming they had them. Mice are prolific.<br /><span> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-I1AUUx8zry0dSs6Lyz568J8X-U1vG6KL3fe3_XPberBRVQQj0-G0W_HMfRzI8nBD3ke6J4bsU9laGgTFpIcnPhnL1sAEDwZRDsad8ht0ga9vU3PpILKi9cf9eNb2cHPvWQo1u1ZvcTs/s228/images.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="221" data-original-width="228" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-I1AUUx8zry0dSs6Lyz568J8X-U1vG6KL3fe3_XPberBRVQQj0-G0W_HMfRzI8nBD3ke6J4bsU9laGgTFpIcnPhnL1sAEDwZRDsad8ht0ga9vU3PpILKi9cf9eNb2cHPvWQo1u1ZvcTs/w199-h193/images.png" width="199" /></a></div><br /></span><b>One of my personal favorites in the Disney stable is Donald Duck.</b> He has an edgy, out-of-control personality that I appreciate. It took a special woman to love him. Her name was Daisy, who appeared in 1940. I’m happy to report that Daisy continues to enjoy a film career, and is still married to Donald. All’s well that ends well, even in Duckville.<br /><span> </span>Other Second Bananas come to mind: Robin (Batman), Elmer Fudd (Bugs Bunny), Barney (Fred Flintstone), BooBoo (Yogi Bear), Tigger (Pooh). And the list goes on. My apologies if I’ve omitted your favorite. They all helped further the careers of the Top Bananas but somehow got lost in the dust of memory and competition.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /><span> </span><b>Which brings me to a most interesting group of Second Bananas - the Seven Dwarfs. </b></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgToOweEWeY4NQTTJ1kKj5BYpyrOutOLBYIQDmbyX-nuOlN0bLt47TPTHjqwtWBf1SlzG-N7mES1np1rVlfxWpQdD5tTagCpEzlZCgFhL_6zPk71CBmFFEsAPNCiXyBb8ikQdW56YoKU1Y/s318/images.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="159" data-original-width="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgToOweEWeY4NQTTJ1kKj5BYpyrOutOLBYIQDmbyX-nuOlN0bLt47TPTHjqwtWBf1SlzG-N7mES1np1rVlfxWpQdD5tTagCpEzlZCgFhL_6zPk71CBmFFEsAPNCiXyBb8ikQdW56YoKU1Y/s0/images.jpg" /></a></b></span></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">When Snow White met these little guys, they assumed an important role in this beloved story, made popular by Disney in 1937. But how did it all end? Snow White and The Prince get together and ride into the sunset on a magnificent steed, leaving behind her seven little friends.</span> <span style="font-family: verdana;">“So long, it’s been good to know ya.”? Sorry, Snow. Not acceptable.</span></span></p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVtjMM7MM6Wtp-4sz2HJ4TozhbKGTMdEAaoqLQnVAH48LcPKyLv1-xHUpMDm4c-b10O62735SFn3G0XHhbXNYTIolmkWgm8cZ5AxEYTllQqeecobSXw16i7AFkUtlpWEhhG77HgHLWNPw/s300/images-1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="121" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVtjMM7MM6Wtp-4sz2HJ4TozhbKGTMdEAaoqLQnVAH48LcPKyLv1-xHUpMDm4c-b10O62735SFn3G0XHhbXNYTIolmkWgm8cZ5AxEYTllQqeecobSXw16i7AFkUtlpWEhhG77HgHLWNPw/w216-h121/images-1.jpg" width="216" /></a></span><span> </span>For the record, their names (to refresh your memory) are: Happy, Bashful, Sneezy, Grumpy, Doc, Sleepy and Dopey. Those were the names Walt gave them anyway. In the original story of Snow White, the Brothers Grimm didn’t name the little fellows. Walt named them, then had his animators create characters to match the names. I don’t know the back story on these guys. Maybe a bowling team or folk-rock band. But they got together in that mine and were a supportive group for Snow. They gave each other purpose in that cute cottage. My thoughts are with the dwarfs occasionally, as I try to imagine what life brought them later. They had a cameo in a couple of the “Shrek” movies, but nothing after those.<br /><span> </span>Today I can see them at Golden Mines Manor, “Assisted Living for Retired Miners.” Though much older now, with a hint of memory loss for Grumpy and Sleepy, they are in relatively good health. Once a month they get together and sing for the residents. “Hi-Ho” is the most requested tune, followed by “Who’s Afraid of the Big, Bad Wolf.” Dopey has written his autobiography, “Hear Me Talking: Stories from the Mines.” Sneezy and Bashful recently took first place in the Manor’s pickle ball tournament. Happy felt jilted by Snow and is now dependent on anti-depressants. But he looks happy. Doc learned to play the banjo and is a big hit at the monthly manor gatherings. “Snow White” is a name they rarely speak, but each day they look for a post card, a letter, anything from “those magical days.” <br /><span> </span>The life of a Second Banana is a lesson for us: Enjoy your lot and just be glad you got in the game. <br /> #</span></span><p></p>Gerry Mandelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08516124652849272879noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316775379184667800.post-83454627975639152292021-04-19T21:57:00.001-07:002021-04-20T07:47:13.498-07:00Mugged by a Gang of Coffee Cups<p> <span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>The other morning I realized my situation was out of control.</b> As usual, I shuffled from my bedroom to the kitchen. Objective: Coffee. I didn’t even notice if the usual enclave of birds was feasting at my bird feeders, or if they needed seed. First things first.<br /> So, into the coffee maker - filter, Community Coffee New Orleans Blend, and cold water. Push the “on” button and wait. This part was easy. Predictable. The next step proved more complicated, even stressful. I opened the cabinet door to grab a cup.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg61b3_zhjVK2IJuVeJznX5mLY0rCXny-D7Rpt2ODt8PlZyUs2CbHYqljjcdMIPu6by4QvInlvYw9E4PWAqEwO7X1mjM9VmZUBsge3aV028E8JFeDXnZ9hakx87z4OOjY_3hkiPFBFuQU/s2048/IMG_0577.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1716" data-original-width="2048" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg61b3_zhjVK2IJuVeJznX5mLY0rCXny-D7Rpt2ODt8PlZyUs2CbHYqljjcdMIPu6by4QvInlvYw9E4PWAqEwO7X1mjM9VmZUBsge3aV028E8JFeDXnZ9hakx87z4OOjY_3hkiPFBFuQU/w400-h297/IMG_0577.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> I stopped and stared helplessly at the shelf. At the cups. That’s when it hit me - I have a whole lot of coffee cups. Thirteen of them at last count. Now, who needs thirteen cups? All I need is one. Maybe two or three, just to add some excitement to my mornings. But thirteen?? <br />This is when I realized how insecure I am. I needed to pick the “right” cup. I narrowed it down, slowly, to the Los Angeles Farmer’s Market, Larry David “Pretty Good,” and Ernest Hemingway in Key West. I smelled the coffee brewing, needed to wake up, begin my day, escape from this dilemma. I decided on the Hemingway, a gift from my son from his trip to Florida six years ago.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1xRUkbgta8ZIFRg5G6bFf-r6DIRbGVFjH_MDUz_Zfm1aF3D3GA5seEmIwqG5uKEMCkvZ86OsN40-9PTbz4H5qP04ImeMpfSw4yZf4w4dLPK8E-5nArbjg25hG_yjn747ithjj81ZvRHM/s854/IMG_0531+%25281%2529.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="854" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1xRUkbgta8ZIFRg5G6bFf-r6DIRbGVFjH_MDUz_Zfm1aF3D3GA5seEmIwqG5uKEMCkvZ86OsN40-9PTbz4H5qP04ImeMpfSw4yZf4w4dLPK8E-5nArbjg25hG_yjn747ithjj81ZvRHM/s320/IMG_0531+%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>As I sat there over my coffee, staring out the window, I wondered how many other people are similarly obsessed.</b> I’m sure I wasn’t the only one in this situation. I mentioned my cups predicament to a friend a couple of days later. <br /> “Those aren’t cups,” she said. “They’re mugs.”<br /> “Same thing,” I said, suddenly defensive.<br /> A bit of advice here: Don’t argue with a knowledgeable woman about anything in the kitchen. Especially dishware. “Those are two different things,” she said. “Different sizes, different functions.” <br /> I knew I was getting in deeper than I wanted to. She told me, in gentle terms, that a cup is used for tea and is smaller. Six ounces, to be exact. That’s why the British say “a cuppa.” A mug is used for coffee, also for hot chocolate. So when you say, “Let’s get a cup of coffee,” you’re showing your lack of awareness. Just to finish this lesson, understand that a mug is sturdier and comes without a saucer. A cup and saucer go together like ham and eggs, just to keep the breakfast analogy going. <br /> About a year ago, I cleared out some of my cups. Maybe seven or eight of them. The shelf was too full. A couple even had dead flies in them. I still found it difficult to take a few to the Salvation Army, which is a kind of purgatory for cups. “I Love You” was one, either from my wife, my daughter or my son. A morning reminder I was loved. Another was “Happy Father’s Day.” Every father in America must have one of those. At least I hope so. I also gave away a $20 cup I had bought at the Truman Library in Independence. It looked like it was made of marble and had the Presidential seal on it. The cup looked great on the shelf or the table, but drinking coffee from it made me feel imperious. As though I had to sign some bills, call the Speaker of the House, or ponder the wisdom of dropping the atomic bomb. Not a good way to start the day, right?<br /><b> However, parting ways is not easy.</b> Coffee cups, I believe, have something in common with our t-shirts, caps, and greeting cards. We are emotionally attached to them, for they represent part of our past: occasions, connections, celebrations, and expressions of love. <br />About the cups thing: I, for one, will continue to call them cups, regardless of proper nomenclature. Some things I can not part with. Tomorrow morning, when you make your coffee, think about which cup you reach for. And why. You may learn something about yourself.<br /><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>#</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>This column appears in the current issue of County Living Magazine (April 2021)</i><br /></span></p><p></p>Gerry Mandelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08516124652849272879noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316775379184667800.post-17013573741820594082021-02-08T21:16:00.001-08:002021-02-08T21:18:13.354-08:00 My Table Will Be Waiting Again<p style="text-align: left;"><b>I’ve been streaming a lot the past few months.</b> I know that sounds like a medical condition. “I’m going in for surgery next week. Been streaming a lot.” You know what I mean. I’ve been watching some of the new series and movies, many of them quite good. I almost bought a chess set after “The Queen’s Gambit,” but came to my senses. Scrabble and gin rummy are enough of a challenge for me.
Old movies, however, exert a relentless pull on me. Many I remember fondly, some I don’t remember much about, a few I’ve never seen. The combination of nostalgia, engrossing stories, and performances have stayed with me. There is, however, a side effect to these movies. They make me long for the good old days, “those days” being the last months of 2019. Before the virus.
The <br /></p><p>scenes that grab me take place in a restaurant. Any restaurant.
<b> </b></p><p><b>As I sit in front of my TV now and dine on my take out/carry out/curbside egg foo young,</b> I am transported by the sight of people enjoying dinner in a restaurant. They can play an important role in movies and series. “My Dinner with Andre,” 1981, a full-length movie that takes place at one table in a restaurant. “Dinner Rush”, 2000, and “Big Night,” 1996, in New York and New Jersey respectively. Both Italian, of course. Along with “The Sopranos” and “The Godfather.” Waiters, activity, lovable characters, and plates of pasta, veal, scampi, olive oil and crusty bread and red wine and tiramisu. Ah, the romance of eating out, even if someone gets whacked.
This may be the most personal reminder of how much we’ve changed. Restaurants have been devastated by the pandemic, many of them never to return. Some of the best ones, I’m afraid.
<b> </b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ2Gb9whtjEKuXcb7mbsWzLJLyX3vKYJuWTN6tMgjdM6UItaWmTUNobEQz9zePZK27PMWN6Q_z09GdmzVngu91_FjIySk5embseJWiRLPuB2ZE-Dwp0Rna74r50L2i2BNRxLPNeODGsks/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ2Gb9whtjEKuXcb7mbsWzLJLyX3vKYJuWTN6tMgjdM6UItaWmTUNobEQz9zePZK27PMWN6Q_z09GdmzVngu91_FjIySk5embseJWiRLPuB2ZE-Dwp0Rna74r50L2i2BNRxLPNeODGsks/w313-h313/MUSINGS+RESTRNT.jpg" width="313" /></a></div><p></p><p><b>On a personal level, here’s what I miss:</b> The ceremony of Going Out to Eat. A crowded restaurant, lots of chatter and laughter, clinks of forks and plates, maybe some cool jazz in the background. Talking with Z and friends. The maitre’d smiles warmly, genuinely happy to see us. He even remembers my name. Right on time, he shows us to our waiting table, slides my chair out for me. Maybe even unfolds the cloth napkin to lay in my lap. The white linen tablecloth, the place settings, the freshly poured glasses of water with ice - a fantasy realized.
How can you exist this long without the satisfaction of a waiter handing out menus, asking, “Would you care for a drink?” Of course I would. “A vodka Gibson, please,” I say, “Straight up.” I even have my choice of vodka. “Ketel One,” I say confidently. And so it begins. The Ceremony of the Meal. A cast of impeccable characters: the waiter, the busboy (or bus person?), the wine expert with the opener around his neck. Maybe a friend stops by the table with a “How’ve you been?” And a handshake. (Remember those?)
And the sounds. Oh<br />, those beautiful sounds. A symphony of conversation and laughs, and knives and forks on dishes, an energy carried by sound waves and delicious aromas that say you are in the right place, and heaven is here right now. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0C19XRHGDXzBm6I1cXGu_anNiQCY2I52uLm6FxcYRjy5bqGtiuFYRORIP7obrSBrmBp_pgNTytu6ZwFqne1XqLwJ2MVoIiWWUYbylW0oyOtZt5PMBLWjELkg5vgsIKMgw9p9I3soQcZ0/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0C19XRHGDXzBm6I1cXGu_anNiQCY2I52uLm6FxcYRjy5bqGtiuFYRORIP7obrSBrmBp_pgNTytu6ZwFqne1XqLwJ2MVoIiWWUYbylW0oyOtZt5PMBLWjELkg5vgsIKMgw9p9I3soQcZ0/" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>Okay, I’m getting carried away. But I do miss the experience of “going out to eat.”
It doesn’t have to be fancy. No wine steward, no “live” music. Just the staff, the food, and the waiter who asks what you want, confides in you that the snapper is to die for, asks how would you like your steak cooked, “I suggest medium rare,” and then asks the inevitable question after the main course: “Did we save room for dessert?” Who’s the “we” in this? Is the waiter going to join us?
Finally the check, the credit cards, the chairs pushed away from the table, and a cheerful departure, stopping by a table on the way out to say hello to someone you haven’t seen in awhile.
I heard that Giovanni’s Little Place, in Ladue, has shuttered. I am saddened, as though I have lost a dear friend. Fond memories, shared with Z. Many other places also gone. I wonder about those beautiful
men and women who made going out to eat so special. Made me feel special. Where are they? How are they? They, too, are lost. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVlr8_wHNm_FJkPtXlBSH9ZIYma5m0kEWiXn2dYssy-rZzUtswwlaW2abb6ZliHhLqGDMoG_eoo_6o7JG81yTkyResdvSWD7qbOcriD_4zyZEU84D6b2SQnTCRNIPB_gVh6Eh0vF6aTUU/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="254" data-original-width="198" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVlr8_wHNm_FJkPtXlBSH9ZIYma5m0kEWiXn2dYssy-rZzUtswwlaW2abb6ZliHhLqGDMoG_eoo_6o7JG81yTkyResdvSWD7qbOcriD_4zyZEU84D6b2SQnTCRNIPB_gVh6Eh0vF6aTUU/w138-h177/a+waiter.jpeg" width="138" /></a></p><p><b>Someday this classic ritual will return. </b>But the faces and places, the names and ambience will be different. We’ll adjust to this new world. Our tables will be waiting. And it will be time to build new memories.
</p>Gerry Mandelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08516124652849272879noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316775379184667800.post-82295039378031436342020-08-30T21:50:00.000-07:002020-08-30T21:50:16.929-07:00A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to This Blog<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>A priest, a minister and a rabbi walk into a bar. The bartender looks at them
and says, “What is this? Some kind of joke?” </b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Rim shot. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">What’s so funny? These days, not a lot. The virus, the shootings, the protests, the politicians all have arrived to create the perfect storm of anxiety. Yet the laughs keep coming.
Take your choice of sources:
sit-coms (old and new) movies on TV, stand-ups, streaming, websites, podcasts,
apps. I find a lot on YouTube, some of the all time great routines and shows. Laughter persists for one reason: we need it. We need that balance in our
lives, the bright release from the dark. It’s a special human gift. Researchers
claim that some animals laugh - chimps, dogs, rats, dolphins. But they only
react to physical stimulation, like playing and tickling. They’re unaware of
punch lines, and haven’t evolved as far as “knock knock” jokes. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2FiRMVMCyzSg9Er9w42ERyMg8k3VkKVall2nQyygtWUBzJUeZCnE7xEVtNTQ7flm_s3AI5ovJc1xQb1fu54yR_cvTfZjelrcBF7AN-cWxtHvqjeey0j8AKxP0kZZ2M1dLz7yLSPEjvWY/s225/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2FiRMVMCyzSg9Er9w42ERyMg8k3VkKVall2nQyygtWUBzJUeZCnE7xEVtNTQ7flm_s3AI5ovJc1xQb1fu54yR_cvTfZjelrcBF7AN-cWxtHvqjeey0j8AKxP0kZZ2M1dLz7yLSPEjvWY/s0/images.jpeg" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /><b>Which brings me
to Carl Reiner, who died this past July </b>at the age of 98. That’s a lot of years
and a lot of laughs for a whole lot of people. Carl became a comedy legend in
many media, as writer, actor, performer and director. My favorite Reiner
creations were The Dick Van Dyke Show and The 2000 Year-Old-Man albums with Mel
Brooks. They are as funny now as when I first discovered them many years ago.
Make that decades ago. Carl was the ultimate straight man who brought out the best in others. He and Mel remained friends until the very end. <br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The driving force behind that laughter was the writers.
Today there are some incredibly talented comedy writers, with more outlets for
their efforts than ever. But the seeds were planted, the formats and rhythms
developed seventy years ago. I spent thirty years as a writer for ad agencies
and was pretty good at it. But my soul wanted something else. To write comedy.
Funny plays, movies, TV shows. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6jAEvvPaWJpbMWreJoBK1w5111wZU5GxwXZgQCBiQsqYjzndrqLOeeq_Lz-K0cvFVK6vG-qNBjpbk1fn_ycj0c7xjLNzfEph_kp18WykfPWgQtQXYx3naDKJhSKu-w6vt_ey4vNkm_xU/s1200/In-Memoriam-Moments-from-Carl-Reiners-career_2_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="862" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6jAEvvPaWJpbMWreJoBK1w5111wZU5GxwXZgQCBiQsqYjzndrqLOeeq_Lz-K0cvFVK6vG-qNBjpbk1fn_ycj0c7xjLNzfEph_kp18WykfPWgQtQXYx3naDKJhSKu-w6vt_ey4vNkm_xU/w235-h328/In-Memoriam-Moments-from-Carl-Reiners-career_2_1.jpg" width="235" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /><b>What I really wanted was to have been one of a
special group of writers </b>who wrote for Sid Caesar from 1950 to 1954. It was
called “Your Show of Shows,” and starred Sid, Imogene Coca, Howie Morris and
Carl. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">His stable of writers included men and women who tickled America’s funny
bone. You’ve heard of some of them: Neil Simon. Larry Gelbart (Mash). Mel Tolkin
(All in the Family). Danny Simon (Neil’s brother…what a funny family). Woody
Allen. Selma Diamond, Joe Stein, Lucille Kallen. Among them they created some of
America’s most memorable moments and shows, as well as a style of humor barely
recognized at the time. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Sid, Carl, Imogene</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3SGdaslYmmxel6_6Oyu6BR99wGUXs7LGxhtEpKzCKFhKs0VVYF5y90Gmah0ZBK4FKnViXnlx27n7QXuyXk2OfgxG2b1_Hd9PxXNWB1egh16-xJSltT37PBP7zs08vA3d4n23Uynf7XSM/s1299/aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaacaesar4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3SGdaslYmmxel6_6Oyu6BR99wGUXs7LGxhtEpKzCKFhKs0VVYF5y90Gmah0ZBK4FKnViXnlx27n7QXuyXk2OfgxG2b1_Hd9PxXNWB1egh16-xJSltT37PBP7zs08vA3d4n23Uynf7XSM/s640/aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaacaesar4.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>Photo by Mark Seliger for Vanity Fair<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">In my more fanciful moments over the years, I’ve
fantasized about sitting in Sid’s writers’ room, cup of coffee - black - in my
hand; a half-finished poppy-seed bagel with a glob of cream cheese on a paper
plate next to me; Bic pen poised over my notebook. Next to me sits Woody in
wrinkled shirt and slacks. Across the table from me, Mel smokes a cigar, throws
out hilarious lines. Neil just shakes his head. I don’t smoke but I might as
well. The meeting begins, Carl at the head of the table. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The dialogue: </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Carl
Reiner: Listen up, guys. We need a closer here. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Neil Simon: Where’s here? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Carl:
The restaurant, Neil. Sid and Imogene. Sid asks for frog legs. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Larry Gelbart:
That’s funny right there. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Carl: Last line. Selma? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Selma Diamond: “We’re out of
legs. How about a couple of shoulders?” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Carl: Not funny. Frogs don’t have
shoulders. Anybody? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Mel Brooks: “You want a pair of argyles with those legs?” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Carl: C’mon, guys. Gerry. Whaddya got? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Gerry: How about this? Sid asks the
waiter, “Do you have frog legs?” The waiter says, “No, I walk this way because
I’m chafed.” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">BIG LAUGH AROUND THE TABLE. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Carl: Bingo. Thanks. Well done. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">My
fantasy continues ad infinitum. I love the process, the people, the life of a
comedy writer in New York in the early ’50’s. I go to the Carnegie with Mel and
Carl. I go to the Village to hear jazz with Woody, Selma and Danny. Carl calls
me and asks me to work on a TV sit-com he’s developing. Character’s name is Rob
Petrie. I say “sure” and feel validated. I watch “Your Show of Shows” on TV and
wait for my lines, my ideas, mingled with those giants of comedy, who are making
America laugh. And I feel complete. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Charlie Chaplin said, “A day without
laughter is a day wasted.” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Charlie was right.
</span></p>Gerry Mandelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08516124652849272879noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316775379184667800.post-90302898672688676292020-07-01T21:58:00.000-07:002020-07-01T21:58:23.038-07:00Scooping the NY Times: Creativity Unbound and Damon Davis<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><b>The story you're about to read (I hope) first appeared in the recent issue of County Living Magazine.</b> I had wanted to do an article about an African-American artist but had no connections to that culture. I contacted Dr. Gerald Early, who I know from the Jazz STL book club, and asked him for an idea. He immediately shot back a name: Damon Davis. I talked to Damon and knew this was my guy. Thankfully I have a publisher at CLM, Todd Abrams, who saw the promise in the article, as well as its timeliness and importance. Little did we know just how timely. This was weeks before the events in Minneapolis.</i></span></span></div>
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<i style="font-family: 'helvetica neue', arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Here's the kicker:</b> A story on filmmakers appeared today (Wednesday 7/1/20) on the front page of the New York Times Arts section. "Filmmakers With a Focus On Justice: Ava DuVernay, Stanley Nelson, Sabaah Folayan and Damon Davis discuss race and the documentary tradition." That's a heavy load to carry, but these folks are making it happen. </i></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><b>The article.</b> I don't have the layout available, and I can't download the photos, so I've included the copy I wrote, and then added photos of the magazine layout. Michael Kilfoy is the designer.</i></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyWsqUUuaofWduFUdZ-OKnhJgaLFxsEyvGbridzNWiomglcIGUl79VTXv7O2LSJwpvrduvRB200q2VB3QfU_F7tq2T07yAEiwuk9nUd2Rjg2sK1vUaXR7LNJLKYVB4q5gSRJfGcesi224/s1600/ted_32567485.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyWsqUUuaofWduFUdZ-OKnhJgaLFxsEyvGbridzNWiomglcIGUl79VTXv7O2LSJwpvrduvRB200q2VB3QfU_F7tq2T07yAEiwuk9nUd2Rjg2sK1vUaXR7LNJLKYVB4q5gSRJfGcesi224/s320/ted_32567485.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">St. Louis is home to a highly original and multi-faceted artist who, as he says, has “a lot of tools in my tool box. I use the one that best tells the story I want to tell.” His name is Damon Davis and to try to put a label on him is an exercise in frustration. I’m used to classifying an artist by the medium he or she uses. Painter, sculptor, quilter, photographer. But for Damon, I am stymied. He is impossible to categorize, except to say “He is an artist.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Classification, however, is not important. It’s his talent, his drive and imagination behind his media that makes the difference. Davis is an award-winning artist who works and lives in St. Louis, not far from the newly-emergent art district on Cherokee Street. His website refers to him as a “post-disciplinary artist.” I had no idea what that meant so I asked him. He said, “My practice is part therapy, part social commentary. I work across a spectrum of creative mediums to tell stories that range in topic and scope.” The purpose of his creative output is to give voice to the powerless and oppose systems of oppression. He is quick to remind me that he focuses on the joy as well as the pain of the Black experience. It’s that yin and yang that makes his website so appropriately named: HeartacheAndPaint.com.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Damon’s roots determined his journey through life. His mother was a sharecropper in Louisiana and moved to St. Louis during the 1960’s. His father, who was born in St. Louis, served in the Army during the Viet Nam war, but found returning to the U.S. difficult. Damon grew up in East St. Louis, and attended a Catholic high school in Belleville, Illinois. He received a full scholarship to St. Louis University, where he majored in Fine Arts but eventually graduated with a degree in Communications. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I was pushed in-between two separate worlds,” he says, referring to the the traditional world of commerce and the world of art. “My whole life has been art, it’s always been what I’ve done. I tell stories.” He talks about how many of his friends went into civil service. He was different. “For me, regular work was soul crushing. I wouldn’t be alive today if I had to do that.” He admits he doesn’t take orders well. The mark of a true artist.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Writing isn’t one of his strong suits. “I find writing difficult, but I’m working hard to improve it. People have approached me to write a book. I can talk, but my brain moves faster than my hand.” In the meantime, his visual art breaks new boundaries. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Our conversation takes us to the subject of race. This stands at the center of his work. I asked Damon what he wants his art to accomplish. “I hope people will think, ask questions they didn’t ask themselves before, take a look at someone else’s experience. And arrive at an understanding.” He is quick to point out what it is not. “It’s not about getting past the legacy of slavery, not about getting past anything. It’s acknowledgment of America’s past.” That acknowledgment, he believes, can create a positive effect: “To bring people closer together; to make people realize they are not alone.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It seems no medium is unexplored for Damon. What is his favorite?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Music,” he says after careful consideration. “What I love most of all is I can sit in a room with my equipment and create the songs and sounds and feelings I’m after.” He works on a keyboard and other electronic gear. “Music has put me in places with people who have completely different backgrounds. It’s as though we have a private conversation among us. I never would have known about them, except through music.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">His tastes include Miles, Stevie Wonder, Bob Marley, and many of today’s artists. His biggest influence is Outkast, one of the most respected hip-hop groups in history. His conceptual album, “<b><i>Darker Gods</i></b>,” delves into the power of myth, and provides the soundtrack to an exhibit of his. “It welcomes us to a new world of Black Gods and Goddesses.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“<b><i>Black Bag</i></b><i>” </i>was founded by Damon with Basil Kincaid, a nationally-recognized visual artist who lives in St. Louis. This award provides unrestricted funding, networking opportunities, and support for young black artists in St. Louis and East St. Louis. The cash funding ranges from $250 to $500, with guidance and supervision on a continuing basis.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi81QTRuxx430tKgl42bLMXyzhqksqNtse9bh__0Bw1GyY9cW9T0-VW5aq2sgzyJCDGIaepnfRMkbdmQj73509vpvWlFo0j5QvvJIZqWNqys6K63n_HERwFyiMi8Gn6SQwMU57YY62vAXM/s1600/damon1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi81QTRuxx430tKgl42bLMXyzhqksqNtse9bh__0Bw1GyY9cW9T0-VW5aq2sgzyJCDGIaepnfRMkbdmQj73509vpvWlFo0j5QvvJIZqWNqys6K63n_HERwFyiMi8Gn6SQwMU57YY62vAXM/s1600/damon1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="416" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi81QTRuxx430tKgl42bLMXyzhqksqNtse9bh__0Bw1GyY9cW9T0-VW5aq2sgzyJCDGIaepnfRMkbdmQj73509vpvWlFo0j5QvvJIZqWNqys6K63n_HERwFyiMi8Gn6SQwMU57YY62vAXM/s640/damon1.jpg" width="640" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8qYldR_eaKVeKwKPkmGg5HJhsfPwQt8mYJEyIMj1SBC5Hpt6IenwCK0MGiXEJtSmtOCo6l08lvvlNv8nmjYbi7tOrX4mqcYUr4cBkGmddpcZe_elj0YWItpfqLwitxg58KzAuH2GILCQ/s1600/damon2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8qYldR_eaKVeKwKPkmGg5HJhsfPwQt8mYJEyIMj1SBC5Hpt6IenwCK0MGiXEJtSmtOCo6l08lvvlNv8nmjYbi7tOrX4mqcYUr4cBkGmddpcZe_elj0YWItpfqLwitxg58KzAuH2GILCQ/s640/damon2.jpg" width="497" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Arising from the death of Damon’s mother, and his conflict with family and friends, “<b><i>Cracks</i></b><i>”</i> is a series of three-dimensional works that explore vulnerability, masculinity, grieving, and trauma. They were created as part of his residency at Grinnell College last year, and were featured in his solo exhibition at Grinnell’s Museum of Art. This was the kind of exhibit that stops you in your tracks and says, “Pay attention. This artist has something to say.” It was a combination of sculptures and digitally enhanced photographs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">An important and highly-praised documentary from 2017 was co-produced and co-directed by Damon, with Sabaah Folayan. A harsh and unrelenting look at the killing of Michael Brown, “<b><i>Whose Streets</i></b>” premiered at the Sundance Film Festival. The critics praised it, and The Guardian gave it a five-star review, calling it a “tremendous end run around mainstream news outlets.” Magnolia Pictures picked it up for national distribution in theaters. In 2016, he was named one of Filmmaker Magazine’s Twenty Five New Faces of Independent Film,</span><span style="color: #0444ad; line-height: normal;"><sup> </sup></span><span style="font-kerning: none;">and Independent Magazine's 10 Filmmakers to Watch.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #202123;">Davis created a public art project on boarded-up storefronts in Ferguson in anticipation of unrest.</span><span style="color: #0444ad; font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span style="color: #202123;">Working with store owners, he wheat pasted the plywood-covered windows of participating stores with a series of posters developed from his photographs of “Hands Up.” Davis wanted to create "something visually appealing, to give people hope, and let them know we stand with them.” An original window board from the installation is part of the permanent collection at the National Museum of African-American History and Culture.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b><i>Ted Talk</i></b>. August, 2017. The subject was fear. Damon shared his fear with a national audience on this highly-acclaimed program,<b> </b>an on-line service that streams talks on variety of subjects. “Fear is like a disease,” he said. “When it moves, it moves like wildfire. But when you do what you’ve got to do, it’s called courage. And courage, like fear, is contagious.” His talk was impressive and effective, showcasing his skill as a speaker and verbal communicator. One reviewer said, “Davis exhibits two impactful speaking skills here: showing emotion and using repetition.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And finally, two more projects. The first, a graphic novel for children called “The Bull, The Boar, The Wasp, and the Ant.” Davis wrote and illustrated it in the tradition of countless West African proverbs. The other is “All Hands on Deck,” an exhibit of photographs by Damon of individuals in Ferguson. Organized by the Museum of Contemporary Art, San Diego, the “hands up” images became a national symbol .</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">At 35, Damon Davis has made an impact on the art world and America’s conscience. There is no telling what the years ahead hold for him. But we’ll find out. For more about him and his work, visit <a href="http://heartacheandpaint.com/"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; line-height: normal;">HeartacheAndPaint.com</span></a>. Also watch the documentary “Whose Streets,” on line from various streaming sources.</span><br />
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><b>Here is the NY Times today. Keep an eye on Damon. He brings a much needed vision to our American landscape.</b></span><br />
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Gerry Mandelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08516124652849272879noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316775379184667800.post-55756928647758071612020-06-30T20:18:00.001-07:002020-06-30T20:18:57.628-07:00And Now a Few Words. About Words.<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Verdana; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">I’m a writer. Words are my currency, my mode of expression. The well-chosen word is a necessity, both for the writer and the reader. Mark Twain understood. He said, “The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter—it's the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning.” I’ve come to realize over the past few months that we are living in a significantly altered time, and many words have taken on new meanings. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjcnVrnqcx1SrtHwrT3nI6mgN7LK2NJJNGG8NUDp_vUKpUqpe6d8nUeaf41H1HtM0Qu-4Bg-tv9m3R5_CIjUPDc-6ZjFN89V3RyL9WRiw7fIV8pX2d-FJjDNaQm5jkvkvojnfVqtVL9lc/s1600/IMG_9443.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjcnVrnqcx1SrtHwrT3nI6mgN7LK2NJJNGG8NUDp_vUKpUqpe6d8nUeaf41H1HtM0Qu-4Bg-tv9m3R5_CIjUPDc-6ZjFN89V3RyL9WRiw7fIV8pX2d-FJjDNaQm5jkvkvojnfVqtVL9lc/s200/IMG_9443.jpg" width="150" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;">This transformation began with an invasion by an almost invisible enemy. It has done what terrorists, anarchists, crusaders and politicians have never been able to do: close up the bars, shutter the restaurants, eliminate crowding in factories, offices and stores; darken theaters and concert venues, empty the streets on Saturday nights, and shortened the lines at Ted Drewes. When I wrote this column for County Living Magazine a month ago, I had no idea what our city, our nation, our world would be like in summer. Well, summer is here. I still don't know. But I’m in good company. Neither does anyone else.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Which brings me back to my favorite subject: Words. They are incredibly helpful when explaining or describing a new idea. Some of these words have recently slipped into our daily vocabulary.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">For instance - “Social Distancing.” Six months ago, no one would have put those two words together. They seem contradictory in terms. “Social” means getting together with others. “Distancing” means moving apart. But today, we know exactly what that means. Six feet. Roughly the same measurement the gravediggers employ for their clientele. Maybe that would be a terrific slogan for today: “Six feet apart or six feet under: Your choice.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Sequestered” is a word I don’t believe I’ve ever used, either in a talk or an article. I wrote a short story years ago called “The Hermit of 48th Street,” about a daffy old guy who lived alone, in the heart of Manhattan, and never ventured out. Not once did I use the word “sequestered.” But here we are today and most of St. Louis, and the U.S., is sequestered. Again, in some places. Those that rushed back into "business as usual" are paying the price. Sure, we all want to get back to work and socializing and grabbing a coffee with friends, maybe even a movie or a concert. But the concept of "Putting Profits Before People" seems out of step with the world today. The word "sequestered" has become as common as streaming.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">That’s another word. “Streaming.” Our new form of entertainment. We don’t go to Powell Hall or The Sheldon or the movie theater. We “stream.” I frequently find myself still awake at 2:00 am because I can’t stop streaming. Kind of a mental meth addiction for the lonely. (I recommend <i>Bosch</i>, <i>Mrs. Maisel,</i> and <i>The Kaminsky Method</i>. <i>Jack Ryan is pretty good too.</i>)</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">That brings me to the latest fashion item, greatly in demand. The face mask. For Halloween, okay. For surgeons, baseball catchers, hockey goalies, okay. Whenever those sports resume. Face mask for me? Not so sure initially. I finally got used to putting on my mask before going into a store, but felt uncomfortable, like I was playing a game and dressed wrong for the occasion. The whole mask scene looks like a science-fiction movie, where we’re identified only by our eyes and earlobes. The bad guys, of course, are those who wander through Target or Dierberg’s without a mask. “Hey, look at me. I’m not afraid. I’m gonna live forever.” Sure you are.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">A couple of other words worth mentioning. “Pandemic.” We got hit with that word sometime in March. I wondered, “How will that affect me?” Now I know. If you're looking for a movie to watch that stars some kind of pandemic, follow this link to see what's out there. <a href="https://www.townandcountrymag.com/leisure/arts-and-culture/g32419194/pandemic-movies/">Fictional Movies about Pandemics</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I've seen only a couple of them, and <i>Contagion</i> scored high with me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Another example. “Healthcare workers.” They used to be doctors, nurses, nurse practitioners, specialists, surgeons. Now it means a large and vital part of our population, even deserving of yard signs. I don't know if we will fully appreciate what they did for us, the dedication that drove them. They are the heroes of today. Finally, “COVID-19.” Scary, right? To me it sounds like an automobile. “Drive the new Hyundai Covid-19 today.” It could belong in the same class as the Ford F-150. Only cooler.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And finally: “Corona.” Not the Mexican beer or that hot mass around the sun. The virus. And, for me, a chance to play piano for the sequestered masses. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCAXcAxoV8kaTjQrR-fSjZbDgMAf5RKf9MPh05aGrhOmh7iAjfyItCi0Uj2PGLKvCg-Og6mHPulHHHm0L0uWxA79FAQcU3W1ngItDU1cY_NEezSsBCcmMqsusQcQpNu6YteoUUc3ITekE/s1600/CLUB+CORONA+print.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCAXcAxoV8kaTjQrR-fSjZbDgMAf5RKf9MPh05aGrhOmh7iAjfyItCi0Uj2PGLKvCg-Og6mHPulHHHm0L0uWxA79FAQcU3W1ngItDU1cY_NEezSsBCcmMqsusQcQpNu6YteoUUc3ITekE/s320/CLUB+CORONA+print.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_KBvMh8woeBu-cJIq6yGYkpE0za3DCJOhyphenhyphen-qP-ku7Iy94lgqioW43gDnUyAjNW3kLrobNj6p6GSiXDWSomjnKRzqBN_Uv-I4ERofOkfb9GLYerbE33TPfrxpb8kdsP9-UxSUL6-ta5TQ/s1600/G%2526Lexi%2540piano.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_KBvMh8woeBu-cJIq6yGYkpE0za3DCJOhyphenhyphen-qP-ku7Iy94lgqioW43gDnUyAjNW3kLrobNj6p6GSiXDWSomjnKRzqBN_Uv-I4ERofOkfb9GLYerbE33TPfrxpb8kdsP9-UxSUL6-ta5TQ/s320/G%2526Lexi%2540piano.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
I started Club Corona in March, an on-line effort on Facebook where I play boogie-woogie and blues on an 85-year-old Baldwin here at home. Lexi, my golden, makes an occasional appearance, but no vocals. It’s not Powell Hall or Jazz STL, but it’s music from the heart. It says what music and lyrics have always said, that you’re not alone, that we’ll get through this. Please join me at Club Corona. Here's a link.<a href="https://www.facebook.com/gerry.mandel.5">Blues and Boogie at Club Corona</a> I think you'll enjoy it. And there's never a cover charge.<br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">One final word. Be safe. Okay, two words.</span></div>
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Gerry Mandelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08516124652849272879noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316775379184667800.post-9872548096397049622020-04-03T22:56:00.001-07:002020-04-03T22:56:27.046-07:00A Poem About My Dad, Cherokee Street, the Great Fire<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I took a poetry class at LLI a couple months ago (winter/2020) with Polly Willard. I didn't know much about poetry and wanted to try it. Some excellent writers were in the class...all of them men, if you can believe that. One of our assignments was to write a "sequential poem," which - as I learned - is a long poem made up of several shorter lyrical poems. Here is my poem, which I want to share with you. </span><br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">THE RED GOOSE</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">by Gerry Mandel</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>#1 - Under the Sign</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I stand on the cracked and littered sidewalk, </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">stare through the grimy plate glass window into a grim and vacant space. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This was my father’s shoe store for more than forty years, </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">as essential to him as food and air. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The store and street once resonated </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">with shoppers and a transcendent energy, </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">accompanied by a soundtrack of voices and traffic. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This was Cherokee Street, a portrait of coexistence.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Now the store holds only ghosts and memories. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Over the entrance hangs a proud Red Goose Shoes sign. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Suspended in immutable splendor, </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">a happy reminder of the line of children’s shoes </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">he sold and the golden eggs he gave to kids. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My father evolved from a four-year-old immigrant from Russia </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">into a respected and well-liked businessman who made friends </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">with aldermen and mayors, prize fighters and comedians, </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">rabbis and priests, maitre-d’s and cops.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He loved me. But it was unspoken. He frequently brought home shoes for me, </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">his way of saying “I love you.” Shoes were his language. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I often wonder why we have such difficulty getting in touch with our fathers. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">How and where the distance began. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He was born on the other side of the world, entered a strange land, </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">made his way to St. Louis, learned the language, the hustle, the do’s and don’t’s of making it in America, ran his own business, survived The Depression, watched his store burn to the ground in 1940, </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">along with the Casa Loma Ballroom.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At one of our lunches, instead of telling him I got a raise or was thinking about buying a new Monte Carlo, I wish I had told him </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What an incredibly beautiful job he had done with his life and mine.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I touch the cold window. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My Dad slides a shoe box from a shelf, flips open the lid, takes out a size five beige pump and presents it to a plump, seated woman who has one shoe off. He looks up at the window, sees me, smiles. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then he slips the shoe onto the woman’s foot.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>#2 - The Fireman</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The firehouse, usually comfortable in winter,</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">couldn’t keep out this January night.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Colder than a well-digger’s ass”, said one of the guys.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Never one to mince words. We all grumbled.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Hope we don’t get no alarms tonight,” I said. “It’d be a hard ride.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Thinking if we got a call, not much good we could do.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Even hose streams turn into ice towers in this. Lousy way to start off</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">the new decade. The 40’s. Another term with Roosevelt. Gimme a break.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">About nine, the alarm went off.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We looked at each other, all with the same thought:</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Shit, we gotta go.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A dark, freezing ride down Jefferson, right turn on Cherokee.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And there it was, lighting up the night sky like a sunrise.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Huge fire at Iowa Street. Casa Loma Ballroom. Walgreen’s. JC Penney.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And the shoe store, owned by that Jew. Hell, the street was lined with ‘em.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Gonna be a lot of burnt leather tonight, I thought. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Unless I save me some size 12 D.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Musta been another half dozen engines there, guys chopping ice and hauling hoses, and yelling “over there” and “look out” and “that’s a fire wall. Let it be.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I jumped from the wagon before it even stopped</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">and that’s when I saw him.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The little Jew. Hands deep in his overcoat. Stooped against the cold.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No hat on his bald head. A terrified face lit by the inferno.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">His store, his life, consumed by the unyielding appetite of yellow and </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">orange flames.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Black smoke fading into the night sky. Long strands of ice </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">useless in this weather.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He caught my eye as I ran past and I saw a helpless middle-aged man who probably got off the boat as a kid. Welcome to America. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I never did care for that kind.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Frightened, helpless souls believing </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">the Statue of Liberty was welcoming them. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I raised my ax, ran through the front of the rapidly disintegrating building, </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">broke though the firewall and there, untouched, were boxes of men’s shoes.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“This is my lucky day,” I thought and grabbed an armful of boxes, most of ‘em size 12, hurried outside, dropped them on the sidewalk, back in for another armload.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Jew saw me and flashed anger, shock, disbelief.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Nothing he could do but stand there.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Two weeks later I still had not worn the shoes.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Still in boxes, smelling of smoke.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Reminding me of a frightened and angry man.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Hurting but defiant. Undefeated.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">These people.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>#3 - Unasked. Unanswered.</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He’s been gone thirty years now.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Gone.” A nice way of saying “dead.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At 76. Heart. At Jewish Hospital early on a Sunday morning in Spring.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was there when he “passed” - love that expression.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Passed.” Sounds like an old black gentleman entering the Promised Land,</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">wearing golden slippers, his face aglow with newfound glory.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The rest of the morning I wandered through Forest Park, visited the</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">zoo, searched for some meaning to all this</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">in furry and feathered eyes. And the big questions for myself.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Where do I find the answers now?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Where, Dad?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What do you remember about leaving the village in Russia?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What was the boat journey like? Who were you with?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Who met you here? How did you learn the language?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Who were your friends, your teachers, your enemies?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And the question that would intrude into that hidden and sensitive area:</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Did we lose any family in the holocaust? A closed chapter, never read.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Thirty years and the questions still dart through my mind,</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">quick shadows, faint echoes, like swift birds at sunset that you</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">sense more than see.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Never asked.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Never answered. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYq11ovHHzCSQYvHXmmqOFhjiiSuADpkyC58Bx_1Hpz594N7qjbMomINpydm2GkRBCfwzG1FTQ7t0NF4kn88OeHXksHy_2ecsVJ0NfzVF1ZPB2DHhvikwSosEdbJ5tgJAiZiNaHDBD2Sk/s1600/Bman+video_0005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1220" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYq11ovHHzCSQYvHXmmqOFhjiiSuADpkyC58Bx_1Hpz594N7qjbMomINpydm2GkRBCfwzG1FTQ7t0NF4kn88OeHXksHy_2ecsVJ0NfzVF1ZPB2DHhvikwSosEdbJ5tgJAiZiNaHDBD2Sk/s400/Bman+video_0005.jpg" width="305" /></a></div>
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Gerry Mandelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08516124652849272879noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316775379184667800.post-51905000918340980642020-03-09T12:16:00.000-07:002020-03-09T12:16:26.496-07:00Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow...<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Verdana; line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Beginnings and endings tempt us to look forward and, to balance things out, look back. Trouble is, backward is a lot easier than forward. The territory between reflecting and predicting is vast and treacherous. I bring this up because, with another New Year’s Day behind us, we are at the dawn of a new decade. That’s a fascinating expression. “Dawn of a New Decade.” It sounds as though we are somewhere between “The Fall of the Roman Empire” and “The Rise of Skywalker.” </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSzhCZu-tVWOVRfkB_3KAbqqs9ni8za7SkxJJbhSNbubPg0JUbKV83R3Es14ddOy400158v88DLWuYHfKVLCgZyHMdO07JlrrfpnOfIfaDR6lPMDGXr94k44gpp-MgoEN1pq4Y2ynIrTc/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="242" data-original-width="208" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSzhCZu-tVWOVRfkB_3KAbqqs9ni8za7SkxJJbhSNbubPg0JUbKV83R3Es14ddOy400158v88DLWuYHfKVLCgZyHMdO07JlrrfpnOfIfaDR6lPMDGXr94k44gpp-MgoEN1pq4Y2ynIrTc/s200/Unknown.jpeg" width="171" /></a></div>
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Of course I wonder, as you surely do, what’s waiting for us during the next ten years. Probably the most accurate assessment about the road ahead comes from that fount of philosophy, Yogi Berra, who said, “It’s tough to make predictions, especially about the future.” Yogi pretty much nailed it right there.</span><br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Even tomorrow is a guess. Take weather predictions. Nothing is ever a sure thing. Only “probable” and “educated guesswork.” You’ve heard this before: “There’s an 80% chance of thundershowers tomorrow morning, so take your umbrella.” That means, in my interpretation, there’s a 20% chance of no thundershowers. That’s from folks who have the latest in weather predicting technology at their fingertips. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It’s really all a guessing game, isn’t it? Not to get into politics here - a volatile and divisive game - but pollsters often predict a certain candidate will be elected and then - whammo - surprise! The long shot or the dark horse finishes first. Someone who was counted as down and out is back on top. Sports abounds with predictions, from sportswriters and commentators to the guys at any sports bar. The World Series, the Stanley Cup, the Super Bowl - pick any athletic event. Except wrestling. Those winners are pre-ordained.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Barack Obama was elected in 2008, beginning an eight year run through much of the 2010 decade. “The end of racism in America” became the headline. We all know how that turned out, right? Donald Trump was in the middle of a 15-season run of “The Apprentice” on NBC. Who could have predicted where that would take us. Closer to home, consider the Redbirds. They won the World Series against the Texas Rangers in 2011. Off to a great start, but then struck out the rest of the decade with no championships. The less said about the Rams, the better. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Here’s the point: Very little in the past decade gives shape to the next. Challenges and opportunities will exist; outcomes are uncertain. Something additional about the year we’ve begun seems like a challenge: to maintain a 20/20 vision of events to come. Which, of course, is impossible. Like the weather and the upcoming baseball season, it’s anybody’s guess. Unless you find the answers in Tarot cards, tea leaves or George Lucas.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuT6nOYkjv1xhwZ36i2L_FRfzM9X9qxdInJzC4o-i-kuZV5Rtzip7b8JtCN5KDUfxFfnbjCkpbyxzAEBj2vpRzl_o7SG5mZV5DP5w40C8aQQICW52YJd3PTtobIwbVfjVp_HlBgVwf2Mo/s1600/IMG_2129_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuT6nOYkjv1xhwZ36i2L_FRfzM9X9qxdInJzC4o-i-kuZV5Rtzip7b8JtCN5KDUfxFfnbjCkpbyxzAEBj2vpRzl_o7SG5mZV5DP5w40C8aQQICW52YJd3PTtobIwbVfjVp_HlBgVwf2Mo/s400/IMG_2129_2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cape San Blas, Florida. Photo by Gerry Mandel</td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">A few years I was on the Gulf Coast of Florida. As I walked the beach one afternoon, I saw a little girl playing in the surf. She frolicked in the water while the waves continued to roll onto shore. Occasionally she’d stop and watch them, and I wondered if she saw the waves as identical, an endless succession. Or was she looking for the next “big one.” Her mother called her in and I continued to wave-watch, fascinated by their rhythm and endless repetition. All the waves are different, and yet we find satisfaction in their similarities. But part of us wants to see that next "big one."</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">As the days flow from future through the present to the past, we can get lulled into the idea that they’re all the same. That we know what’s next because we’ve seen what just happened. Hollywood has a firm hand on the future. It’s call The Sequel. You liked “Star Wars”? Here are eight more episodes. Spiderman? No end to Spidey in sight. Same for Batman and Harry Potter. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Which brings us back to today. It’s a rather unsettling place in time, I believe. The next decade will be nothing like the past decade. We have the power to influence if not totally change some of the events awaiting on the horizon, some of them close to home. The only thing for sure is we know nothing for sure about what’s ahead. Yogi was right. And so was Abraham Lincoln. He said, “The best thing about the future is that it comes one day at a time.” Maybe that’s all we can handle.</span><br />
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<i>This column originally appeared in</i></div>
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<i>County Living Magazine, Early Spring 2020.</i></div>
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<i>I wrote it in February. </i></div>
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<i>The idea of a worldwide pandemic and</i></div>
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<i>mind. </i><i>I leave things like that to Stephen King.</i></div>
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Gerry Mandelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08516124652849272879noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316775379184667800.post-37627416432088007342019-09-11T14:08:00.001-07:002019-09-11T14:17:18.934-07:00MEDITATION ON THE NIGHT SKY AND A DOG<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Verdana; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">On a recent summer night I sat on my deck and gazed at the sky. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just wondering, “What’s up there? Who’s out there?” Given the light pollution in St. Louis County, very few stars were visible. Still, I knew millions of celestial bodies were up there.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> From hot and bright to cold and dark.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAkZJ_YQKMjWQ66mNzKJh__qBNi7OFIHj-TI0J1HSKKyEm-6WZp3JjFYJGE0rNCyn3clCsRT1jf3dQ-9Vg0dUhfdswS_ehyAnwFfnuELW6PfyuNMSjcImSgfBJqbCNFyWQRZw9se6BSco/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="125" data-original-width="187" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAkZJ_YQKMjWQ66mNzKJh__qBNi7OFIHj-TI0J1HSKKyEm-6WZp3JjFYJGE0rNCyn3clCsRT1jf3dQ-9Vg0dUhfdswS_ehyAnwFfnuELW6PfyuNMSjcImSgfBJqbCNFyWQRZw9se6BSco/s320/Unknown.jpeg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;">Earlier that week another rocket had climbed from its launch pad in Florida, headed towards the International Space Station. Here we are, in 2019, when "space station" and "moon landing" and rockets built by billionaires have become concepts so commonplace, we forget what incredible feats we’re witnessing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">When I was ten or eleven years old, I immersed myself in science-fiction stories by the great writers. Ray Bradbury, Arthur C. Clarke, A.E. Van Vogt (I still don’t know what A.E. stands for), Isaac Asimov, Robert Heinlein. The magical list goes on, stories that took me to the furthest reaches of the universe, of time, of imagination. I also had a complete collection of “Weird Science” and “Weird Fantasy” EC comic books, which my mother pitched when my parents moved while I was in the Army. “I thought you were through with those,” she told me. I never fully forgave her. I still sink into the grip of nostalgia when I see a piece of art by Wallace Wood or Jack Davis or Al Feldstein.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Space travel? Only in those stories. We were still an earthbound race. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">In 1950 I traveled to Mars with Ray Bradbury when I read “The Martian Chronicles.” I explored the Red Planet with his characters, convincingly transported to some possible future. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7KvWtMJVTXqLqGS3pDDwd4SwPqoj9p-rWEqGTOgenlCPZlcEywn53lW3345XuZxvWeC31i5SYONWYFAgPdSAi_IuXlS7M0jh6U7mCjAAXLo97_ResGryco5kOiuPLWV2ZIWAE53Wms5U/s1600/bradbury.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="263" data-original-width="191" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7KvWtMJVTXqLqGS3pDDwd4SwPqoj9p-rWEqGTOgenlCPZlcEywn53lW3345XuZxvWeC31i5SYONWYFAgPdSAi_IuXlS7M0jh6U7mCjAAXLo97_ResGryco5kOiuPLWV2ZIWAE53Wms5U/s200/bradbury.jpeg" width="145" /></a></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Here’s an example of Bradbury’s magic from that book:</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> "The rocket lay on the launching field, blowing out pink clouds of fire</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> and oven heat. The rocket stood in the cold winter morning, making</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> summer with every breath of its might exhausts. The rocket made</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> climates, and summer lay for a brief moment upon the land..."</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Bradbury turned science and technology into poetry.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Today we watch a rocket take off on TV or iPhone or laptop, and, I would guess, we are not captivated by the majesty and sense of wonder it deserves. We’ve become used to amazing accomplishments of science. Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos, familiar names now, have their own dreams and plans for space travel. They follow closely on the heels of the pioneers who took us “up there,” the scientists and astronauts of NASA. Several other countries have claimed their place in space as the human race hungers for knowledge of the beyond, as well as military and economic leverage. No, this is not fiction.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzcgtgGzZDMk93671vzyXpALXSLLGpbDsFjouEaP45LCSY3C2UXGoMKjZ35icswFmYowWrlc4bVZGS5SefmZ9G0DtQKKuemQFsBuVWc0ghARzCoo7BJ1rlbBCiF93GnDTs81NG7l7xCsg/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="189" data-original-width="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzcgtgGzZDMk93671vzyXpALXSLLGpbDsFjouEaP45LCSY3C2UXGoMKjZ35icswFmYowWrlc4bVZGS5SefmZ9G0DtQKKuemQFsBuVWc0ghARzCoo7BJ1rlbBCiF93GnDTs81NG7l7xCsg/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;">Which brings me to a dog named Laika. She was a husky-spitz mix, a stray found on the streets of Moscow. The Soviets were building Sputnik 2 and wanted to send an animal into space. Laika got the call. Sad to say, she didn’t survive the journey. The scientists didn’t expect her to. She remained in her capsule for five months, not alive, until it plunged into the Caribbean, a dog’s coffin turned shooting star. Laika became a sort of canine Soviet hero, the first animal in space, memorialized on stamps, posters, plates, even a book called “Laika, Space Dog. Friend of the People.” America, at the time, was behind in the race, but would eventually send monkeys into space. The Soviets figured stray dogs wouldn’t be missed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Dogs are a reminder for us. They were the first animals that we domesticated. The first to migrate with us across continents. They are our constant, understanding companions and have never left us, despite our failings. Dogs humanize us, something to remember as we begin to humanize space.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Now we are taking our giant steps into space. Not just rockets blasting off from the United States, Russia, and China, but from India, French Guiana, Japan, Kazakhstan. And more to follow. Humans in space? Check. Humans on the moon? Check. Humans on the International Space Station? Check. Humans on Mars? Yes, we’ll get there. And beyond. Because we are not alone in the universe. We are just a small part of that vast canopy of night sky that holds so much attraction for us. I, for one, will never get tired of looking up at night and wondering, “Who or what is out there?”</span></div>
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<i><b>A slightly shorter version was originally published in County Living Magazine, Sept. 2019.</b></i></div>
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Gerry Mandelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08516124652849272879noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316775379184667800.post-53351453826689092012019-06-21T10:29:00.000-07:002019-06-22T14:23:58.082-07:00A TALE OF TWO PIANOS<br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">If Charles Dickens were writing this, he might start off with “It was the best of tunes, it was the worst of tunes, it was the song of wisdom, it was the song of foolishness, it was the black keys, it was the white keys, it was the G7th, it was the C major. It was all high notes.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In May of 2019, it was time eternal.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieFWSYU4_4bzBouQH1QKN5H-B-HQGR21LDAdd924pyBbuvoZPQD05HW7QFhYzDxCNgGpgQv1yzhHIq5iwAnBzJBhhxiz4F20ikTwmsJwvmYUepmu67YC_RIPBP2hpxsDqkLX6ANBEU8o8/s1600/IMG_7086.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieFWSYU4_4bzBouQH1QKN5H-B-HQGR21LDAdd924pyBbuvoZPQD05HW7QFhYzDxCNgGpgQv1yzhHIq5iwAnBzJBhhxiz4F20ikTwmsJwvmYUepmu67YC_RIPBP2hpxsDqkLX6ANBEU8o8/s200/IMG_7086.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But I’m not Dickens, never wanted to be. Too many words in his novels. But the comparison seems appropriate after my trip recently, with my beautiful Z, to Montgomery and Muscle Shoals, Alabama. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>We began with a day in Paducah, Kentucky, at the National Quilting Museum.</b> Yes, friends, I accompanied Z to look at rooms full of unique and dazzling quilts and now find myself a fan of this incredible art form. I’ll save that for another blog.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>Back to Montgomery.</b> <b>We stopped for a tour one morning at the Dexter Avenue King Memorial Baptist Church</b>, aka The Martin Luther King Church. This is where King served as pastor from 1954 to 1960, and where the bus boycott began in 1955, after Rosa Parks refused to surrender her seat on a bus to a white man. The church, built in 1885, sits just two blocks west of the Alabama State Capitol, where another kind of history was made while we were there. Keyword: Abortion. A new low, in my opinion, of American politicians turning their backs on We the People. Surprisingly, there were no demonstrations, marchers, protesters. Those would come later. King would have been mortified by the immediate silence.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFKV1bfjhVJPikH-joR7E7_9XVCp4d3W39uUVBfSa3s56hfk04fbz-lGkC-bJSrd_Dpoqf7I-MM_eQ728xEvAttyzOBVpr1384RJd-Yr4ajye8swTcbA6dZNnRm_Eate-k_HN83czkFZg/s1600/IMG_7128.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFKV1bfjhVJPikH-joR7E7_9XVCp4d3W39uUVBfSa3s56hfk04fbz-lGkC-bJSrd_Dpoqf7I-MM_eQ728xEvAttyzOBVpr1384RJd-Yr4ajye8swTcbA6dZNnRm_Eate-k_HN83czkFZg/s200/IMG_7128.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">By now you’ve got to be wondering, Where do the pianos come in? Right here, in the church. Z and I joined a small tour in the church - a group of middle-school students, plus a dozen older folks. Wanda, the inspirational tour leader, told us about the church and civil rights history, got us up and singing and standing in front where King stood. It was more than a tour. It was a celebration, a revival meeting, an emotional connection to events that occurred on this spot sixty years ago. Behind us were a variety of musical instruments: a Hammond B3 organ, a guitar, a set of drums, some risers for a chorus…and a grand piano.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>Wanda talked about music as part of the Kings’ history.</b> Dr. King in Boston, a young man with a future as a great leader; a talented young woman, Coretta Scott, majoring in voice and violin at the New England Conservatory of Music. They met, married, and were together until the day King was killed in Memphis. Coretta lived until 2006. Wanda spoke of the power of music, how it brought them together. Then she asked, “Does anyone play an instrument.” A student said, “Violin.” “Wonderful,” said our guide. “Anybody else?” I hesitated. Z threw me a look that said “Go ahead,” so reluctantly I said “Piano.” “Come on up here,” said Wanda. “Play something for us.” I froze. King’s piano? Me? My surprised response was “Really?” “Really,” she said. “As long as it’s not Chopsticks.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I walked over to the piano, slid the bench out, sat down, took a deep breath, while my mind was going through dozens of chords and approaches and tempos and I wanted something between gospel and blues and finally decided where to start. I put my hands on the keys. I’m sure it was my imagination, or maybe just sounds good now, several days later, but I felt a surge of something come up through my hands. I know. It sounds so new age or transcendental or whatever the latest spiritual discipline is. But I knew this was no ordinary piano. I played. I don’t know how long, not more than a couple minutes. Ended with a flourish, got up from the piano bench to applause, tipped my hat, got a high-five from an African-American woman, and returned to my seat. I don’t remember much after that.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The following day we left Montgomery and made a brief but significant stop in Selma. Z’s mother had marched across that famous bridge 54 years ago and she wanted to retrace her mother’s steps. A touching tribute.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>Continuing north, we jumped onto Alabama Highway 22, headed to Muscle Shoals. </b>This is the home of two famous recording studios, where some of the most famous and influential names in music held sessions starting in the 1950’s. To name a few: Aretha Franklin, Rolling Stones, Willie Nelson, Joe Cocker, Paul Simon, Otis Redding. You get the idea. Many of the artists were drawn by a group of four back-up, studio musicians known as The Swampers.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The town of Muscle Shoals is nothing to write home about. It looks like an endless stretch of franchise businesses, fast food joints, big box stores, hundreds of small and large retail outlets (or so it seemed) and acres of parking. The next morning we found the two studios we wanted to visit.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikodbHem9wyJyrVp26YUz859qCifTbsFr3Mmb4_EqNxCfkJkbmENh6qNTgmyzfmA0Hn_sDT4O9cGIi0l-V8piTyiwK3BI7iBv2Zu2TtMXUjpz6k04YKd6Q42d8JrQkK8ifr86No8UYvHQ/s1600/IMG_7135.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikodbHem9wyJyrVp26YUz859qCifTbsFr3Mmb4_EqNxCfkJkbmENh6qNTgmyzfmA0Hn_sDT4O9cGIi0l-V8piTyiwK3BI7iBv2Zu2TtMXUjpz6k04YKd6Q42d8JrQkK8ifr86No8UYvHQ/s320/IMG_7135.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The first was FAME studios. We made a brief stop there, but no tour was scheduled. They were very protective of the artists recording there, wanted to avoid social media bringing in large crowds to gawk and cheer. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">We then drove to nearby Muscle Shoals Sound Studio. A tour had begun and we joined it in the main studio. By night it’s a working studio. Our guide, a laid-back southern gentleman with an easy drawl and impressive knowledge of the studio instruments and musicians, related stories about past sessions with the legends. Various instruments lay scattered about the space. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">We stood in front of a 1972 Yamaha grand piano.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Can’t play a lick,” he said, then turned to the group. “Anybody here play?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And that’s how I ended up sitting at the Muscle Shoals piano that had been touched by everyone from Aretha to Mick. I played something between a heavy blues and a back-beat boogie. Z captured my performance on video. A treasure. Instead of a high five, a woman exclaimed, “That gave me chills.” Me too, I thought.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>I look back on those two pianos now and think, “Carnegie Hall couldn’t be any bigger kick than this.” My fingers tingle at the memory. </b> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>(For a documentary about the studios, check out “Muscle Shoals” by filmmaker Greg Camalier. You’ll see lots of familiar faces that are part of America’s musical legacy.) </i> </span></span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5rW_KbniNqs">"Muscle Shoals" documentary</a></div>
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Gerry Mandelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08516124652849272879noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316775379184667800.post-87707653215402107102019-05-10T07:55:00.000-07:002019-05-10T07:55:41.007-07:00Her Mother was a Pilot in WWII<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>This story begins about a month ago</b>, in April of 2019, when I spent a day at the National World War II Museum in New Orleans. One of their exhibits featured stories and photos about the role women played during the war. Six million of them joined the workforce. Some of them became pilots. I found myself fascinated by the history of women pilots, how many women flew warplanes, the valuable service they provided, and the initial resistance they faced. </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I mentioned this to a good friend, Bev Berner, one evening. Her reaction surprised me. “My mom was a WASP,” she said. “She flew planes in World War Two.” Bev’s enthusiasm was contagious, and I told her I’d like to write about it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>So that’s what this story is about. Bev’s mom, Esther Dee Poole Berner.</b> She was born in 1908 in Gadsden, Alabama, ran away from home when she was fifteen, got married, had a son, got divorced. Along the way she had various jobs, including a ballet instructor, sales girl in a variety store and - this is where fate steps in - a job at an airport in Houston. She went on her first flight there, in March of 1942, when the war was just four months old. Something clicked inside of her. She knew what she wanted to be. A pilot.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Esther Dee Poole Berner</td></tr>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The U.S. was at war with Germany and Japan, and we were losing. Men and materials were desperately needed. Women were becoming recognized as a valuable source of labor. You’re probably familiar with Rosie, The Riveter, thanks to the Norman Rockwell painting. Becoming a pilot for a woman, however, was scoffed at by most of the men in the military, starting at the top with General “Hap” Arnold. Women were already flying warplanes in Britain, from factories to bases, as that nation struggled to survive. America eventually caught on and formed the Women Airforce Service Pilots (WASP) in August, 1943.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Bev’s mom joined the WASPs.</b> Against imposing odds. Esther had only half the number of hours of flight time necessary, but she convinced Jackie Cochran, the founder of WASP, to accept her. When Bev talks about her mom, it’s with great pride, admiration and love. Consider these odds a woman faced then: over 25,000 women applied to the program…1,830 were accepted…only 1,074 completed training. That’s a success rate of 4%. And Esther was one of them.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn5WUn934icdH8uK0wzJLJJdptyl7U0yHaliazQevw2Nul24BIWRPc4ZVyr3f5H84027GZt9kc1nAj2I0TpaQbuhioUpEUwNxtkoHlYXPxHJzCKZoBe3U3r8P-12QYAJO58LesFlEUWZ0/s1600/Bev%25232.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1101" data-original-width="1600" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn5WUn934icdH8uK0wzJLJJdptyl7U0yHaliazQevw2Nul24BIWRPc4ZVyr3f5H84027GZt9kc1nAj2I0TpaQbuhioUpEUwNxtkoHlYXPxHJzCKZoBe3U3r8P-12QYAJO58LesFlEUWZ0/s400/Bev%25232.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Bev has her mom’s log books and flying records. They show that Esther joined the WASPs in July, 1943. Her job was to fly the planes - fighters, trainers, bombers, including the B-17’s - from the factories where they were built to the military bases on either coast. From there, the planes would be transported to England or the Pacific islands. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9jmC3oVwxRpcSYvvkWWRD4hmpA8soyp8QSTpJCKGjA0xTAvaH8P2-oNC1Rnu0CANpCmhUMR3EX_pewFqyPCJ_dESNVjd7_8_iBb1NTF0B8hBX6pz0Wpc9b7OgftWbv3YKdHIEt6HG_UY/s1600/Bev%25231.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1311" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9jmC3oVwxRpcSYvvkWWRD4hmpA8soyp8QSTpJCKGjA0xTAvaH8P2-oNC1Rnu0CANpCmhUMR3EX_pewFqyPCJ_dESNVjd7_8_iBb1NTF0B8hBX6pz0Wpc9b7OgftWbv3YKdHIEt6HG_UY/s200/Bev%25231.jpg" width="163" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As the end of the war approached, the WASP program was disbanded in late 1944. Esther loved the WASPs but her job was over. That’s not the end of the story, however. She wasn’t finished with flying. Esther returned to Houston and found a job as a private pilot for a Texas radio station executive. </span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVGdyfTNg5NvEi1nMrZ5hvZ2PKkuEY0T5yO7tQ2yFYIQC8DuNSy2PoK81gQKcffxOnk7kQgXwtnuETCXRO0Kk14onykyFpdXwvlfVOEWGuIKC2gnNT11e1KFw0iZOAnH0p_KSpZfzkuuY/s1600/Bev%25234.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1600" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVGdyfTNg5NvEi1nMrZ5hvZ2PKkuEY0T5yO7tQ2yFYIQC8DuNSy2PoK81gQKcffxOnk7kQgXwtnuETCXRO0Kk14onykyFpdXwvlfVOEWGuIKC2gnNT11e1KFw0iZOAnH0p_KSpZfzkuuY/s400/Bev%25234.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bev with her mother</td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Late in 1945, Esther married Don Berner and moved to Indianapolis. “I entered the picture in 1948,” says Bev. “My parents had an airplane. All their friends had airplanes. I thought everyone had an airplane.” Then things changed. Life became difficult for them when Bev was nine. Her dad left them. Esther and Bev moved to smaller quarters, without a kitchen. “We were cooking out of an electric frying pan and doing the dishes in the bathtub,” said Bev. But Esther wasn’t finished with flying. </span></span><span style="font-size: 16px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Through hard work and determination, Esther became the Director of the Indiana Aeronautics Commission and in 1975, the Aviation Association of Indiana named her "Man of the Year." Outstanding achievements, satisfaction, a sense of worth, and a good mother to Bev - in other words, a life well lived. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Read her obit to see just how far she came.</span></span><i style="font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT; font-size: 16px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; line-height: normal;"> </i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFouNX3PB4qersCD0XRy1ccWbYrYeQ9lzWBrhrsTOGzhZnjtXNfBOICh9-Y_QLWVBTP6tmkK77_OioPu7ubX-BiIxUKd0NxorTkw7X87-j_l85ic0M37TODtOgnGfsJli5WUZEFh1hwxI/s1600/IMG_0152+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1396" data-original-width="1600" height="348" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFouNX3PB4qersCD0XRy1ccWbYrYeQ9lzWBrhrsTOGzhZnjtXNfBOICh9-Y_QLWVBTP6tmkK77_OioPu7ubX-BiIxUKd0NxorTkw7X87-j_l85ic0M37TODtOgnGfsJli5WUZEFh1hwxI/s400/IMG_0152+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So what’s this story about? It’s about a woman who was determined to succeed in something she loved. It’s about the dismissive attitude towards women by men. It’s about a daughter who inherited her mother’s optimism, determination and passion for life. It’s about my friend who wanted to share her mother’s incredible story. </span></b></div>
Gerry Mandelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08516124652849272879noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316775379184667800.post-45056096145400670012019-03-05T19:41:00.000-08:002019-03-05T19:41:26.383-08:00The Bed Bug Man: True Story<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Aaron works for Rottler Pest Control. His job is to exterminate ants, roaches, stink bugs, spiders and mice. In this, he is like most exterminators. But Aaron has taken his mission to a higher level. He is passionate about bed bugs. Passionate in a pro-active, get rid of ‘em, sense. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">During a recent treatment at my home, when I had a minor invasion of stink bugs, we got into a discussion about pests in general, and bed bugs in particular. The conversation started when he told me he was at his dad’s house recently and noticed there was some minor bug activity in his house. I asked Aaron if it is an occupational habit that he looks for evidence of pest activity when he’s at someone’s house.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> “Yes,” he said. “I’m always looking, especially at a friend’s house. It’s what I do.” Kind of like a reformed bank robber who can’t walk into a bank without casing the joint.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> After he told me how he helped his dad eliminate his bugs, Aaron transitioned to bed bugs when I asked him what was the toughest pest to get rid of? “Bed bugs, without a doubt,” he said. “Once they move in, it’s tough to get ‘em out.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> He said that when he travels, he takes an intensely bright flashlight with him. One of those LED jobs that can blind a horse at one hundred yards. After he checks into a room, before he unpacks, he pulls back the spread and sheets on the bed and examines it for bed bugs. He keeps his suitcase by the door, unopened, until he has made sure there are none of those little monsters around. No, it’s not crazy. He knows of what he speaks. “Those bugs travel very well. They’ll get into your suitcase and then you bring them home with you and suddenly you’ve got bed bugs at home.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> As I listened to him describe the discovery and killing of bed bugs, I felt like I was listening to a special forces operative tell stories about his missions into the dark side. Hearing him talk about the discovery and killing of bed bugs was like listening to a great war story. Look for signs of enemy activity, find where they are, proceed to kill or evacuate, as needed. Take no prisoners.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> “They travel through electrical outlets,” he said. Which is why bed bugs frequently are found in adjoining rooms, whether it be a hotel, a motor inn, a condo, or an apartment. Even in someone’s two-story home, the bugs will travel through outlets, along the wires, into another location. “Maybe it’s the electric current they sense,” he said. “Something about electricity that appeals to them. I’m not sure. But I always treat electrical outlets when I find evidence of bed bugs.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> It seems that bed bugs have no socio-economic preferences. They are a completely democratic and balanced population. “You find them in apartments in the city, in condos in Clayton, in mansions in Ladue. They can infest a sixty dollar a night motel room or a five hundred dollar a night hotel suite with a view. They go anywhere and everywhere. Doesn’t matter where you live.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> I fought the urge to run into my bedroom and check the bed right then.</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“How do you get rid of them?” I said.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> “The best way is heat,” he said. “Heat the room to 120 to 150 degrees. That kills them.” Then he added, “If someone has oil paintings, that makes it more difficult. We have to use chemicals then. That amount of heat will make the oil paint run. I treated a guy’s house in the city. He had an oil worth a half million. I couldn’t do heat without ruining that painting.” That by itself is a terrific scenario for a movie, or at least an episode of S.W.A.T.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Happy to say, I have never been plagued or infested by bed bugs. Just been lucky, I guess. I’ve seen a cockroach scoot out from under my bed at a hotel in Times Square. I’ve seen a dead mouse under the bathroom sink in a motel in the Ozarks. But a bed bug. Not that I’m aware of. One thing I know for certain. As long as there are people around like Aaron, I will rest easy. It’s like having Special Forces Ops around my house, their guns locked and loaded, keen eyes piercing the dark for any sign of movement. But, just to be safe, on my next trip, I think I’ll bring one of those LED flashlights with me. </span></span></div>
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Gerry Mandelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08516124652849272879noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3316775379184667800.post-35596946710165081382019-02-16T14:04:00.000-08:002019-02-16T14:04:49.895-08:00Intelligence Briefing: The Great Poodle Conspiracy<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>A frightening movement is afoot</b> that threatens our cherished relationship with the canine world and, possibly, the entire animal kingdom. This is not a false alarm. The evidence is right in front of our noses, so to speak.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You’ve seen “Planet of the Apes,” right? Either the original one with Charlton Heston from 1968 or the remake in 2001? That’s when Apes have taken over the world as a result of being domesticated by humans. A gradual process, unnoticed by everyone. Scary concept. Well, I’m not saying this current situation is as cataclysmic as the Apes but you just can’t be too careful.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Here’s what triggered my suspicion. I was walking with my golden retriever one afternoon in St. Louis’ Forest Park when I met a young couple with an interesting looking dog, a small fellow with a curly tan coat and hair hanging over his eyes. I asked them what kind of dog they had.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s a Schnoodle,” the woman said proudly. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She saw the blank look on my face, so she went on to explain that a Schnoodle is a cross between a schnauzer and a poodle. “A Schnoodle!” I exclaimed, attempting some enthusiasm. “Cute,” I added and continued my walk. You’ll never guess what I came across next. It was a strange-looking little dog, almost solid black with perky ears. It was on the end of a leash held by a short, elderly woman. Our dogs stopped to examine each other, so I asked her what kind of dog she had.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3gm-Jn-3cxqH476eqmss8tqJywHhZNgxPUVZxGI7gK8qWVq6EDqOArYQJnX5w2a3BPC_oJ2PlaEhqNM4pCWhLQl4u2w749aUzknvU7B2FTZti3Dz-2XCkBpOR2zCDXhCslCLXQvGoUrs/s1600/BossipooBostonTerrierPoodlehybridNani.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="347" data-original-width="346" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3gm-Jn-3cxqH476eqmss8tqJywHhZNgxPUVZxGI7gK8qWVq6EDqOArYQJnX5w2a3BPC_oJ2PlaEhqNM4pCWhLQl4u2w749aUzknvU7B2FTZti3Dz-2XCkBpOR2zCDXhCslCLXQvGoUrs/s200/BossipooBostonTerrierPoodlehybridNani.jpg" width="199" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Bossi-Poo</td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“A Bossi-Poo.” I asked her to repeat it, not sure I heard right. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What’s a Bossi-Poo?” I said, afraid of the answer.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“A cross between a Boston Terrier and a poodle.” She bent over and scratched its head. “He is so sweet. Aren’t you?” The question aimed at the dog, not me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>That’s when it hit me. Poodles are infiltrating the world of dogs.</b> I have known about other mixes for some time: Labradoodles and Goldendoodles, specifically. But a Schnoodle? And a Bossi-Poo? What was going on? What else was out there, begging for our acceptance. I began to dig into the subject over the next few days. My findings were chilling. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">First, let me say that almost all of these crossbreeds are cute, at least to some degree. And they’ve been recognized by canine organizations such as the American Canine Hybrid Club and the Designer Dogs Kennel Club. Really. Hybrids and Designer Dogs have officially been sanctioned. The American Kennel Club doesn’t recognize any of these strangers, but maybe they’re just behind the times. Here’s the other stunner I discovered. There are 220 hybrid designer breeds. Of those, over 100 are poodle mixes. I hope you’re paying attention here. Something’s happening, right?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It all began back in the 1950’s when a cocker spaniel and a poodle got together and produced a Cockapoo. I know; sounds disgusting. In the UK they’re called Spoodles. A little better, guv’. The movement picked up steam in the 1980’s when a labrador retriever and a poodle got amorous and produced the Labradoodle. People loved this breed. Touted as hypoallergenic, and they didn’t shed. That opened the floodgates for the invasion of the poodles. It must have been a wonderful time to be a male poodle.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Here, for your reading pleasure, is a short list of these designer dogs. See if you can figure out the non-poodle breed. Bichon Poodle, Maltipoo, Westiepoo, Cavapoo, Newfypoo, Whoodle, Bernedoodle, Bordoodle, Yorkipoo, Shihpoo, and let’s not forget the Bassetdoodle. This last one likes to overeat and is touted as being a fat and friendly little dog. Every home certainly needs a Bassetdoodle, just for laughs. My personal favorite is the Saint Berdoodle. Obviously a Saint Bernard and a poodle. I just hope, for humane reasons, that the poodle was a standard, not a miniature. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Two more thoughts about this cautionary tale</b>. First, Designer Dogs. To me, that’s messing with Mother Nature and smacks of genetic manipulation. I’ve seen enough science-fiction movies to know where that leads. Poodle hybrids have been created with the same care as handmade shoes. The breeders will fit your need, whatever you need. Personality, temperament, coat, intelligence, color, size. Just fill in the order form and Amazon will have your new dog to you by Tuesday. Secondly, the pure-bred poodle - care to guess when and where they originated? Try some time during the 1600’s. In Germany. Now we saw what transpired in 1914 and 1939. I’m just saying, you can’t be too careful.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One final thought. I looked at photos of these breeds, peered into their eyes. What I saw saddened me. I saw a loving creature appealing for help. A noble animal who had been processed through a breeding lab and turned into “something else.” Those eyes seemed to say, “Help, there are two of us in here. How’d we end up as two breeds in this one body?” This is a scary situation, a furry Frankenstein created by Man. I’m sure it’s my imagination working overtime. When I meet these hybrids on the trail, they all seem spunky, friendly, eager to please, connected to their owners. But maybe this is all just part of the grand plan. That’s what the Apes did. Made themselves indispensable to Man. And then - Wham! Took over the planet.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>I might be wrong but I believe the invasion has just begun. </b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b> #</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(Originally published in the Early Spring 2019 </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">issue of County Living Magazine)</span></div>
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Gerry Mandelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08516124652849272879noreply@blogger.com5