BEST CINCINNATI NEWS STORIES OF 2021

 

Dear George, 

While I grew up in a town of ten thousand, Greater Cincinnati’s population is over 200 times greater, and consequently there are 200 times as many newsworthy events each year. Many of these border on the weird, silly, or perplexing. Here are my favorites for 2021 (note: pseudonyms used throughout). 

Love, 

Dave 

 ANTI-VALENTINE’S DAY 

 In support of people who plan to hold an anti-Valentine’s Day celebration to purge themselves of past relationships, Cincinnati’s Junk King company is sponsoring a “Dump Truck” in suburban Blue Ash. People are invited to dump all reminders of their ex-lovers, from photos and stuffed animals to clothes and jewelry. For each item dumped, Junk King will donate $1 to the American Heart Association. (local12.com, 2-3-21). 

 BAD WIFE 

Linda Cretch, 67, has a parole hearing next month for her life sentence for murdering her husband. Cretch shot her husband, Walter, in the head, then wrapped his body in a rug and kept him in the basement before finally burying him in their backyard. She enlisted the help of her three young children, a neighbor, and her father-in-law with digging the hole on the pretense of fixing drainage issues and planting grass seed. Cretch then went on a spending spree. Her father became suspicious about the backyard hole, dug it up, and found Walter’s body a week later. (cincinnati.com, 2-5-21) 

 FOLLIES OF YOUTH 

A 15-year-old boy is facing criminal charges, accused of secretly recording video footage in a girls’ locker room at his high school. Two girls found the boy’s phone on a pipe in the rafters during a swim meet, and it was recording video. Minutes later the boy came to the locker room and asked if anyone had seen his phone. The girls gave the phone to the authorities, and the boy now faces three counts of attempted voyeurism. He was not successful in capturing any illicit images. (cincinnati.com, 2-18-21) 

CORN FLAKES WITH A KICK 

U.S. Customs officers in Cincinnati reported finding 44 pounds of cocaine-coated cornflakes that had been shipped from Peru to a Hong Kong home. A narcotics detection dog named Bico alerted officers to the package. The corn flakes had an estimated street value of $2,922,400. (wlwt.com, 2-19-21) 

 SALES SURGE 

Cincinnati’s Gorilla Glue company has been in the news a lot, even making Saturday Night Live, ever since Tessie Brawn tried catastrophically to straighten her hair with Gorilla Glue. Local fans worried that the bad publicity would harm the company. Quite to the contrary, Google searches of “Gorilla Glue” are up 50%, and national sales have more than doubled. It’s not clear whether recent buyers are using the product on their hair. (wcpo.com, 2-19-21) 

 BAD MAN UNDER THE BED 

A Cincinnati mother of a teenage girl discovered that a 20-year-old man had been living under her daughter’s bed for three weeks. Jared Wight from Barberton met the girl on instagram. He came out during the night to have sex, take nude photos, and then return to his hideaway. Authorities charged him with three counts of rape and child pornography. (cincinnati.com, 3-18-21) 

 GUN COUNTRY 

According to federal authorities, Addyston police chief Darian LeCour, 65, procured hundreds of machine guns under the guise of testing them for police use, then sold them to two Indiana gun dealers who resold them for a profit. One of the guns with a vehicle-mounted M2 .50 caliber machine gun designed to be used against armored vehicles and low-flying aircraft. Chief LaCour faces 5-10 years in prison on each of 17 counts. (cincinnati.com, 3-26-21)

 MISSING MONKEYS 

Sammy Trinch reported to the police that she saw at least five monkeys across from her home near St. Joseph’s Cemetery on West Eighth Street. Her neighbor Lucy Griffin recorded a video, although the quality is grainy. Trinch said the video shows three monkeys in a tree, but there were two more on the ground. Another woman said she saw one of the monkeys. “I was right here and it was standing over by the garbage can…Its arms were real skinny.” Police responded the next day but only found owls mating — a noise that could sound like monkeys. The Cincinnati Zoo said that none of their monkeys were missing, leaving the monkey mystery unsolved. (wlwt.com, 4-16-21) 

 WORST MOTHER EVER 

 Brittany Gorney, 29, and her boyfriend, James Hamil, 42, are charged with murder, kidnapping, endangering children, and abuse of a corpse. The couple hog-tied Gorney’s three kids, tying their hands and feet, and placing a cloth material in their mouths for a period of hours. Later they drove the three children to the Rapid Run Wildlife area in order to abandon them. Six-year-old James grabbed the door handle as Gorney sped off. When she returned 40 minutes later, she found James dead. They put the body in the car with the other children, kept it at home for 48 hours, then tied it to a concrete block and dumped it into the Ohio River. The body hasn’t yet been recovered. Brittany pled not guilty by reason of insanity. (wlwt.com, 4-26-21) 

 EIGHT ARRESTS THIS YEAR 

Cassandra Richards, 28, of nearby Blanchester was arrested for the eighth time in a year after at an incident at Gold Star Chili. Richards came to the store to demand a refund for food and was asked approximately 20 times to leave the premises. When employees called the police, Richards went outside, opened the drive-thru window, and tried to climb through. She resisted arrest and repeatedly banged her head against the interior of the police cruiser while being taken to jail. Richards already faced nine criminal trespassing charges, one aggravated menacing, one possession of drug paraphernalia, and six resisting arrest. (local12.com, 4-1-21) 

 CICADA CRASH 

Vince Bingram, 20, of New Richmond was driving his 2017 Chevy Cruze along Riverside Drive during the dinner hour when a cicada flew in through his open car window and struck him in the face. Bingram lost control and crashed into a pole, totalling the car. The cicada stayed in the back seat. Bingram was not alone. Cincinnati police reported responding to four different local crashes involving cicadas. (10tv.com, 6-9-21; wlwt.com, 6-11-21) 

 BB ATTACKS 

Sisters Brittany Hepper, 29, and Kelsy Hepper, 28, and driver David Wright, 30, were arrested for shooting at homeless people from their car in downtown Cincinnati and Over-the-Rhine with BB guns. The results were recorded by cameras on the scene which led police to the car. The Heppers had spray-painted the hood of the car to avoid detection, but their effort was unsuccessful. Both Hepper sisters face assault charges. (wcpo.com, 6-9-21) 

 GREAT CINCINNATI CICADA ROBBERY 

This month marks the 34th anniversary of the Great Cincinnati Cicada Robbery. According to police reports, two men walked into the Grand Slam Restaurant brandishing a cicada. They thrust the bug at the cashier Marquita Kellagg, 22, who then fled from her post. Later, after Ms. Kellagg had recovered and returned to the register, she found that it was missing $25. The cicada robbers were never found. (cincinnati.com, 6-19-21) 

 THE MAGNETIC VACCINE LADY 

Republican State Rep. Jennifer Grotch of West Chester helped spread the claims of Dr. Sherry Tenperry when she invited the doctor to testify before the Ohio House Committee in support of “Vaccine Choice”. Tenperry reiterated her claims that COVID-19 vaccines turn people magnetic and “interface” with 5G cell towers. The publicity promoted a slew of social media videos of vaccinated people trying to get spoons to stick to their noses. (citybeat.com, 7-15-21) 

 OUR NEW HIPPO 

Tucker, an 18-year-old Nile hippopotamus, arrived at the Cincinnati Zoo from the San Francisco. He will be the new boyfriend of 22-year-old Bibi, and they have begun to spend time by the pool bonding and sharing beets, squash, melons, and hay. Male hippos are typically 1,000 pounds larger than females. Also, when pooping, they spin their tails like a propeller and spray feces everywhere. A big mess for keepers in the hippo barn. (wlwt.com, 9-17-21) 

 NEEDS A HUG 

40-year-old Trenton Antonio Fortey of North College Hill was arrested after stabbing his mother multiple times with a kitchen knife while she laid in bed in an apartment. His mother, Vanessa Quarreles, was pronounced dead at the scene. Booked into the Hamilton County Justice Center, Fortey asked Sgt. Marc Drones for a hug. When Drones asked why, Fortey responded, “Because I stabbed my mother.” (cincinnati.com, 12-20-21)

Tales of Christmas Past

 

Our family's 1940 Season’s Greetings card (Dave with Santa, V.A.L. photo) 

 Dear George, 

I’ve never re-posted something from my blog before, but, when I looked back over Christmas posts, I decided that my 2012 story covered everything about the holiday I could think of. So here it is again: 

 Dear George, I’ve written about our family Xmases on a couple of occasions.  Those childhood celebrations have to be among the most thrilling times of our lives.  But post-childhood Xmas holidays are important too.  Some elements remain stable over the years, e.g., Santa, gifts, the Xmas tree, “Jingle Bells”, eating too much fruitcake.  But other aspects of the holiday season change dramatically.  Once you reach that post middle-age milestone, you’ve accumulated a lot of Xmases.  Here are a few personal tales that illustrate the striking discrepancies in holiday experiences that can occur as one moves through the life course. 

 I started college in September 1955, so Xmas of that year was the first time that I’d been living away from home.  My freshman hallmate Newt, who was from Walla Walla, traveled to Menominee with me from Yellow Springs. I arranged dates for us for the Holly Hop, the annual holiday dance held at Menominee High.  We all went to dinner first at the Cholette Hotel in nearby Peshtigo.  When Newt tried to pay his bill with an American Express Traveller’s Check, the clerk had never seen such a thing and refused to honor it.  None of us had sufficient cash in hand.  After a lengthy, heated negotiation, the clerk finally reached the hotel owner by phone and reluctantly accepted a twenty-dollar traveler’s check.  Newt, disgusted, decided he had truly entered the wilds of rural America.  After the dance we went and parked under the light of the moon in Henes Park.  A police car pulled up behind us moments later.  Nervous because we were under-age teens with open bottles of beer in the car, I started the car, slowly backed up, and crept through the park at its ten m.p.h speed limit with the police car following closely behind.  We managed to escape without further incident.

 

My younger brother Peter and I in our driveway with my first car (circa 1957) 

 December 1957 was the first time that I didn’t come home at all for Xmas.  I was on a coop job in New York City.  I lived on 163rd St. in Washington Heights, and I decided to spend Xmas eve at an Irish bar in the neighborhood.  After three or four shots of whiskey, I called home to exchange holiday greetings before my speech got too slurry.  A little while later some of the men in the bar decided from my newly acquired accent that I’d recently come from Ireland.  Another guy disagreed saying I sounded more Scottish.  I admitted to being from Scotland rather than Ireland, and, as the questioning from my barmates unfolded, we determined that I had jumped ship in New York harbor and was in the country illegally.  Two of my new Irish friends said that they had contacts in the criminal underworld and that they could arrange to get fake papers to keep me in the country.  At that point I decided that I’d enjoyed enough Irish Xmas cheer and bid my farewells. In 1958 my college friend Arnie P. came to visit our family.  Arnie was from White Plains just outside NYC, and he was curious about visiting the U.P.  He’d jokingly referred to me for some time as coming from Menominee, Mishigas (Yiddish for “craziness”).  A major winter storm moved in as we drove north from Chicago.  Shortly after we’d passed through Milwaukee we were stopped at a state police barricade shutting down Highway 41, the main highway to the U.P.  A policeman explained that the roads were impassable, and all the roads heading north from Milwaukee had been closed except one county highway.  He cautioned us not to risk it, but we decided to try it anyway.  With at least two feet of freshly fallen snow on the ground, we couldn’t see the roadway at all, so I just steered the car straight ahead through the open space between the trees. We rarely saw a house with a light on, and we didn’t see a single other car between Milwaukee and Green Bay.  It was a long, tense, probably dangerous trip, but we did eventually make it.  I think Arnie enjoyed his Mishigas visit.  He and my dad had a spirited debate about the military.  Arnie described his Army Reserve military experience as a thoroughly unpleasant waste of time, while Vic considered his experiences in the Pacific in World War II as the most meaningful of his life.  Their discussion may have marked the beginning of the generation gap.    

 

Arnie P. at river house in Menominee

 Though we’d been dating for two years, Katja didn’t make her first Xmas visit to our house until Xmas of 1959.  Vicki was 12; Peter, 14; Steve, 18.  They and my parents took to Katja immediately, and she to them.  She remembers Peter getting a barbell set for Xmas and embarking on his teenage body-building career. We went with my dad to cut down an evergreen tree on our back lot and then take it to town to have it spray-painted (perhaps yellow or red) at Van Domelen’s auto body shop.  Katja and I walked across the river to Pig Island and spotted a mud puppy through the ice lying on the river bottom, looking like the prehistoric creature it was descended from.  All our extended family came for dinner on Xmas eve, Uncles Kent and Ralph distributing cosmetic samples from the Menominee and Marinette drugstores and bachelor Uncle Karl bringing extravagant gifts from Neenah-Menasha. As she did each year, my mother made a delicious turkey Xmas dinner, topped off with her famous cherry, pineapple, whipped cream molded jello salad.  Katja couldn’t get over the parade of wonderful friends who came through our front door throughout the holidays. All in all, it was a memorable Xmas.

 

Katja playing cards with Dave, Vicki, and Peter (circa 1959)

Katja and I graduated from college and got married in 1960.  That year was our first Xmas in Menominee as a married couple.  The main thing I remember is that my parents turned over their bedroom to us, and I was totally embarrassed to come out in the morning, having spent the night there with a strange woman.  Thanks to my parents subsidizing us, we started flying up to Menominee for Xmas on North Central Airlines, the line of the Grey Goose.  North Central had smallish, propeller-driven planes.  On one of our trips Katja had a bad cold and her ears felt like they were going to explode.  She asked the stewardess if there was anything she could do, and the stewardess recommended swallowing deeply.  Five minutes later, the stewardess came back and asked Katja if she were feeling better.  She said she was, and the stewardess explained that the pilot had dropped the plane’s elevation by 3000 feet.  We decided North Central was the best. Our son J was born in September 1969, and we made a big deal about Xmas from the outset, even though J was only three months old.  Once he reached two or three we’d take him to a big local toy store to look over the merchandise (in order to get clues for Santa).  J would get very excited seeing all the wonderful things, but after twenty minutes he would invariably wind up in tears because of the over-stimulation.  I always enjoyed Xmas morning at least as much as J because I got to play with the new toys too.  Usually I was more of a playmate than a dad.  One December I went to the Digby tennis courts and cut down a sumac tree on the forested hillside.  I made dozens of paper mache ornaments over balloons with painted faces, hanging them from the sumac’s branches.  It started out as our Xmas tree, but became a permanent year-round decoration in our dining room.  As J got older we began making snowmen in our side yard each Xmas, then switched over to snow rabbits.  They were the hit of the neighborhood.

 

J in his Xmas cowboy outfit (circa 1973)

 With our families living in opposite directions, we decided in the early 70s to go to Menominee each summer and to Katja’s family in Philadelphia and New York City each December.  Katja’s parents, Helen and Buck, lived on Sherwood Road in west Philadelphia, and her sister Ami and brother-in-law Bruce lived in Manhattan.  We’d drive the turnpike to Philadelphia four or five days before Xmas.  We’d typically do the Art Museum, the Franklin Institute, the Italian market, Philly cheesesteaks at Pat’s, the Wanamaker tearoom, supper at Howard Johnson’s, a great G.I. surplus store, Bookbinder’s downtown bookstore, Katja’s shopping expedition to the suburban Lord & Taylor’s, sometimes a visit to the zoo, sometimes Independence Hall.  Bucks’ relatives would have a big family gathering at Aunt Miriam and Uncle Moe’s, along with Aunt Beatrice and Uncle Joe, Aunt Sophie and Uncle Nate, Katja’s aged grandmother, and various cousins.  Katja’s parents didn’t celebrate either Channukah or Xmas, so we were always eager to move on to New York for Xmas eve.    

Buck and Helen enjoy a holiday hug in their kitchen on Sherwood Road (ca. 1972) 

 We’d set off on the New Jersey Turnpike on the morning of Dec. 24th in order to exchange gifts with Ami and Bruce at their Upper West Side condo.  Bruce, J, and I would go out on Broadway and bring home a Xmas tree (always over-priced by Cincinnati standards).  Katja and Ami were both extravagant gift-givers, and they’d shower us all with numerous presents.  Ami would usually invite friends for Xmas eve or Xmas day dinner, and we’d get together with Bruce’s Bronx family as well.  We’d go to the Met, to MOMA, and to the Whitney or the Guggenheim.  Ami and Bruce would treat us to dinner one night at a cutting edge Manhattan restaurant.  We’d do Rockefeller Center, St. Pat’s, Soho, Canal St. and Chinatown, the East Village, sometimes South St. or the Battery, Madison Ave. galleries, Times Square (mostly of interest to J and myself), the Metropolitan Opera, and one or more Broadway shows.  As J got older, he and I would spend a lot of time walking about the city while Katja and Ami went shopping at Bloomingdale’s or ABC Carpets and had lunch at the Grand Central Oyster Bar.  J loved the city so much that it was the only place he wanted to go to college, and he wound up at Columbia as a result of our Xmas trips.  On one of our visits our car trunk was broken into and all our Xmas gifts were stolen.  We went to the district police station to report the theft.  The officer on duty explained that they didn’t investigate car robberies, saying simply, “Welcome to Fun City.”  Another time J and I were walking along the edge of Central Park East in the 90s, talking and laughing, and I noticed an attractive woman in a fur coat watching us and smiling.  I looked more closely, and it was Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.  I blushed a bit and looked away, but was privately pleased that Jackie seemed to be enjoying our father-son camaraderie.

Ami at Xmas in NYC (ca. 1973)  

 When Katja’s parents moved to Cincinnati in 1992, we began staying home over Xmas vacation.  Our son J and daughter-in-law K would join us occasionally, but more often they were away in Michigan, New Orleans, or California, and we’d communicate by phone and electronically. When we’ve been in town over the years, our long-time friends Eleanor and Sam Minkarah have made us a part of their family for the holidays.  Their son Jay and his kids and daughter Randa and her spouse come in from New Hampshire and Washington state, and it’s a festive gathering with a Xmas eve cocktail party and a family dinner on Xmas day.  This year (2012) Randa held a  50th birthday dinner party for her brother at the Cincinnatian Hotel.  Jay was ten when we first started sharing Xmas with their family, so it was a noteworthy and nostalgic occasion.   

 

Katja with the Minkarah women: Maria, Randa, Grace, Katja, Eleanor (2011) 

 Looking back, Xmas has been a significant event every year since we were teeny kids. What amazes me on reflection is the enormous changes that we’ve experienced over this time span – running the gamut from being little kids in the family awaiting Santa to being young adults, honeymooners, then parents, empty nesters, and now grandparents ourselves.  I’m glad we’ve hung around to enjoy it all.  Despite the constant change, I’m pleased to say that all our Xmases have been good in their own way.  That’s what the spirit of Santa will do for you.  

Love, 

Dave

Idiot or Heartless Wretch?

Dear George, 

The other night I took our dog Iko out for his late evening walk. Earlier I’d brought the trash and recycling bins out to the curb for morning pick-up. As I came down the driveway I noticed a middle-aged man in a leather jacket and sporty cap holding his cell phone flashlight and going through envelopes, letters, and papers from our recycling bin. When I approached, he turned and walked away. Iko and I headed in the opposite direction. 

 I was puzzled for a second, but then it dawned on me that he was looking for correspondence containing personal information, whether for identity theft or some other nefarious purpose. While I very rarely do so, I was sufficiently annoyed that I went to our “NextDoor” neighborhood website when I got home and recounted the incident. I titled my message “Recycling Thief”. It read, “‘Tonight there was a middle-aged man rummaging through our recycling bin. I assume he was looking for credit card information or the like. I mention this to remind people to be careful of putting items in their recycling that might have personal information.” 

 My post was apparently provocative, garnering 144 comments in the first 48 hours. Perhaps this is a record for Next-door, at least for our neighborhood. Five of the responses agreed with my account and thanked me for sharing my tip. The other 139 couldn’t seem to decide if I were an idiot or a heartless wretch. The vast majority pointed out that I was totally mistaken in my interpretation and that this was simply a person who was collecting aluminum cans to resell for a few pennies apiece, a commonplace and harmless activity. I’m not sure why 75 or 80 people had to make the same point, but everybody wanted to get their two cents in. One NextDoor member said that I’d written “the paranoid post of the day”. Some reported knowing the man — “a kindly old gentleman.” Many added that the man was probably a homeless person. Aluminum can proceeds would help him find shelter in this freezing weather or get something to eat, with the added implication that I was a heartless wretch. One person said if I couldn’t tolerate someone collecting aluminum cans I’d discarded, perhaps I should think about contributing to a homeless shelter. 

 The vast majority, of course, rejected my label of a “recycling thief”. Many said that going through people’s recycling and trash containers is completely legitimate and legal. Once trash is put at curbside, they said, it is in the public domain and open to anyone. Several respondents proudly disclosed that they are “dumpster divers” themselves. A few better-informed readers cited a Cincinnati ordinance which defined removal of items from trash and recycling bins as illegal. But even when people were aware of the law, they said that it is rarely enforced, and one should simply assume that strangers will go through one’s trash. 

 I had thought of my post as a public service announcement, reminding people to be careful about their recyclables, but hardly anybody seemed to take it this way. Several commented that only “idiots” would put valuable personal information in their recycling bin, and many gently explained to me that I should buy a shredder and shred my personal documents. (Actually we have a shredder but we haven’t used it since it got filled up several years ago.) One person conjectured that I seem to be the sort of person who puts valuable personal stuff in my recycling bin. Another said that if I am putting credit card information info in the recycling bin, I deserve to have it stolen. 

 Aside from acquiring a community reputation as a nitwit, I’m not losing too much sleep over my online experience. Most of the replies were not hostile, presumably because people simply thought me naive or stupid. And this sort of collective outcry happens all the time on our NextDoor website. Actually the hoopla was largely my own fault. If, instead of saying the man was “rummaging through our recycling bin, I’d said something like “going through envelopes and letters”, a lot of confusion would have been avoided. Having been burned once, I’m ambivalent about posting anything on our Next-door website in the future. There is always the risk of being verbally molested by a horde of strangers. On the other hand, perhaps I could say something that would repair my miserable public persona. 

Love, 

Dave

THE NEEDLE-EATING DOG

Dear George, 

Iko has lived with us for twenty months. He’s a Miniature Schnauzer, about nine years old and twenty-two pounds, full of spunk and sweet as can be. He spent his growing up years in a brothel on Tulane Avenue in New Orleans. Then he escaped, became a street dog for a while, wound up in the pound, and was rescued by our son Justin and his family. When the pandemic began, Justin brought Iko up to Cincinnati for safekeeping, and he’s been here ever since. He enjoys his walks, during which he barks at every dog and person in sight, and is particularly happy to have his daily wrestling match, rolling on his back and feigning fearsome bites to my forearm. 

 Iko has been in good health until a recent night-time walk when he squatted 6 or 7 times but was unable to produce anything. The next day he started vomiting and having diarrhea, became disinterested in food, and slept most of the time. No wrestling even. Katja said she was going to call the vet, but I tried to dissuade her. “The vet costs a fortune, and this is just a routine bug that will go away in a day or two.” Accustomed to my frugality, Katja paid no attention and soon we were on the way to the animal clinic. 

 We sat in the waiting room while the vet examined Iko. After an hour he came back out. They’d done a lot of tests, taken X-rays, and given Iko intravenous fluids. The vet said his symptoms looked like pancreatitis which is common to Miniature Schnauzers, but the X-rays had also revealed a needle in his abdomen. He might have swallowed it recently or it might have been there for a long time. He asked Katja if she were a seamstress, but we couldn’t imagine when or where Iko had found a needle to swallow. The test results for pancreatitis were due back in 24 hours, but the vet was concerned that the needle could pierce his stomach wall and Iko could bleed to death. He recommended that we take him to the emergency 24/7 veterinary hospital where they have more sophisticated equipment that would pinpoint the problem. 

 The 24/7 vet hospital was out in the suburbs. A big elegant place, designed to impress pet owners like us. The technician took Iko in for a sonogram, and Katja and I left for supper at LaRosa’s. The vet had finished by the time we came back. She said that the earlier X-rays might have looked like a needle in Iko’s abdomen, but, in fact, the sonogram showed that he had two needles and they were embedded in the muscle in his back. She thought the needles might have broken off during vaccinations and been in his back muscle for a long time. They weren’t causing any problems and could stay there forever. She agreed with our neighborhood vet that Iko’s symptoms looked like pancreatitus. She offered to keep him for the night, but it would have cost between $1500 and $2000. Given $800 in bills already, we opted for tender loving care at home. 

 I googled “pancreatitis” on the computer. It scared the wits out of us. While the symptoms appear to be ordinary, it’s an inflammation of the pancreas that can be life-threatening. In the worst cases, the enzymes produced by the pancreas actually begin to digest the pancreas itself, causing extreme pain to the dog and ending in an excruciating death. 

 The vet called the next morning with Iko’s pancreatitus test results. The normal range is 200 or below. Iko’s reading was 1000, the highest the vet had ever seen. He prescribed pills for pain and dehydration and recommended a bland diet of white rice and chicken. The vet said that if Iko’s diarrhea continued, we should take him back to the hospital immediately. 

 We were on pins and needles for a week, but Iko improved a little bit each day, and I’m happy to say that he now seems back to normal. He’s eating a veterinarian-prescribed low-fat diet ($50 a bag), his diarrhea is gone, and he’s pretty much his perky self again. Such a relief. I learned two things from the episode. First, I should stop worrying about spending a lot of money for a pet’s health. It’s worth it. Second, my spouse has better instincts in these matters than I do. 

Love, 

Dave

A LETTER TO AARON RODGERS

 

Dear Aaron, 

I’ve thought about writing a letter to you in the past. I grew up fifty miles north of Green Bay, and, aside from God, family, and country, people in my home town worship the Green Bay Packers. I followed Don Hutson in grade school, cheered rabidly for the Packers during the Lombardi Super Bowl era, and have been thrilled by the team’s resurgence during Brett Favre’s and your tenures as quarterback. In addition to your world-class athletic skills, I’ve also respected you as an intelligent, articulate person with good values and a sense of humor. Needless to say, I’ve been confused and disappointed by the recent uproar regarding your choice to not get a Covid-19 vaccination. You’ve expressed your desire to have a conversation about the issue rather than continued confrontation and hostility. Hence, this letter. 

Here is my understanding of the situation. While the NFL encourages vaccinations, it does not require them of players Approximately 5% of players have chosen not to get vaccinated, and there hasn’t been much hullabaloo about this. According to NFL rules, unvaccinated players are required to be tested daily and to wear masks when in public situations. When you were asked if you were vaccinated on the weekly radio show on which you appear, you replied, “Yeah, I’m immunized.” As you subsequently acknowledged, this was a misleading statement since you haven’t been vaccinated with any of the approved Covid-19 vaccines. Regarding mask-wearing, you’ve said, citing Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., that you consider this to be an unjust rule and have deliberately chosen not to follow it in various situations. 

 The most widespread criticism of your behavior has to do with judgments that you lied to the public about being vaccinated. While you claim that you were telling the truth that you’ve been immunized (by an alternative homeopathic treatment), you have acknowledged and taken responsibility for misleading people with your statement. Personally, I think you made an unfortunate mistake in the radio interview, and owning up to it is the best course available. (You should have just said that you’d chosen to do an alternative treatment.) 

 A further issue is the nature of the treatment you have undergone. The main component is ivermectin, an anti-parasitic drug used to treat intestinal worms and lice in horses. However, the Food and Drug Administration has not authorized ivermectin for use against Covid-19, stating that there is no evidence of its effectiveness in combatting the disease and that use of large doses in humans can cause comas and seizures. You indicate that a major influence in your decision was advice from podcast host Joe Rogan, but, of course, Rogan has no medical expertise. Nor does Fox News host Laura Ingraham, another major proponent of ivermectin. From a medical and scientific standpoint, there don’t seem to be adequate grounds for your decision. Consistent with this, the NFL rejected your appeal to have your alternative treatment accepted as a substitute for Covid vaccines. 

 You’ve also argued that “personal health decisions in my opinion should be private.” While this sounds almost self-evident, it’s also the case that, with a world-famous figure like yourself, health decisions can have significant consequences for teammates, loved ones, the many persons you come into contact with, and millions of fans. That’s neither personal nor private. One concrete example is your being excluded from the Kansas City game because of a positive Covid test, a Packers loss which the team might well have won if you’d been vaccinated and eligible to play. You’ve stated that “I’m not, you know, some sort of anti-vax, flat-earther.” But your public statements have given impetus to the “anti-vax, flat-earther” movement. According to recent CDC data, unvaccinated people are 6 times as likely to contract Covid-19, 10 times as likely to be hospitalized, and 11 times as likely to die from it, compared to vaccinated people. Recommending and modeling non-vaccination to the general public by someone of your celebrity increases the likelihood of infection, hospitalization, and death in the general population. 

My sense is that you’ve been surprised and distressed by the media controversy regarding your health choices and would have much preferred that these matters had remained private. It’s as though you’ve been caught up in a furor not entirely of your own making, and I sympathize with that. What to do about it is a puzzle. You could, of course, opt to be vaccinated and make that information public. I’m struck by the fact that none of your public statements advocate vaccination for the general public. Since your own reasons for an alternative treatment are idiosyncratic (i.e., your report of an allergy to an ingredient in the Pfizer and Moderna vaccines), I personally think that you could draw upon the great bulk of scientific information available and encourage others to get vaccinated. I hope you consider this possibility and change tactics. 

Sincerely yours, 

David L

OPENING NIGHT

 

Dear George, 

Such a lucky break — I checked my calendar late Saturday afternoon and was shocked to find that we had a symphony concert in just ninety minutes. Katja was sound asleep and she had had no idea either. It always takes me less time to get ready, and I paced the floor, getting more and more jittery. Finally we left a little before 7:00 for the 7:30 concert. I checked out the Washington Square parking garage across from Music Hall, but they were charging $15 (a violation of my principles). Because Katja’s foot was aching, I dropped her off at the front entrance and headed around the block to Central Parkway where the old parking garage costs $10 (still annoying). I always park on the top floor there because you can just drive down the ramp and go right out the 12th St. exit. 

I locked the car and hurriedly walked two blocks to Music Hall. A volunteer at the door asked for my vaccination card and photo I.D. He carefully checked my photo even though my face was covered by my mask. Next I went through a metal detector to get screened for revolvers and knives. The guy asked if I had an umbrella under my raincoat, but I said no. A third man scanned the bar code on my ticket and I was finally cleared to enter. The lobby was filled with chatting symphony fans, but, because all the people were wearing masks, no one looked familiar to me. I couldn’t tell who was pretty or handsome, smiling or frowning, young or old. A strange scene. 

Katja had already gone to her seat. Our tickets were for the third row, the closest we’ve ever been. We had to look upward toward the stage, we could only see the front line of performers, and the music was pretty loud. At precisely 7:30 conductor Louis Langrée came out to welcome the audience. This was the first weekend of the new 2021-22 season, and he was exuberant because it has been nineteen months since the orchestra has given a performance. The audience was excited too, and Louis got a lengthy round of applause. 

The guest artist was the prize-winning pianist Drew Pearson, and he paired with Symphony Concertmaster Stefani Masuo for a rousing piano-violin duet rendition of Brahms” “F-A-E” Sonata. Then Pearson was the soloist with the orchestra for an avant-garde fantasy by contemporary composer Andrew Norman, and the orchestra wound up with Brahm’s Symphony No. 3 in F major, also filled with fire and explosions. Katja is the classical music lover in our family, and I am more like a gigolo who serves as her male companion at high culture events. Perhaps because of our long absence, I found the music more exciting than usual and look forward to our next outing. 

At the intermission the man sitting next to me asked if I had been bothered by the radio broadcast. Apparently somebody sitting behind us had been listening to the Ohio State football game via ear pods throughout the performance. I hadn’t heard it myself (an example of how bad hearing can actually be to one’s advantage), but I agreed with him that this was pitiful. (As a University of Michigan alumnus it also confirmed my worst stereotypes of Ohio State fans.) 

After the concert Katja and I chose a pick-up spot in front of Music Hall, and I went to get the car. I drove down the ramp, but to my horror the exit barricade was closed, and no one was moving. The line of waiting cars extended back as far as I could see. A woman got out of the lead car at the exit and, with a strenuous effort, managed to shove the gate arm up and hold it there while her husband drove through. Then the arm came back down, and the next car was stuck. The car right in front of me gave up, got out of the line, and headed back into the parking garage. Certain that I’d never get out the 12th Street exit, I followed him. We made some right turns and left turns and eventually got back to the main entrance where we’d come in before the concert. Happily, that gate was wide open, and the other driver and I exited onto Central Parkway. I didn’t see any cars following us, and there were no parking employees anywhere. I wonder how many hours it took people to get out. 

Katja was in a happy post-concert mood when I picked her up. I was a bit nervous about having spent two hours at our first mass gathering since the start of the pandemic, even with required vaccinations and masks. Despite my worries, it was another baby step toward normality for us and a huge, life-changing step for our orchestra and the Music Hall staff. 

Love, 

Dave

THE BEST OF TIMES

 

Dear George, 

 I lived in four places while growing up in Menominee between 1937 and 1955. Up until I was six my parents lived had a second floor apartment in a large white house on Ogden Avenue (now 10th Ave.) at the foot of the Interstate Bridge. My age-mate and first friend, Sally Fernstrum, and her parents lived on the first floor, and Sally and I walked four or five blocks each day to kindergarten at Boswell School. At the end of that year my family moved to Sheridan Road (now 1st St.) around Michigan Ave. (now 16th Ave.), next to the State Street neighborhood where many family friends lived (Burkes, St. Peters, Worths, Sawyers, Murphys, and others). With the U.S. entry into World War II, my dad went for officer training at the Great Lakes Naval Station and was then shipped off to the Pacific. My mother, my younger brother Steve, and I moved to a second floor apartment at the corner of Quimby (3rd Ave.) and Sheridan Road. I think the building might have been owned by my paternal grandfather, V.A. Sr. Then when my dad returned in 1946, we moved to our house on the river that had been built by my maternal grandfather, Guy Cramer. That move was monumental for our family. For us kids, we went from being town kids to country kids — entirely new lives. I wrote a poem about this some time back, and recently I’ve worked at revising it for my OLLI poetry class. Here is the current version. 

Love, Dave 

              The Best of Times 

With the war finally over  

and my father back from the Pacific, 

our family, poorer than magpies, 

moved into my dead grandpa’s cottage, 

set among the white oaks 

on the banks of the Menominee, 

the only house on River Road, 

built of Norway Pine 

and boulders from the field, 

no electricity, 

no running water, 

no indoor toilet, 

no telephone, 

six-foot pine snakes in the foundation, 

a gaggle of bats in the attic, 

porcupines nesting in the evergreens. 

We grilled hot dogs at the outdoor fireplace, 

took weekly baths in the river, 

and caught fireflies in a Mason jar. 

With big snowstorms, 

the County took half a week to plow River Road, 

giving us kids private holidays from school. 

We pioneers of the Great North Woods, 

we children of the forest. 

As the oldest I had many tasks, 

to light the kerosene lanterns at sundown, 

to keep the firewood bin stocked, 

to bring water from the outdoor pump 

for the dog’s bowl and my parents’ coffee, 

to gather wild strawberries for breakfast, 

to shovel the walk in winter, 

and, most of all, to raise Old Glory, 

then fold her up again at dusk. 

My favorite times 

were going with my father to the city dump, 

a twenty-minute trek up the road, 

pulling my red wagon 

to lug found treasures home. 

I collected bottle caps 

while Dad searched for household goods, 

a bedside table with a chipped leg, 

a discarded flower vase, 

someone’s seashell ashtray 

from their Florida vacation, 

rusty old tools or perhaps a tin bucket. 

We loved our years on the river, 

swimming from morn till dusk, 

riding our bikes down the old road, 

camping out at Brewery Park, 

shooting at beer cans with the .22, 

acorn fights with my brother Steven, 

taking our green rowboat 

with its one horsepower motor 

for picnics on Indian Island 

or into the channel with its 

family of Great Blue Herons. 

Then came the summer of 1948 

and new neighbors, the Orths and the Meads,

built houses down from ours  

and the County strung up telephone and electric lines. 

Our wilderness world would never be quite the same.

Skipper B

Dear George, 

        Recently I was saddened to learn that one of my best childhood friends, Skipper B, died several years ago. Our parents were close friends, so Skipper and I became close friends too. Our family lived on Sheridan Road at the time, and Skipper’s family lived a block away on State Street. We cruised the neighborhood on our bikes, played softball and touch football at Triangle Park, got ice cream cones at the Producer’s Dairy, swam in the bay at the end of a neighborhood street, built snow forts, and played cops and robbers or cowboys and Indians in my back yard. 

         Skipper was seven months older than me but several years more worldly, and I learned a lot about life from him, including most of what I knew about the birds and the bees. In fourth grade I had a crush on one of our classmates named Louise. Skipper got tired of my talking about how beautiful Louise was, and one day he took me up to his parents’ bedroom, opened up one of his mother’s women’s magazines, and showed my a two-page Clairol ad with dozens of pictures of models who had hair dyed in different shades. He asked me if I thought these women were beautiful, and, when I agreed, he asked me to show him one model that looked like Louise. I looked and looked but couldn’t find a single one. Skipper explained that a girl named Maxine in our class was beautiful and looked most like these models and that Louise, in comparison, had a big nose, a square jaw, and a large Adam’s Apple. That ended my crush on Louise (but started my crush on Maxine). 

         My own family was pretty non-religious, so Skipper provided a lot of my spiritual education as well. His family were good Catholics, and he went to Sunday School and mass every week. Every Monday morning Skipper told me the story of a new saint he had learned about. I also learned a lot about the priest’s drinking indiscretions and which of the nuns were the meanest. 

         Both of us were comic book enthusiasts. I liked Bugs Bunny and Donald Duck the most, but Skipper owned a complete collection of Classic Comics, i.e., the comic book adaptations of literary classics (Moby Dick,The Three Musketeers, Hamlet, the Iliad, etc.). When we debated which superhero was best, I picked Superman, but Skipper liked Batman the best because his powers relied on human abilities rather than fantasy super-powers. 

         In fourth grade our teacher devised a competitive system by which students could move through the military ranks by accumulating points for various extracurricular activities — e.g., going to church, participation on sports teams, singing in the Glee Club, belonging to the Boy or Girl Scouts. All the children began the year as buck privates, and, as they accumulated points during the year, they could proceed through the ranks of sergeant, lieutenant, captain, major, colonel, etc. The highest possible rank was Gold Star General. It involved so many points that it seemed impossible that anyone could every achieve that rank. For the most part, that was true. However, one of our classmates did become a Gold Star General by the school year’s end. Skipper belonged to the most groups, participated in the most activities, went to the most events, and had the most interests. 

         After fourth grade Skipper transferred to parochial school, and two years later he and his family moved to Minneapolis. That was the last time I saw or heard from him until I ran across his obituary. It was amazing and gratifying to read about the rest of Skipper’s life. He attended a top private school in Minneapolis where he lettered in three varsity sports, then went on to Yale University where he continued to excel academically and starred in Yale dramatic productions. After law school at the University of Chicago, Skipper joined a top law firm in Minneapolis and became Chair of the Litigation Department. An avid athlete who enjoyed sailing and skiing, Skipper took up marathon running at age 41 and completed nearly 90 marathons and several 50 mile and 62 mile races. Married four times and mentor to many fellow members of AA, Skipper owned homes in Minneapolis, Colorado, and Wisconsin; was a foster parent to several children; opened and ran a gourmet health food restaurant; wrote several plays, one novella, and an autobiography; and created a successful art fair in Minneapolis.                                                       

        When I knew him, Skipper was an extraordinary kid, but that was only a precursor to his extraordinary adult life. It’s like Freud said — our basic character structure is firmly in place by age 6 or 7.  I’m sad that I lost touch with Skipper.

Love, Dave 

On the Road Again

DEAR GEORGE, Recently long-time friends, Lois and Bob A, invited us to come up to visit them in Menominee, my Upper Peninsula home town. It was our first trip in 18 months. We drove up from Cincinnati via Chicago and Milwaukee in two days, arriving in Menominee in the late afternoon on Sunday. Menominee (pop. 8,150) is located on Green Bay at the southern tip of the U.P., about 55 miles north of the city of Green Bay. It’s right across the Menominee River from Marinette, Wisconsin (pop. 10,608), our twin sister city and the site of my father’s family home. Returning to Menominee and Marinette is always an emotional experience for me. I left for college in 1955, yet much of the town remains the same some 66 years later: the layout of the streets, most of the houses and buildings, the churches, the city parks, the courthouse, the library, the marina, the cemetery, the airport. On the other hand, many of the important places of my youth have either disappeared or been relocated: my grade school and high school, my father’s law office, my uncle’s Rexall drugstore, the DAR Boys Club, the Lloyd and Menominee Theaters, the Five and Dime, the GI Surplus Store, Harry Cooney’s gas station, Garbell’s soda shop, Sonny’s grocery, Trautners, the Gateway Cafe, the hospital, Herb Beyersdorf’s garage, the Ideal Dairy. While I was clearly home again, a big chunk of “home” now exists only in my mind.

Our friends live in a magnificent home that they built by hand themselves on the shore of Green Bay. Because we are so landlocked in southwest Ohio, it’s easy to forget how wonderful it is to live on the water. Menominee is spread out for three miles along the shoreline of Green Bay, Lake Michigan’s largest inlet, and the town’s southern boundary is along the Menominee River (the border between the U.P. and Wisconsin). Menominee’s main business district is situated on the bay, as are its five city parks. You never forget being on the water, the visual scenes are hypnotic, and the ready access to the bay and the river make the outdoors a central part of residents’ everyday lives: swimming, fishing, boating, water-skiing, kayaking and canoeing, skating, ice boating.

We have a regular routine as tourists when we visit Menominee and Marinette, and we did much of it this trip: driving around the loop, Henes Park (with a brand new pavilion bathhouse), the boutiques in the historic downtown district, the marina, the magnificent Spies Public Library, art galleries (including Marinette’s Rusty Wolfe Gallery which could just as well be on Madison Avenue in NYC), “Simply Charming”, Pine Tree Mall, antique malls, thrift shops, the Riverside Cemetery, Riverside Drive in Marinette, Sequins, Joe’s Cheese Shop, and a trip on River Road to the location of our old family home. We were saddened by the loss of Weathervane Antiques and Younkers department store, but pleased with the new Menekaunee Harbor Park and boat launch with its attractive regional sculptures and with the new House of Yesteryear antique store in downtown Menominee. I bought a Menominee Maroons T-Shirt for $12.95 at the drugstore, and Katja got us two U.P. hoodies and some $75-a-pound cheese at Joe’s. Katja and I had a date night at Berg’s Landing, Menominee’s finest restaurant, and enjoyed a lot of other local eateries as well: The Watermark [successor to Schloegel’s], Applejacks, The Brothers Three, the Serving Spoon, and Culvers where we had our traditional lunch with my cousins Ann and John B.

In the late 1960’s and early 1970’s my parents purchased and renovated an 1880’s farm near Birch Creek, five miles north of town, and my Seattle niece and nephew, Jennifer and Greg, currently operate the family property as a successful Airbnb. Katja and I went out to Farm on a day between rentals and Jim and Sharon K gave us a tour. My parents, Vic and Doris, would have been thrilled. There were new roofs on four of the buildings, the Barn’s sagging foundation had been shorn up, the guest house had been renovated, the bridge over Birch Creek repaired. All in all, the property was more inviting than it’s ever been, and it’s no wonder that nearly all of the Guest Book comments refer to it as “magical” or “mystical”. We thoroughly enjoyed our visit, though it was bittersweet. We’ve had so many happy family reunions over the years with lots of joking and laughter, but now, with the loss of parents and siblings, it’s more of a place for quiet reminiscing and nostalgia.

We decided to return to Cincinnati by way of the Upper Peninsula and the Mackinac Bridge. The 195-mile trip from Menominee to St. Ignace and the bridge reminded me of how remarkable the U.P. is. We passed through about a dozen villages and small towns, but only one had a population of 10,000 or more (Escanaba) and most had 200 people or less. The U.P. is largely a wilderness area, and we spent the vast majority of time driving through evergreen forests along the Lake Michigan shoreline — a wild and beautiful country. The Upper Peninsula is about the size of Denmark, but contains only 3% of Michigan’s population. Population density is 19 people per square mile (compared to 94 people per square mile for the U.S. as a whole). Yoopers, as natives are colloquially called, enjoy an outdoor life — hunting, fishing, boating, camping, hiking. Our trip made me once again contemplate how much my personality and attitudes were shaped by growing up in the U.P. LOVE, DAVE

ONLINE NIGHTMARES

DEAR GEORGE, When our long-time Menominee friends invited us up for a visit, we jumped at the chance. We haven’t gone on a real trip for almost two years. Because I haven’t driven anywhere more than 20 miles away in all that time, I was a bit wary about a 1500-mile road trip to the U.P. and back. However, it all went smoothly — not counting the blip outside Chicago.

It was rush hour so we decided to use the Illinois Tollway on the city’s western edge to avoid the heaviest traffic. As we entered the tollway I was puzzled by a digital display that read “NO CASH — Use I-Pass or Pay Online”. We didn’t have an I-Pass, of course, and I had no idea how paying online was even possible. Sure enough, when we got to the first set of toll booths, all of the booths that formerly housed human toll-takers were barricaded off. There was a new set of lanes designated for people who had I-passes, and the cars breezed through at 60 miles an hour, but there was only one single lane for people who wanted to pay online. No human toll-taker in sight. Since the online lane was my only option, I held up my cell-phone to the windshield and drove through. I didn’t really think that my cell phone was smart enough to pay my toll, and I was acutely aware that when I had last done this in Florida I wound up paying a $65 traffic ticket.

Ten miles later we came to an identical set of barricaded toll booths and I-Pass lanes. This time, faced with the prospect of a second $65 ticket, I pulled over to the side of the road and parked. I noticed a small sign that said, “To apply for an I-Pass, go to ipass.com." Hooray! I breathed a big sigh of relief and went to ipass.com on my cell phone. To say that the web-site was user-unfriendly would be an understatement. It required a couple dozen pieces of information, some of it very confusing, at least to me After twenty minutes, I was still not close to finishing. I couldn’t believe that the authorities subjected innocent drivers to this nightmare, and I fantasized that we would be marooned for days on the tollway. There was an official-looking building to the right of the toll-booths, so I got out of the car, climbed a fence, and went over to it. I banged on the front door, then walked around and banged on the back door, but there were no humans around. As I headed back toward my car, a tollway truck pulled into the parking lot. Thrilled by my good luck, I rushed over, holding out my cellphone to the driver. He just shook his head, refused to look at my phone, and told me to go to “illinoistollway.com" to pay online. Even if he hadn’t solved my problem directly, I was certain I was now on the right track.

“illinoistollway.com" turned out to be disappointing because it required all the same responses as did “ipass.com". I misspelled the first word I typed in, listing my name as “davif”, and I couldn’t figure out how to correct my mistake. After a lot of personal information, the website eventually asked for a password. I typed in my favorite password, “12345”. “Failure,” the website said, “ use a small letter”. I tried “d12345” but that too was a Failure: “Use a capital letter.” “Dav12345”, I responded. No luck — “Use a non-alphanumeric character”. I typed“ Dav@12345”, and — Voila! — I finally had created an acceptable password. After inputting my credit card information, the last step involved a box labelled “Verification”. I had no idea what Verification meant. I typed “verified” in the box but that was more “Failure”. Likewise for “yes” and “david.lundgren” and “finished”. Finally I noticed a box just above Verification that contained some squiggly fuzzy numbers and letters. They were very obscure and I couldn’t make them out clearly, but I guessed they might be “mN08”. I typed “mN08”in the Verification box but that too was “Failure”. I looked at the characters even more carefully. Perhaps they were “nW06”. I typed that in, and, miracle of miracles” the website said that I had successfully completed my Pay by Plate application.

It was exactly one hour since we had stopped to apply for our I-pass. My wife was ready to kill someone. No other cars had had to stop during that time, and I wondered if I were the only technologically inept traveller passing through Chicago. We zipped through the remaining five “pay online” lanes without a moment’s hesitation. I’m hopeful that we paid our tolls online though I’m uncertain and still nervous. I definitely don’t know about the first lane that we passed through without paying, but, if we only wind up with a $65 ticket, I will be content. I’m sure next time will be easier. LOVE, DAVE

THE DOG DAYS OF AUGUST

DEAR GEORGE, People sometimes think that the “dog days of summer” means the late summer days when temperatures aren’t even fit for a dog. Actually the phrase was coined by the ancient Romans and denotes the period when the star Sirius (the Dog Star) rises and sets with the sun. Because the Dog Star is the brightest star in the sky, the Romans believed that it gave off heat and added to the sun’s warmth, thus accounting for the sultry weather in late summer. Hence, the “dog days”. We’ve definitely experienced the dog days in Cincinnati this month, and we’re glad to be moving on. But despite the heat, the dog days in our household have included lots of highs along with lows.

Two weeks ago our friends Paula and Frank gave us tickets for an evening session at the Western and Southern Open tennis tournament out in Mason. Katja and I have been going to the tournament since the late 1970’s when it was called the A.T.P. We’ve seen Borg, Connors, McEnroe, Lendl, Vitas Gerulaitis, and a host of other luminaries. As we arrived at the Lindner Tennis Center, we realized that this was the first time that we’ve been out in a big crowd in 18 months. At 6 p.m. the temperature was beastly hot, but Paula and Frank’s seats fortunately were in the luxury air-conditioned pavilion at the south end of Center Court. We were excited to see Coco Gauff and Matteo Berretini in person, and we splurged on $11 sandwiches for supper (a Greek gyro for Katja, pulled pork for me).

Two days later our son J flew up from New Orleans to go with us to quarter-final and semi-final sessions of the tournament. Due to a flight delay, he arrived in the wee hours of the morning on Friday. It turns out it is hard to get an Uber after midnight in Greater Cincinnati, but his insomniac parents were awake to greet him at 2:30 a.m. Our original plan had been for Katja to accompany J on Friday and for me to go on Saturday. However, with the heat index in the 90’s I went to both sessions with J while Katja enjoyed watching at home in our air-conditioned den. We saw Medvedev (the number one seed) and Rublev (the eventual men’s champion), along with women’s doubles matches featuring Ash Barty (#1) and Samantha Stosur. To combat the dog days we stopped at Frisch’s after the tournament on Friday for large chocolate shakes and on Saturday at Arby’s for Jamocha shakes.

In our off time J and I toured several of our favorite thrift stores: Goodwill, St. Vincent de Paul, the Valley Thrift. This is a father-son activity that goes back forty years or more. We both enjoy incomes that would allow us to buy new stuff at Kenwood Town Centre, but we seem to prefer searching for used treasures at bargain basement prices. J bought a couple of T-shirts with Cincinnati logos, while I browsed for kitschy figurines to add to my collection. The three of us had 4-ways at the Clifton Skyline on Sunday, and then we were off to the airport, the end to a visit that went by much too quickly. Our dog Iko cried when J (his former master) got out of the car to go into the airport, and we felt like crying too.

The following Monday we got up early to greet the plumbing crew who arrived to do a major project in our basement, including installing a new water heater and replacing all the hundred-year old pipes. I wasn’t exactly sure why we were doing this. Our heating/air conditioning package came with a free annual plumbing inspection, and the guy’s free advice was to spend ten thousand dollars to update our system. We just went along with it. The city water works people came first and shut off all water to our house. This meant no water, no flushable toilets, no tooth-brushing, no air conditioning. Because it was scheduled as a two-day job, I suggested we go camping, but Katja refuses to do this, especially with heat in the 90’s. Then we discussed whether to stay in the house while the work was being done or take the dog and retreat to a motel. We decided to stay at home. This might have been more my preference than Katja’s, but she didn’t protest too much. Temperatures quickly climbed to the high 80’s inside our house. Though we didn’t go camping, we wound up roughing it anyway.

The day after our plumbing had been replaced, the Sears guy came to fix the refrigerator. The ice maker had quit working, and I wasn’t able to unclog it. Also one of the shelves had come crashing down. The Sears guy unclogged the caked ice in a few minutes and that solved that problem. (I could have done that.) Then he pushed the loose shelf back into its socket. (I could have done that too.) Finally he pulled out the burnt-out lightbulbs in the stove hood and pushed the new lights in. (I could have done that if I knew how.) The job didn’t take long, but the bill was $182 just the same. I felt ashamed to be so unhandy, but I hid upstairs and avoided public humiliation.

Tonight we have reservations at the Chart House on Riverboat Row in Newport. It’s on the Ohio River with a grand view of the Cincinnati skyline, and we’ll be celebrating our 61st anniversary. A few months ago we wouldn’t have done this, but, with our vaccinations, we’re gradually venturing forth in the world.

The dog days of August have reached their end. For us, some of it’s been fun, some of it painful; some of it cheap, some of it expensive; some of it relaxing, some of it stressful. Overall, pretty much like the hodgepodge of life itself. LOVE, DAVE

ALL ABOUT SQUIRRELS

DEAR GEORGE, Growing up on the river, we kids considered the squirrels to be part of our family. They built their nests in the oak trees in our front yard and driveway, scurried about our lawn all day long, and thrived on the thousands of acorns as well as the overflow of seeds from Mother’s bird feeder. They never seemed worried about our Irish Setters, probably because they were too quick to get caught. My dad explained that the squirrels were important because some of their buried acorns would grow into new trees and help replenish the forest. Some seventy years later and in the big city, we still have squirrels all over the place. Iko gets excited and pulls on the leash when he spots them on our daily walks though they’re too quick for him as well. Katja and I watch the pair of squirrels that have built their nest on the window ledge outside our second-floor TV room. They don’t mind us watching them from the other side of the window.

Squirrels have been around for 36 million years, about 180 times longer than we humans. They live on every continent in the world except Antartica. Gray tree squirrels (our familiar friends) grow up to 12 inches in body length with a tail up to 10 inches. Adults weigh between 14 and 21 ounces. Up until the mid-1800’s squirrels were virtually unknown in American cities except as exotic pets. In July 1856 the New York Daily Times reported a huge crowd gathered in Central Park to witness the rare appearance of a gray squirrel, probably a pet that had escaped from its Fifth Avenue owner. Cities, however, began introducing squirrels to parks for their entertainment value, and by the mid-1880’s there were 1500 squirrels in Central Park.

If they had an Olympics for animals, squirrels would bring home a lot of the medals. Though less than 5 percent the body size of human beings, they can run 20 miles an hour and leap a distance of twenty feet. Because of their ability to use their tail as a parachute, squirrels can fall off a tree branch or electric wire 100 feet above the the ground, land on their feet, and not get hurt. Squirrels are double-jointed, and consequently they can turn their ankles and face in any direction. Because of this ability, they are one of the few creatures that can run headfirst down a tree trunk. Not only that but their eyes are positioned so that they can see behind themselves.

Squirrels mostly eat nuts, seeds, and fruit, though they sometimes enjoy an occasional insect, bird egg, or young snake. They’re serious eaters, taking in their own body weight every week. Squirrels don’t hibernate during the winter, Instead they rely on stockpiles of food that they gather and store in hiding places in the ground. Because putting all their food in a single location might make it vulnerable to thieves, squirrels do “scatter hoarding”, spreading their food across hundreds or even thousands of locations. Such clever little guys, they are even known to dig fake holes with no food in them in order to trick onlooking thieves. Researchers at Berkeley have found that, when given a mixture of different types of nuts, squirrels will sort the nuts by type and bury each type in a different spot.

Squirrels live alone most of the time, though they’ll sometimes nest together in the cold winter months. They build their nests with leaves, twigs, bark, moss, dried grass, and other materials in the forks of nut-bearing trees (e.g., oaks) or sometimes in people’s attics or chimneys. Groups of squirrels (called a “scurry” or a “dray”) are very territorial and will fight to the death defending their area, especially mothers protecting their babies. The squirrel mating season is from February through May, with males trying to attract attention by slapping the bark of trees and chattering loudly. Baby squirrels are called kits. They are born hairless, blind, deaf, and about one inch long. Each litter has two to four kits who are weaned after 7 or 8 weeks and leave the nest after 14 or 15 weeks.

Squirrels’ lives are threatened by a large bunch of predators: hawks, weasels, raccoons, bobcats, coyotes, foxes, cats, snakes, owls, dogs, human beings. Tail flicking and the “yuk” or “quaa” call are used to ward off and to warn other squirrels about predators. Squirrels in cities rely more on visual signals because of the noisy background environment, while squirrels in quieter forests vocalize more. Because of all their predators, most squirrels don’t live beyond two years, though those that manage to survive may live for six to twelve years in the wild.

There are about 2 billion Eastern gray squirrels in the U.S. In Ohio there are four species: gray, red, fox, and flying squirrels. Much to my surprise, the flying squirrel is the most common species in Ohio, but they’re rarely seen because they stay in forests and are nocturnal. Eastern gray squirrels are most populous in Cincinnati and Columbus, while Eastern fox squirrels are dominant in Cleveland, Toledo, and Youngstown. There were so many gray squirrels in the state in the nineteenth century that the Ohio General Assembly required each taxable adult to produce to the township clerk a number of squirrel scalps in proportion to county levies (a minimum of 10 but no more than 100 scalps per person). Fox, red, and gray squirrels are still legal game animals in Ohio, though Ohio state law says that, after trapping them, one must not keep squirrels in their possession for over 24 hours.

Americans have eaten squirrels for food since the Colonial days, and they remain a popular item in several Southern states. Chefs describe the meat as delicious, like a cross between a lamb and a duck — incredibly sweet, nutty, and very lean. Consumers like the fact that squirrels are local and a wild meat. Because the loin is so small, a squirrel is cooked exactly like a rabbit, either very quickly or for a long time. There are about 12 companies on the internet that sell grey squirrel, and most local butchers can obtain them if asked. Potential cooks should ask the butcher to skin the squirrels because an amateur would pull them into pieces.

I asked Katja about cooking squirrels for supper one day, and she’s thinking it over. But whether or not we eat some, I’m glad to have done my research. Now I look at our little neighbors with a newfound appreciation. LOVE, DAVE

SOURCES: arrow exterminating.com, “21 Interesting Facts About Squirrels”; asking lot.com, “How many squirrels live in Ohio”; havahart.com, “Squirrels”; livescience.com, “Squirrels: Diet, Habits & Other Facts”; ohiodnr.gov, “Eastern Gray Squirrel”; ohiohistorycentral.org, “Eastern Gray Squirrel”; quora.com, “How many squirrels are there in the world”; skedaddlewildlife.com, “How Long Do Squirrels Live?”; summitenvironmenalsolutions.com, “20 Fun facts about squirrels”; theguardian.com, “The ultimate ethical meal: a grey squirrel”; treehugger.com, “18 Things You May Not Know About Squirrels”; vancouverwildlife.com, “Squirrel Facts and Information”; vice.com, “We Should Think About Eating Squirrel”; wikipedia.org, “Eastern Gray Squirrel”.