AN ODE TO APRIL

 

Dear George, 

All the months have something special about them, but I think that April might be the best. It’s the month when the flowering trees in our neighborhood come into full bloom — dogwood, redbuds, magnolias — signaling the full-fledged arrival of spring. The trees are not only beautiful, but they symbolize rebirth, new beginnings, the warm and abundant future that is waiting for us. The birds return, the squirrels and lizards are busy, the flowers begin sprouting in our garden, and Katja and I go to Rahn’s greenhouses to pick out pansies for planting. I do still wear my winter coat on the cooler April days, but the college kids I pass by are dressed in T-shirts and Bermuda shorts, probably viewing me as a daffy old geezer. 

When I was a kid our family lived in the country on the Menominee River, and April meant the total transformation of our forest world. As the snow and ice melted our gravel road turned into muddy ruts, and we couldn’t get to town, consequently enjoying our own personal holidays from school. The ice on the river melted and flowed out in early April, making a massive tinkling sound that led my parents to name it “Chinese Bells Day.” My brother Steven and I would put on hip waders and step into the flowing ice near the shore with bamboo poles, retrieving miscellaneous objects that were floating along with the ice, e.g., tin cans, rubber balls, lawn furniture, whatever. The trillium were the first spring flowers to bloom in the forest, and my mother would have us bring potted plants to our grade school teachers. Once the road dried out sufficiently we were able to ride our bikes to town and school. 

Easter, of course, occurs in early April, and we painted Easter eggs in school to bring home in preparation for the Easter Bunny’s visit. The public schools in my home town closed for the Good Friday and Easter Monday holidays. Our family was not very religious, but we did go faithfully to the First Presbyterian Church every Easter. My brother and I were always amazed at the amount of the check that my father put in the collection basket. He explained that he was covering the whole year. 

In Cincinnati the warm weather arrives earlier than in Northern Michigan, and April, with average high temperatures of 65 degrees, is one of the most pleasant months of the year. When our son was a teenager he played high school tennis for Walnut Hills, and we parents waited all winter for the arrival of April and the beginning of the boys’ tennis season. In retrospect, I would say that we were the stereotypic insane tennis parents. We attended all of our son’s matches, ecstatic with victories, anguished with defeat. In addition to Cincinnati, we travelled as a family to other tournaments in the region, e.g., Middletown, Dayton, Columbus, Indianapolis, Charleston, West Virginia . 

In addition to tennis, Cincinnati Reds baseball starts around the beginning of April, and the Cincinnati Zoo hosts its annual “Zoo Blooms” event throughout the month with its millions of tulips, daffodils, and hyacinths. The Greater Cincinnati Restaurant Week is held in late April, as is the Greater Cincinnati Earth Day Festival. 

It’s believed that April was named after Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love. Diamonds are the April birthstone, daisies and sweet peas are the April birth flowers, and April is the National Poetry Month. George Washington was inaugurated on April 30, 1789, and the Titanic sank on April 15, 1912. Of course, many famous people have been born in April. These include William Shakespeare (April 23, 1564), Leonardo da Vinci (April 15, 1452), Queen Elizabeth II (April 21, 1926), Babe Ruth (April 8, 1895), and Billie Holiday (April 15, 1915). 

I’ve been around for well over eighty Aprils, and each becomes more significant as time goes by. Our sweet family from New Orleans already came to visit this April, making it a special month this year. I look forward to what’s to come. 

Love, Dave

REVISITING THE ATOMIC AGE

 

Dear George,

Oppenheimer won Best Picture at the Academy Awards so we finally got around to watching it.  It covered arguably the most significant events of our lifetimes: Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the Cold War with Russia, the nuclear arms race, the threat of annihilation -- an era of great tension and fear.  And lots of personal memories. 

I was just about to enter fourth grade when the U.S. dropped its atomic bombs on Japan in August, 1945. At school our Weekly Reader contained regular articles on the peacetime benefits of atomic energy, but we children were more concerned that humankind now possessed the capacity to destroy all life on the planet. A difficult prospect for young minds to digest. We had regular classroom rehearsals in preparation for nuclear war. This consisted mainly of bending over and putting our heads under our wooden desks. 

Russia exploded its first atomic bomb in August 1949. The Cold War was in full sway, and the possibility of nuclear war seemed increasingly real. The hysteria gripping the nation spread as well to my home town of Menominee in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Menominee was located 150 miles east of the Soo Locks, the latter likely to be a prime target of Russian bombers because of their economic importance to the nation. Local prognosticators reasoned that if enemy bombers drifted off course by as little as a single degree they would pass directly over Menominee. Our town, with its location on the Menominee River and its adjoining port, factories, and warehouses could easily be mistaken for the Soo, resulting in the accidental delivery of atomic bombs. Local anxiety about a possible atomic attack remained at a fever pitch throughout my teenage years. 

Whether or not my father, my uncle Ralph, and my grandfather, V.A. Sr., believed in the Soo Locks theory, they decided that it would be prudent to build an atomic bomb shelter in the basement of my grandfather’s drugstore. V.A. enjoyed carpentry projects of various sorts and took charge of construction, recruiting me as his assistant. The bomb shelter was in a room the size of a small bedroom along the south wall of the drugstore basement, a cramped space for the eleven members of our two families. I forget the exact materials, but we lined the walls with some sort of insulation to protect us from radioactive fallout. Then we stocked the room with bottles of water, candles, canned food items, toilet paper, fresh underwear, and other essentials. The adults had an ongoing debate about whether to stock the bomb shelter with guns in case neighbors tried to break in. We settled for multiple interior locks on the door. 

I left for college in 1955 and my second coop job was in New York City two years later. New Yorkers assumed, probably correctly, that their city would be the number one target for a nuclear attack by the Russians, and I was nervous about moving there. By this time the U.S. and Russia had both developed hydrogen bombs, each about 700 times more powerful than the Hiroshima bomb. I vividly remember attending the Barnum & Bailey Circus in Madison Square Garden one Saturday afternoon. Suddenly the entire interior of the arena went black, search lights began flashing on and off, and sirens wailed at full blast. I nearly collapsed from anxiety, fully convinced with the rest of the audience that the end had arrived. Then a bevy of clowns came charging out, tooting their horns, and we breathed a sigh of relief. Just another amusing circus joke. 

In 1960 my brand new bride Katja and I moved to Ann Arbor for graduate school, and we voted for JFK in our first presidential election. Two years later President Kennedy delivered a TV address to the nation, announcing that the Soviet Union had built nuclear missile bases in Cuba and was delivering nuclear warheads by sea. Kennedy had ordered U.S. naval ships to blockade Cuba. Khrushchev responded that the blockade was “an act of aggression propelling humankind into the abyss of a world nuclear-missile war.” A military confrontation seemed imminent. Katja and I met on campus to decide what to do. Detroit, one of the nation’s most important industrial centers, was a mere 40 miles away, and Ann Arbor seemed a likely candidate for deadly radioactive fallout. We thought about leaving immediately for my parents’ Upper Peninsula home, a 400-mile trip. However, Soo Lock fears were still fresh in my mind. and we had the terrible feeling that no place was safe. Fortunately the crisis finally ended thirteen days later. Historians today agree that the world was actually on the brink. That was my last personal nuclear crisis, even though, in fact, the potential for nuclear disaster has probably increased with rogue states like Pakistan and North Korea possessing the bomb. But we have survived for almost 80 years, and I think we’ve become desensitized. Oppenheimer did bring it all up again. 

Love, 

Dave

HOW DOES POETRY DIFFER FROM PROSE?

Dear George, 

I’ve been taking poetry classes through UC’s OLLI program for the last 5 or 6 years. I don’t know if I’m getting any better, but I am enjoying myself. Katja is a Ph.D. candidate in French literature, and, from the beginning, she’s been telling me that my poems don’t sound very poetic. I’ve come to agree. My background is in scientific writing, the very opposite of poetic writing. My OLLI teacher agrees, saying that I write “prosy poems,” though he sees no problem in that. Every class I’ve been in winds up, at some point, discussing the differences between poetry and prose. I’ve asked Google about it, and here are some of the things experts say. 

Both “prose” and “poetry,” of course, refer to written literature. Prose is what we encounter most often in everyday life. Novels, short stories, nonfiction works, essays, newspaper and magazine articles, scientific papers, emails, blogs, and so forth ad infinitum. Various commentators say that prose is “regular” writing, while poetry is a more specialized form. I’m going to hazard a guess that prose constitutes about 99.9% of the written products out there in the world, leaving poetry with about 0.1% or less. To my knowledge, prose writers never worry about how prose differs from poetry. Only poets interested in the question, perhaps because their creations are specialand unique. 

Many authors compare and contrast poetry and prose. Here I am going to describe eight distinctions that are commonly made: structure; length; capitalization; punctuation; rhyme and meter; language; understandability; and purpose.

(1) STRUCTURE. The clearest and most obvious difference between prose and poetry is how they look on the page. Prose is written in sentences that are arranged in paragraphs. A line of text begins at the left and ends at the right margin of the page, with prose text appearing as large blocks of writing. Poems, in contrast, use shorter lines that are broken before the right page margin, and the lines are organized into stanzas. Thus, the shape of a poem varies, depending on the line and stanza breaks chosen by the author.    

(2) LENGTH. Poems are relatively short, like a painting in words, while prose is usually longer (think of an article or work of fiction). 

(3) CAPITALIZATION. In prose, the first word of every sentence is capitalized. Traditionally, poets capitalize the first letter of every line whether or not it corresponds to a sentence beginning. However, many modern poets do not follow this rule. 

(4) PUNCTUATION. Prose writers follow standard grammatical rules of punctuation (e.g., periods at the end of the sentence; commas to connect independent clauses ). Poets sometimes use standard grammatical rules, but they may also break rules for creative effect or not use standard punctuation at all (relying on line breaks instead of periods, commas, etc.). 

(5) RHYME AND METER. Historians suggest that poetry existed long before written language, and used rhythm and rhyme to help people to memorize information and hence pass down knowledge. Some argue that rhyme and meter are the most importance differences between poetry and prose. However, both rhyme and meter have been on the wane in poetry for many decades, and contemporary poets show a near-universal preference for free verse. 

(6) LANGUAGE. Prose typically relies on straightforward and literal language (e.g., the current essay), while poets often use figurative language (e.g., metaphor, similes, symbols) to create images or expressive ideas. Edgar Allan Poe wrote, “Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.” 

(7) UNDERSTANDABILITY. Prose typically aims for a relatively clear message and usually requires only a single reading. Poems often leave a lot unsaid, rely on the imagination of the reader for interpretation, and may require more than one reading. My own opinion is that a lot of contemporary poets seem to worship ambiguity or obscurity and are needlessly frustrating to the everyday reader as a consequence. 

(8) PURPOSE. A quick summary is that prose aims to convey information, tell a story, or explain a concept in a clear way, while poetry focuses on expressing emotions and ideas in an aesthetically pleasing and evocative way. 

PROSE POEMS. It’s a mistake to regard “prose” and “poetry” as mutually exclusive, binary categories. There’s a lot of overlap and a lot of variety in each category. Prose can be highly expressive and employ metaphors and symbols. Poetry can be literal and descriptive, telling a story. The prose poem is a good illustration of the fusion of the two, since it employs the structural form of prose with the expressive language of poetry. Here is an excerpt from the prose poem, “Bath”, by Amy Lowell:  

      

“Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir of my finger sets them whirring, reeling.  I move a foot and the planes of light in the water jar.  I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white water, the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me.” 

It’s also possible to turn this around and consider poems which employ a standard poetry form but also use literal, descriptive language rather than flowery, “poetic” language. William Carlos Williams’ poem, “This Is Just to Say,” might be an example: 

I have eaten 

the plums 

that were in 

the icebox

and which 

you were probably 

saving 

for breakfast 

Forgive me 

they were delicious 

so sweet 

and so cold 

All of this points to a rather murky conclusion. It’s certainly possible to make generalizations about differences between poetry and prose, but both of these categories are so diverse that there are many exceptions to any assertion. Former U.S. Poet Laureate Howard Nemerov sums it up best when he says that distinguishing poetry from prose “is rather like distinguishing rain from snow — everyone is reasonably capable of doing so, and yet there are some weathers that are either-neither.” 

Love, 

Dave 

SOURCES: brittanica.com, “Poetry(literature). ; immerse.education, “What Is The Difference Between Prose and Poetry?”; keydifferences.com. “Difference Between Prose and Poetry”; poets.org, “Poetry”; readwritethink.org, “Poetry and Prose: What’s the Difference?”; theadvocate.org. “The Difference Between Prose And Poetry”; tiatalk.me, “What is poetry?”; twinkl.com,“What is poetry?”; writers.com; “Prose Vs. Poetry: Their Differences And Overlap.”

VALENTINE'S DAY MUMBLINGS

Dear George,

Another Valentine’s Day has come and gone. I did spend some time looking up the holiday’s history. According to legend, Valentine, the Bishop of Interamna in central Italy, was imprisoned in 273 A.D. by the emperor Claudius who was persecuting Christians. In violation of Roman law, Valentine had been aiding Christians to escape from prison, and he’d also been marrying Christian couples so that the new husband would not have to go to war in Claudius’ army. Claudius demanded that Valentine renounce his beliefs or be executed. Valentine’s faith was unwavering. In the days before his execution, Valentine, through his prayers, restored the sight of his jailer’s blind daughter, Julia. Asterius, the jailor, was so amazed and grateful that he converted to Christianity on the spot. Valentine had fallen in love with Julia who had been visiting him in the jail. On the day of his execution, February 14th, Valentine left Julia a note that was signed, “From your Valentine”. This, of course, is the origin story of the first Valentine card. St. Valentine’s skull is on display today in the Basilica of Santa Maria in Rome. He is known as the patron saint of lovers, beekeeping, epilepsy, and the plague. 

Historians speculate that the Valentine’s Day holiday had its origins in the Roman festival of Lupercalia which was held in mid-February. The festival celebrated the coming of spring and included fertility rites and a lottery which paired up single women and men. In the fifth century the pope banned Lupercalia celebrations and declared February 14th “St. Valentine’s Day.” In 1382 Geoffrey Chaucer wrote the first Valentine poem about birds selecting their mate on February 14th. Commercially printed Valentine cards were manufactured by the late 1700’s, and they became available in the U.S. by the mid-1800s. These days about a billion Valentine cards are exchanged worldwide per year. Teachers are the most frequent recipients, outdoing wives, mothers, and sweethearts. Nearly 30% of all flower sales in the U.S. are done around February 14th. Americans spend an average of $193 on Valentine’s gifts (though not true in my house). Of most importance, 25% of pet owners in the U.S. give Valentine’s Day gifts to their pets. 

We Menominee children celebrated Valentine’s Day in my grade school each year by exchanging cards in the classroom. This was an activity fraught with peril. There was a lot of trepidation about boys sending Valentine cards to other boys, though it was deemed o.k. if the card downplayed sentiment and featured cowboys, Indians, prizefighters, or other hyper-masculine characters. Boys sending Valentines to girls was almost as difficult, and senders of mushy cards to girls were unmercifully taunted by their peers. The other issue was how many cards one should send. A few children chose to send cards to everybody else in the class. However, this was generally frowned upon since it defeated the main purpose of exchanging cards — i.e., determining who were the most popular and least popular children by the number of cards received. Five or six cards per sender were regarded as a good number. In my classes there was usually one person who received cards from everyone and one or two who received almost none. I can’t remember exactly where I ranked among my classmates, but I wasn’t near the top and I wasn’t at the very bottom. Last week in my OLLI art class I made two handcrafted Valentine’s to give to Katja, but I’ve lost the knapsack in which I brought them home. That’s how it goes. 

Love,  Dave

2023: OUR NEW YEAR'S NEWSLETTER

 
Dear George, 

It’s time once again to wrap up another year. I’d say 2023 has to be an outstanding year because, to our happy surprise, we’re still hanging in there. We got an e-mail from the Cincinnati Art Museum which listed the year’s highlights month by month. The seemed a good way to organize stuff so I did the same for Katja and myself. Here is our 2023 story. 

Love, 

Dave 

JANUARY. Katja came down with Covid but recovered in time to begin our winter quarter OLLI courses. Katja did literature and history; David, poetry writing. We bought a giant TV for the den and watched the Bengals lose to the Chiefs in the AFC Championship game. 

FEBRUARY. We enjoyed Greek and Roman Mythology at OLLI and “Beyond Bollywood” at the Art Museum. At my annual wellness exam the doctor said I am “85 young,” and he actually agreed to give me an Rx for 24 Lorazepam to help sleep. 

MARCH. We celebrated the arrival of spring with fish dinners at Bonefish Grill, the Oakley Fish Market, and Red Lobster. We got the very sad news that our daughter-in-law K’s mom Linda died. 

APRIL. I was the only student at my Zumba class for the third week in a row and decided it was time to discontinue. Katja loved King Charles’ coronation on TV, and we enjoyed Rachmaninoff and Shoshtakovich at the Symphony. The cardiologist said I was doing fine and added, “Don’t screw it up.”

    

MAY. I did terribly on my first hearing test in several years but got some new hearing aids which did help a lot. J sent flowers for Mother’s day and urged me to get a Covid test (which turned out positive, much to my surprise). Because of Covid, we cancelled our flight to New Orleans to attend our grandkids’ graduation. 

JUNE. The visiting nurse tested me for dementia and I remembered all three words perfectly (chair, banana, sunrise). We watched a lot of French Open tennis, including finals victories by Swiatek and Djokovic. We went to East Lansing for Linda’s memorial service and hung out with our sweet family. Having experienced severe jaw pain, Katja had oral surgery to extract an under-the-gum wisdom tooth. 

JULY. Lots of Wimbledon this month. My dentist moved her office from next door to our house to a half mile away, good for walking and exercise. I started exploring Bard, Google’s artificial intelligence chatbox, asking Bard to write poems about this and that (only so-so as a poet). We celebrated my 86th birthday at the Chart House, enjoying the Cincinnati skyline view across the Ohio River. Our son J cancelled his planned trip to Cincinnati because of family sickness. 

AUGUST. On her way from Richmond to Albequerque, our friend Jennifer stopped by for a get-together. The retinal specialist said my left eye was doing o.k., didn’t need surgery. Katja and I celebrated our 63rd anniversary (amazing) at La Bar A Boeuf. 

SEPTEMBER. We were happy that our favorites, Gauff and Djokovic, won their U.S. Open Finals. Pianist Sara Daneshpour was wonderful at Matinee Musicale. We saw an excellent women’s photography show at the Taft Museum. Quarterback Joe Burrow, who missed the preseason with an injury, was rocky in his first few games with the Bengals. 

OCTOBER. The plasterer fixed our living room wall. J came for a visit, and we ate at Skyline Chili twice, did multiple thrift shops, and saw art shows at the Art Museum, the Miller Gallery, and Hebrew Union’s Skirball Museum. Katja had a second oral surgery (the first one was botched), and, because of a paperwork screw-up, our insurance wouldn’t cover anything and we wound up paying a huge amount out of pocket. 

NOVEMBER. Big election victories for the Democrats. After months of terrible pain, the insurance company finally approved Katja’s epidural, and she is a new woman. Joe Burrow injured his wrist and is out for the season. J, K, A, and L flew up from New Orleans for a Thanksgiving visit, and we had a great time. I discovered jazz singer Andrea Motis on YouTube. 

DECEMBER. We celebrated Katja’s birthday at La Bar a Boeuf. J sent beautiful flowers. The furnace guy found that the raccoons had done a lot of damage to our ducts. Backup quarterback Jake Browning led the Bengals to three victories in a row before a Steelers collapse. Ami and Bruce sent Zabar’s delicacies, and David and Susan sent See’s Candy for Christmas. We enjoyed the Charles White exhibition at the Art Museum and made New Year’s dinner reservations at La Bar a Boeuf to celebrate a very good year.

LOST MENOMINEE

               

Dear George, 

According to Thomas Wolfe, “You can’t go home again” — truly a paradox since we tend to regard home as the safe place we can always return to. Wolfe reminds us that change is an ever-present feature of reality. In effect, the world we return to is never the same as it used to be and we ourselves have inevitably changed as well. Still, “going home” remains emotionally powerful because it involves reconnection with one’s past, if only through one’s memories. 

I left my home town for college when I turned 18. While I wasn’t to be a full-time resident again, I’ve visited regularly over the years. In certain ways Menominee is exactly the same as it was in the 1950’s. The magnificent natural environment is unchanged, with the town’s southern border stretching along the Menominee River and its eastern border along the Green Bay shoreline. The three auto bridges to Wisconsin are in place. The layout of streets is identical, and virtually all of the buildings are the same. And many of the important landmarks remain, e.g., the courthouse, the library, the marina, the Presbyterian Church. I made a list of 70 important places in my youth. About a third of them are still there. Ten have relocated to other parts of town or to Marinette across the river, e.g., the hospital, the newspaper, my high school. But over half of the significant places of my youth are gone. Thinking about these losses, I decided to poetically commemorate some of Menominee’s places that no longer exist. Here are some of them. 

Love, 

Dave

THE OFFICE SUPPLY STORE 

Age four, Mom took me to the store 

A pencil, an eraser, sometimes more 

Ogden Ave, a long walk 

I don’t think we’d talk 

Talk or not, this trip made my heart soar 

BOSWELL GRADE SCHOOL 

Boswell kindergarten, my very first job 

A nervous twit, I was scared of the mob 

I walked there with Sally 

My five-year old pally 

Temp zero, we peanuts would sob 

WASHINGTON GRADE SCHOOL 

First grade, begin Washington, downtown 

Thrilling times there on the playground 

Playing boys chase the girls 

All racing in whirls 

When the bell rang, Teach said to calm down 

THE LLOYD THEATER 

The Lloyd, my very first movie at night 

“Meet Me in St. Louis” — such delight 

Margaret O’Brien, so swell 

Judy Garland, a sweet belle 

I now was a big kid all right 

THE A&P GROCERY 

The A&P carried yummy things to eat 

Creamy pastries, avocados, fatty hamburger meat 

We were often low on cash 

So my mom would make hash 

But some days she’d buy me a treat 

G.I. SURPLUS 

G.I. Surplus was my favorite store 

Selling gas masks, machetes, and more 

I’d buy camping gear there 

Khaki mittens to wear 

And the gadgets we used to play war 

THE IDEAL DAIRY 

The Ideal on the west edge of town 

Open daily from dawn to sundown 

Two dips for a nickel 

Cheaper than a pickle 

Their lemon flake cones, we’d melt down 

THE MENOMINEE HOTEL 

The hotel was right on the Bay 

Known by travelers as a fine place to stay 

Our glee club sang there 

For the Lions Club’s fare 

I can still hum those tunes to this day 

ST. JOHN’S CATHOLIC CHURCH 

The O’s would take me to Sunday mass 

A ritual, for sure, of high class 

Our family weren’t Catholics 

At best Lutheran mavericks 

But I hoped for a heavenly pass 

THE FIVE AND DIME STORE 

The Five and Dime if you wanted a deal 

My Christmas gifts, they were a steal 

Red ribbons for my mother 

A cap gun for my brother 

And the Topps baseball cards were surreal 

THE SMELT RUN 

The smelt run arrived every spring 

Huge nets our fishermen would bring 

We would wade in the river 

Though the cold made us shiver 

Then we voted for the queen and the king 

THE MENOMINEE THEATER 

The Menominee was near to the Bay 

Saturdays, the kids’ matinee 

They charged just one dime 

For a rowdy fun time 

Charlie Chan was the best, I would say 

THE D.A.R. BOYS CLUB 

I’d go to the DAR after school 

Pick and I played a few games of pool 

Then basketball with Jack 

Who could dribble behind his back 

For aspiring pros it was cool 

ST. JOSEPH-LLOYD HOSPITAL 

We started life at St. Joseph-Lloyd Hospital 

And returned once or twice when still little 

Steven busted his arm 

Which we viewed with alarm 

But they sculpted his cast, made him fittle 

UNCLE KENT’S REXALL DRUGSTORE 

Uncle Kent’s store was right on the Square 

School days, my brother and I would lunch there 

Read the new comic books 

Batman battling the crooks 

The tuna fish sandwiches, just fair 

COONEY’S GAS STATION 

Harry Cooney’s was also on the Square 

We filled up the Lincoln right there 

But they forgot to check the oil 

Caused the engine to boil 

Cost my dad a major repair 

CITY BUS 

The city bus circled the Loop 

Friday nights for Rick and his group 

They’d flirt with the gals 

Fool around with their pals 

Tell the driver the latest teen scoop 

 

PRODUCERS DAIRY 

Producers Dairy on Sheridan Road 

Three blocks from our family abode 

I’d stop by from school 

Chocolate chip made me drool 

But butterscotch, I would explode 

M&M BREWERY 

The Brewery made Silver Cream beer 

A golden brew that fostered much cheer 

I knew guys who drank Silver Cream 

Mostly dudes on the football team 

But myself and my group had beer fear 

THE VOGUE 

The Vogue was my mother’s favorite store 

For dresses and hats and much more 

Not as fancy as Green Bay 

But it didn’t take all day 

Plus she always found something she wore 

THE GATEWAY CAFE 

The Gateway. our teenage hangout 

Near the hospital, right on our route 

A grilled cheese and French fries 

Chocolate malts for the guys 

Football nights, we would give out a shout 

GARBELL’S SODA SHOP 

Garbell’s, across from M.H.S. 

A retreat from academic stress 

Pinball in the rear 

We would gather round and cheer 

Earl Powell, pinball king, such finesse 

FOUND MENOMINEE 

True, my world’s no longer there 

But change is a curious affair 

New restaurants, new shops 

Many interesting stops 

Menominee still has its flair

BUREAUCRATIC NIGHTMARE DEPARTMENT

Dear George, 

All this medical stuff puts us at the mercy of huge impersonal bureaucracies, and it’s starting to drive me crazy. A few months ago Katja was diagnosed with a cracked wisdom tooth under her gum that needed to be extracted. While this sounded unpleasant, we were pleased that the operation would be performed by the head of the oral surgery department. He apparently was on vacation though, and the surgery was actually done by a resident. A month or two later Katja started having severe pain in the location of the surgery. An X-ray revealed a bunch of small bone fragments scattered around the now-healed area of her gum. The new doctor said he’d never seen anything like it, seeming to imply that the original operation had been badly botched. In any case, Katja needed to have another operation, more intrusive and difficult than the first. The hospital double-checked with our insurance company to make sure that the operation would be covered by insurance, and, after receiving an affirmative response, Katja underwent a second procedure. Six weeks later we got an e-mailed bill from the hospital for $13,000. Katja called the hospital, and they advised us to call our insurance company since the latter hadn’t paid the bill. When Katja called, the insurance person said they hadn’t paid the bill because the hospital had used the wrong code in sending the bill, classifying the operation as medical rather than dental. They told Katja to contact the hospital and ask them to change the code from medical to dental and resubmit the bill. Then they would pay it. Katja called, but the hospital said they were not able to change the code from medical to dental because that would involve breaking the law. (What law remains obscure.) The insurance company then said that nothing could be done and that we would need to pay the bill out of pocket. The situation, of course, seemed totally ridiculous. Katja called the hospital back, and, after some haggling, they agreed to reduce the bill if we would pay the full sum immediately. It was still many thousands of dollars, but there seemed to be no other choice. I brought up the idea of hiring a lawyer, but Katja gritted her teeth and gave the hospital our credit card number. The most positive thing I can say is that I’ve stopped losing sleep (though I have been having bad dreams). 

Love, 

Dave

THANKSGIVING HIJINX

 

Dear George, 

We usually get together with our sweet NOLA family at Thanksgiving, often in New Orleans but sometimes in Cincinnati. This year it was our turn to be hosts, and parents J and K and kids A and L flew up on Monday evening, arriving here at half past midnight. Such excitement. The kids have grown up more each time that we see them. The family also brought their dog, Little Paws, who had lived with us in Cincinnati for three months at the beginning of the pandemic. I like to think that Little Paws was excited to see his former stepparents, but, realistically, he’s always excited to see anyone. 

I was a little nervous about entertaining, concerned about finding fun things to do for 15-year-olds A and L. I made a list of a dozen attractions, the highlight of which was the Toulouse-Lautrec exhibition at the Dayton Art Institute. Much to my surprise we didn’t wind up doing any of the things on my list. I needn’t have worried. The kids took care of themselves, sometimes with J and K’s initiative, and found ample amusement. 

We all slept in on the first morning. Then we headed out to Skyline Chili — our family’s indispensablel dining place — and followed it up with ice cream at Graeter’s. J took the kids to see “Priscilla” at the Esquire. Then he and I took A and L to the thrift store. While the moms are less interested in thrift store outings, it’s the favorite activity of dads and kids. I suggested the Bulk Outlet store since they’d never been there, and it was a big hit. This is Saint Vincent de Paul’s end-of-the line discount store. All of the merchandise is dumped into huge 800-gallon storage bins, about 40 of them filled with used clothing and another 20 or so with books, toys, electronics, kitchen ware, and miscellany. Clothing costs $1.49 a pound, books $0.49. My impression is that the Bulk Outlet draws more customers than any of the mall stores in Cincinnati, and the treasure-hunters sort through the clothing bins frantically, filled up their grocery baskets. A and L didn’t fill a full grocery basket, but they did very well, including A’s buying a boutique knapsack that retails for over a hundred dollars. 

We worked in several movies during the four-day stay and a couple on TV as well. On Wednesday J and I took the kids to Saltburn, a British class warfare movie which had gotten 69% on Rotten Tomatoes. Probably the adults should have investigated more thoroughly. Along with its highbrow character studies, Saltburn offered several explicit intercourse scenes (both gay and straight), explicit masturbation scenes, and plenty of male frontal nudity. The children didn’t say much. J held his hands over his eyes and later said he was a terrible father. I didn’t feel like an exemplary grandparent either. (I can’t imagine my own grandfather taking me to see Saltburn.) 

Katja put together a marvelous Thanksgiving dinner which was the highlight of the visit: roast turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce, Scottish mashed potatoes, whipped sweet potatoes with maple syrup, creamed spinach. green bean casserole, apple and pumpkin pies, and red wine from Spain. After dinner we played a word game called Codenames that our family had brought along with them. We divided into two teams, each having a spymaster who knows the secret identities of 25 agents. The spymaster gives one-word clues that can point to multiple words on the table that their teammates try to guess. Everybody was competitive and excited, and it was an occasion where all the generations were fully engaged together. A and L were the most astute spymasters; myself and Katja, the most bumbling. 

L was eager to go shopping on Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, and so K, J, and Katja took them to Kenwood Towne Center. The kids picked the stores they were interested in. A constructed a large stuffed green frog at the Build-A-Bear store which they named Leonard. Then another Skyline family lunch and “Napoleon” at the Oakley Cinemark. 

We played a few more rounds of Codenames on Saturday morning, then enjoyed takeout from the Whole Bowl down the street. To get more reasonable ticket prices, the family had flown in to Louisville, and they set out for their return in the early afternoon. Sad and mopy, Katja and I sat down to watch the second half of the Michigan-Ohio State football game. Despite our pessimism, we were ecstatic with Michigan’s decisive win. It definitely helped us get through the rest of the weekend. 

Love, 

Dave