SIXTY-FIVE

 

Dear George, 

We have to grapple with such large numbers these days. Sixty-five. That’s the wedding anniversary that we celebrated yesterday at La Bar a Boeuf. I can’t imagine our marriage being that long. Subjectively I would think twenty-five, maybe thirty years. Where did all that time go? 

Our wedding was on the Antioch campus in Yellow Springs on August 28, 1960. After a one-night honeymoon in downtown Dayton, we packed up and set off for graduate studies at the University of Michigan. I think of our Ann Arbor stay as our honeymoon years. We were so excited to be married and tried to figure out how to do everything together. Initially we decided to make joint decisions on all purchases (e.g., groceries, toothpaste, furniture). This proved burdensome, however, so we decided that Katja (as the more adult member) should make all purchases (a decision that I wish we’d thought more about). 

In 1966 we moved to Cincinnati where I’d taken a job as a faculty member in the Departments of Psychology and Sociology at the University of Cincinnati. This was a hard time on Katja and consequently on our marriage. We’d been equal peers throughout our undergraduate and graduate studies, but now, suddenly, I was “the Professor” and she was “the Professor’s wife”, an appellation shared by most faculty spouses. I became immersed with my career, while Katja was trying to figure out what to do next. 

All that changed in 1969 when Katja gave birth to our son, Justin. We were enthralled with our new kid, and parenting together gave new meaning to our marriage. Our newfound family became the center of our life. By age eleven Justin had taken up competitive junior tennis. He was very successful, and Katja and I became maniacal tennis parents. Our child’s athletic success spilled over into good feelings about our family as a whole. 

In 1987 Justin left for college, and we became “empty nesters”. While that meant more time together, we’d been a “threesome” so long that now we felt incomplete. Katja, however, had returned to school and gotten an M.S.W. degree, taking a job as a social worker at the Cincinnati Association for the Blind. We both were busy with our careers. 

The biggest subsequent change in our married lives was when we retired, I in 2009 and Katja i 2011. Such a dramatic change in our lives. Among other things we were together virtually all of the time and had near-complete freedom in what we wanted to do. I think of these retired years as one of the happiest and most fulfilling times in our marriage. I can’t even remember a time in recent years that we’ve quarreled. As we get older, we’re subject to more medical problems, but we’re both there for each other with care and support. We are very lucky to have lived together so long, and I look forward to our future wedding anniversaries. 

Love, 

Dave

KATJA'S FALL

 

Dear George, 

I was sitting in the solarium reading the newspaper when I heard Katja scream for me from the kitchen. I rushed in and was startled to find her lying on the floor, limbs askew, her face pressed against the floorboards. She had been walking toward the sink, was suddenly overcome with dizziness, and had fallen flat on her face. It was a struggle trying to help her get up because her left leg was in excruciating pain. She made it to a dining room chair an inch at a time, and I went to get the walker that we’d stored in the basement from a previous hospital stay. Katja was frightened that she’d broken her leg or that she may have damaged her titanium knee implant. Thanks to our elevator, Katja made it upstairs to bed. We thought about calling 911 but decided to wait until the morning to see how things went. This was Friday, July 19. 

Katja didn’t experience pain if she kept her leg perfectly still, and she slept during the night. In the morning, though, her pain was even worse. She woke up crying, frightened that she might never walk again. We decided to call 911. The paramedics, a team of four, arrived in less than two minutes. I put our dog Iko in the den with the door closed, and the paramedics interviewed Katja — what had happened, where the pain was, her medical conditions, allergies, etc. They were very professional and competent. The University of Cincinnati Medical Center is near us and is the city’s largest hospital, but we’d had to wait over four hours last time so I suggested Good Samaritan instead. Katja, though, opted for UC because of its extensive facilities. The paramedics wrapped her in a blanket-like stretcher and carried her down the stairs from our second floor and out to the ambulance. I took Iko for his walk and drove over to Emergency an hour later. 

Contrary to our last experience, UC Emergency was relatively uncrowded, and Katja had already had X-rays by the time I arrived. The doctor said the X-rays did not show a broken bone, but that X-rays weren’t able to detect soft tissue injuries — muscles, ligaments, etc. He also wasn’t convinced that there wasn’t a fracture and had ordered a CT scan to further explore that possibility. Katja wasn’t able to bear any weight at all on her left leg. Her pain was still terrible. Because she couldn’t stand up, the doctor said she would need to stay in the hospital at least overnight. We were both relieved. 

One night in the hospital soon turned into five nights. The CT scan had detected a fracture in her left knee area. The medical team decided against surgery in favor of letting it heal naturally. A physical therapist worked with her each day. On day one Katja couldn’t move her left leg at all without experiencing unbearable pain. On day two she could raise it one inch (pain at level 9 of 10). Day three, two inches. Day four, several inches, less pain. On day five she walked down the hospital corridor and up and down five practice stairs. The hospital had been negotiating with our insurance for a two-week stay in a rehab facility, but Katja had improved enough that they canceled that. They still weren’t ready for discharge because Katja’s blood pressure was up and down, and they judged that to be the likely cause of her fall.  

The morning of day six Katja called to say she was being discharged. I drove over and waited in the Patient Discharge area till a nurse brought her down in a wheelchair. A significant moment. We drove home, and Katja was able to use her walker to get up the patio stairs and into the house. Iko was out of his mind to see his mom. Katja was feeling improved enough that she thought she might be able to go to the opera at Music Hall on Saturday evening, but that didn’t sound like a realistic possibility to me. We cancelled our plans for a trip for a summer vacation trip which we’d scheduled for the end of the week.  

Katja has been home for a week at the time I’m writing this. We’re both happy about this, but it’s had its ups and downs. Being a caretaker is a pain in the neck, as is being dependent on one’s spouse for just about everything. We’re used to each separately doing our own thing through the course of the day, but Katja is not very mobile and needs help with all sorts of physical tasks. She’s still in a lot of pain and spends a lot of time in bed, though she did cook scrambled eggs and bacon the other day and likes to get up to feed the dog. 

 I find myself very aware that we are at an age where we can be more subject to physical perils. We both worry about Katja’s injury. I find myself drinking more water (since the doctor said Katja was dehydrated) and gripping the handrail more firmly when I go up or down the stairs. The doctor said that Katja’s recovery will take about six weeks. We’re up to it, and it will probably go by fairly quickly. On the bright side, we’re lucky since the accident and injury could have been even worse. 

Love, 

Dave

OO LA LA, SPRING IS HERE

 

Dear George, 

It's hard to believe but our long winter is finally coming to an end. The wall lizards have returned to our patio, yellow and violet wildflowers are popping up on our lawn, and we've enjoyed a week of weather in the seventies. A boost to the spirits. 

Our last several weeks have been dominated by Katja's stomach surgery. She woke with severe pain on a Friday morning, saw the doctor, and was rushed to Emergency and then to surgery. The operation took from ten p.m to one a.m. The surgeon was elated afterward. When I asked if it were non-serious, he shook his hesd and said they had been very scared. I'm glad I didn't ask beforehand. As I understand it, her small intestine got twisted from prior scar tissue and was blocking her digestive tract. Katja spent eight days in the hospital. She was happiest when I brought her her own pillow from home and chocolate pastries fron United Dairy Farmer. 

Iko and I did all right at home alone. I liked being in charge of things, like not playing the radio all night and turning the lights off when I left the room. The biggest problem was Iko's sleeping arrangement. He normally sleeps in our bed, but he will only let Katja lift him up to be there. If I try, he gets very agitated and tries to bite me, having drawn blood a half dozen times. So he slept in his bed on the floor (and didn't seem too bothered by it). Worst of all, when Katja came home, she wasn't allowed to lift more than ten pounds, so Iko is still confined to his own lonely bed. 

My biggest problem these days is my computer. I am writing this on my iPad because my computer has been in the repair shop for six weeks. The guy keeps telling me it will be ready any day, but that hasn't happened to date. I'm tired of going over there, so I'm sticking with the iPad. I just hope I haven't lost everything in my computer files. 

The worst thing, of course, is the new administration. In my view, everything they have done to date is a disaster.  I don’t want these politicos to ruin my remaining years.  It's hard to believe they've only been in office for two months -- it feels like two years. When my father was in his seventies, he got so fed up with national politics that he decided to not listen to or read the news. I thought that was a mistake at the time, but now I'm of like  mind. I haven't watched TV news or listened to the radio for six weeks or more. I do scan the daily New York Times, but that's about it. 

I've also been distressed by my friend Bill F’s recent death. Bill and I came to the university about the same time in the late 1960's, and we've been friends for over half a century, most recently taking the form of occasional lunches and catching up at Ruth's Parkside Restaurant. Bill was very bright and had a dry sense of humor. He's enjoyed boing a sculptor in his retirement. I'll miss him. 

One of my poetry classmates showed me the heart icon on my Apple iPhone where my daily steps are recorded. I had read in the newspaper that 6,000 to 8,000 steps a day are prescribed for my age group, and I was dismayed that I was only averaging 4,000. Having a numerical record is very motivating to me, and I've started walking Iko more and doing zumba to a YouTube video at home. I'm averaging 6,200 steps per day and hope to get up to 8.000 soon. 

All in all, we're doing well. Katja's recovery is proceeding normally, my annual physical was fine, and we're enjoying spring break from our OLLI classes. We miss our family but hope to get together in the summer. 

Love, 

Dave

THE ELECTRIC BIKE

 Dear George,

I’m still befuddled.  Weeks ago I noticed a gigantic cardboard box on our front porch. “Electric Bike” was marked on the side. ‘Clearly a delivery mistake’ I thought to myself. But there was my wife Katja’s name and our home address on the shipping label. What can this be?  Who is this for?

Confused and grumpy all day, I finally asked about the box at the dinner table.  “It’s my new bike,” Katja said proudly.  “I bought it for my Christmas present.  I won’t be driving the car any more. I’ll go everywhere on my bike.”

I was in a state of shock.  Katja grew up in center city Philadelphia and has never ridden a regular bike.  How would she learn to ride an electric bike?  “It’s so easy,” Katja said.  “You just get on and push a button.”

I don’t feel I can tell Katja what to do, but I thought this was a terrible idea.  I’ve long been frightened for the college students who ride electric bikes on our street where drivers regularly go 40 miles per hour.  And I couldn’t imagine where Katja would go. Her main shopping destinations are Rookwood Commons and Kenwood Towne Centre, both many miles away.  “Yes, I‘ll go to Rookwood. There are lots of bike paths.”  I explained how dangerous I felt it would be and how I would live in mortal terror every time she went out.  

Katja mulled it over for hours. I think my expression of abject fear hit home. Much to her credit, she finally decided to send the bike back.   Though I felt like the Grinch who stole Christmas, I breathed a sigh of relief.  The UPS guy came the next week, and the bike is now back home in California.  Katja is still sad about this. But how many retired oldies do you see riding electric bikes about town?  My wife, a living legend. 

Love,

Dave

CHRISTMAS IN MANHATTAN

 Dear George, 

In our younger married years Katja and I regularly spent the holidays with Ami and Bruce, her sister and brother-in-law, in their Upper West Side condo in New York City. Many happy memories, though it’s been a long time since we’ve done this together. This year it was time for a return trip, and we arrived for an 8-day stay on December 23rd. Here are a few of the highlights. 

AMI AND BRUCE’S. Ami and Bruce live in the penthouse of a high-rise on Riverside Drive at 94th Street in the Upper West Side. They’d redecorated since I’d been there, the walls displaying Ami’s art photo collection, new black leather sofas, a handsome rug. Their balcony overlooks the Hudson, and you can see all the way down to the financial district. Broadway is two blocks to the east with its plethora of markets, shops, elegant restaurants, and Zabars. We felt like real Upper West Siders. 

TAYLOR. During their fifty plus years of marriage Ami and Bruce have always had German Shepherds to whom they've been totally devoted. Taylor is the most sociable of their many dogs. He particularly took to Katja and liked to give her sloppy kisses on her nose. Taylor is getting older and is plagued by arthritis, but he still looks forward to his daily walks in Riverside Park. He lay down in the hallway entrance and didn't bother to move when I tried to make my way through. Clearly in charge. 

TAP AND GO. Public transportation has changed in the city. Now on buses and subways you can tap your credit card on a screen in order to enter. I must admit the technology was a bit beyond me. When I couldn’t make it work after several tries on the M5 bus, a generous woman behind me paid for me with her credit card. I was somewhat more successful in the subway, though I usually had to try 3 or 4 turnstiles before I got to “go”. I got a distinct feeling that I am older than I used to be. 

THE CRAFT FAIR.  On the day before Christmas Katja, Ami, and I went to a gigantic craft fair at Bryant Park on 42nd Street.  There were probably 200 vendors in wooden covered stalls, all featuring high-quality merchandise.  About half of New York City was also there.  Katja bought 2 attractive Tibetan shawls.  I looked but didn't buy.  When I tried to go to the park restroom there were 60 people in line.  

A JEWISH CHRISTMAS. Nearly all the city’s museums were closed for Christmas Day, but the Jewish Museum on the Upper East Side was one exception so we went there. There were multiple enjoyable art exhibits. Our favorite was a two-artist show featuring Philip Guston, a Jewish artist who addressed anti-semitism with cartoon-like paintings of the KKK, along with Trenton Doyle Hancock, an African-American artist who explored racism a generation later with cartoon drawings of the KKK. 

HIKING ON BROADWAY. Ami made a delicious Christmas dinner of pork loin, special potatoes, salad, and lemon meringue pie. After dinner I took a hike on Broadway from 94th Street to 72nd Street and back, some 50 blocks. I’d done this on most trips in the past, but I wasn’t as spry as I used to be and wound up with bothersome leg cramps. Broadway was quieter than usual, but at least a dozen eateries were open for business. Two Hasidic men asked me if I were Jewish, but I said I wasn’t. A panhandler asked for a handout, but I shook my head, then felt like Scrooge since it was Christmas night after all. A middle-aged woman on 94th Street was more demanding, saying she'd beat me up if I didn't give her money, but I just picked up my pace. 

SOLO EXCURSIONS. On our third day Katja became very sick, a condition which was later diagnosed as a combination of pneumonia and the flu. She was bedbound much of the time, and Ami encouraged me to take in the city on my own. I went to the Museum of the City of New York which had exhibits of graffiti, Shirley Chisholm, and NYC postcards (which I especially enjoyed because I own a lot of them in my own collection). The main public library at 42nd and 5th Ave. was wonderful as usual, especially with its exhibit on early 20th century Bohemian culture in Greenwich Village (William Carlos Williams, Edna St. Vincent Millay, e.e. cummings, Man Ray, Emma Goldman, John Reed, Dylan Thomas, Eugene O’Neill, Edward Hopper, and many others). It was hard to imagine all that talent concentrated in a single city neighborhood. 

BROADWAY MUSICAL. As her Christmas present, Ami bought us tickets to “Death Becomes Her” on Broadway. This was definitely a highlight of our trip. It’s so wonderful to see a Broadway musical in person. The singing was grand, and the dancing was sensational. We left light in heart. 

LOST IN MIDTOWN. Katja likes to take the bus rather than the subway to midtown and back, so we left the theater and started looking for the M5 Broadway bus. Seventh Avenue was totally crowded, shoulder to shoulder. After walking for a block or two, I turned to check with Katja who had been walking behind me, but she wasn’t there. Just hordes of people in every direction I looked. I raced back a full block but she wasn’t anywhere along the way; then I tried the opposite direction with no better result. I was just panicked, worried for Katja since I was the person who usually got us from one place to another. I tried calling on my cell phone about 20 times, but only got her voicemail. I realized that she’d turned the ringer off at the theater. It took a long time but I did finally reach Katja by phone. She was three blocks away. I hurried there and was amazed at how unflustered she was. A truly urban person. 

A FAMILY PARTY. Ami hosted a party for relatives and friends who were in the city: our son Justin and grandkids Alex and Leo; Justin’s sister-in-law Jayme and her nephew Conrad; our nephew Jacob and his daughter Delphine; and Ami’s friend Jean. We enjoyed a delicious dinner and lots of chitchat. I sort of conked out in the middle, went upstairs, and promptly fell asleep. Bruce said afterwards that we have a delightful family. Kata’s illness put a crimp on our vacation and what we were able to do, though we still had a very pleasant time being with Ami and Bruce. She saw her doctor when we came back to Cincinnati, and the doctor promptly hospitalized her for four days. A scary time. Now she’s 95% or better, and we've just been taking it easy, snowed in by a big storm. 

 Love, 

 Dave

CLUTTER

Dear George, 

One of the unfortunate truths about getting old is that one accumulates a lot of stuff. Katja and I are definitely above average on that dimension. Katja’s method of dealing with the blues is to go shopping, Buying clothes or kitchenware or pillows is like a miracle cure. She used to do this only at the mall, but now she’s discovered QVC (Quality, Value, Convenience) on television, and I often find her late at night, pencil and notebook in hand, jotting down things that strike her as indispensable. We have popcorn makers, ice cream makers, waffle makers, endless other machines that rarely if ever get used. I am definitely not any better. I’m just cheaper, preferring to get bargains at flea markets, yard sales, and thrift shops. If we each were to buy just two items a week, that doesn’t sound extravagant, but if you total it up for 64 years of marriage it amounts to 13,312 items. Since we rarely throw anything away, that’s a pretty good estimate of what we’ve got. 

Our house looks orderly and attractive on the first and second floors, but the basement and the attic are horror shows. We could be on one of those reality TV shows about hoarding, and I worry that the authorities might find out and confiscate our entire collection. Years ago Katja bought steel shelving for the basement to accommodate her extraneous belongings, and they’re filled to the brim. Among other passions, she buys a lot of exercise equipment. This makes her feel good about getting in shape, but she never opens the boxes and they are relegated straight to the basement. My equivalent obsessions are bric-a-brac and paper ephemera, and I have a room and about twenty file cabinets filled with treasures. It started when I our son J went off to college in New York City, and I began collecting antique postcards of the Big Apple. Over the years, however, my categories expanded from New York to everyplace we’ve been to essentially every place in the world, so now I have tens of thousands of postcards. In the process, I branched out into old greeting cards, old photographs, old magazines, old letters, and miscellany. This sounds like a fire hazard in our attic, and it probably is. 

My main recurrent nightmare these days is disposing of all of our belongings. For one thing, I can’t bring myself to start doing it. And, even if I wanted to, it seems like an impossible task. I do feel some moral responsibility to accomplish this before my demise, but I don’t know when I’ll manage to take the first step. Time will tell. 

Love, 

Dave

SIXTY-THREE, A LUCKY NUMBER

 
Dear George, 

Today Katja and I celebrate our 63rd wedding anniversary. We were married at the Quaker chapel on the Antioch College campus in Yellow Springs on August 28th, 1960. We had fifty dollars to pay for the wedding, the expenses including one bottle of champagne to share among the twenty guests. Sixty-three, of course, is a milestone. I asked Bard how many married couples make it to their 63rd wedding anniversary, and Bard replied: “The percentage of couples that make it to their 63rd wedding anniversary is less than 4%.” Hmm. 

I think there’s no magic reason why we’re still married after 63 years. Many marriages end before this point, of course, because one partner or both partners die. However, Bard also reports that about half of all marriages in the U.S. end in divorce before couples reach their 20th anniversary. This fate has befallen many of our acquaintances over the years, and it could have been us. I think our most perilous time was the early 1970’s. It was the height of the Women’s Liberation Movement, and Katja was leading a consciousness-raising group at our house. I don’t know just what they discussed but every time I accidentally ran into a group member she glared at me as if I were Satan personified. By the end of two years every member of the group except Katja had divorced her husband. Perhaps Katja was spared because she had more options as the group leader. In any case, we rode it out. I give some of the credit to my father who took us aside on our wedding eve and told us, in no uncertain terms, that members of the L*****en family never divorce. 

When I think about major events in our marriage over the years, raising our son J stands out as the most involving and rewarding. Helping care for our parents during their final years was also meaningful. We had great enjoyment from family visits to New York and California and from annual reunions at my parents’ Farm. Recently New Orleans has been our most pleasurable destination. We’ve always been attached to dogs, and our sheepdogs Mike and Duffy gave us fifteen years of joy. Music and art have been a major part of our lives as a couple. Now we’re having fun doing OLLI together. 

Marriage at our current stage has a different feel than it had twenty or forty or sixty years ago. The first word that comes to my mind is “mellow”. For the most part, our marriage nowadays is conflict-free, certainly moreso than years ago. We’re settled in and comfortable. We each still have our own potentially annoying quirks, but we’ve long ago come to accept and accommodate them. As we’ve gotten older we’ve lost lots of good friends — people dying or moving away, our own departures from the workplace — and consequently we spend more time together and are more dependent upon one another than we used to be. We don’t have work roles or parent roles demanding our attention and energy. Also we each have our own old age disabilities. My hearing is lousy, and Katja will often get on the phone to act as my interpreter. She is suffering from back and leg pains, and I try to help attend to those in various ways. There’s more need and occasion to provide support for one another than there was when we were younger, and we’re more concerned about one another and more bound together as a consequence. 

Most of my life I’ve had an irrational tendency to evaluate whatever stage I’m in as the best of all times, and I will go ahead and do this with respect to marriage today. I think that we’re there for one another more than we ever were in the past and are living up to our vow sixty-three years ago to stick together “till death do us part.” 

Love, 

Dave

SO WHO IS LOSING THEIR MIND?

 Dear George, 

 Katja and I went out for dinner at Le Bar a Boeuf last Friday night. It had just been included in Cincinnati Magazine’s list of the city’s top ten restaurants, so it was a special occasion. As we sat down, I said to Katja that I thought we’d eaten here once before. She shook her head and gave me a funny look. “You don’t remember?” she asked. “Well, I think I do,” I said, “I just can’t remember when.” “We ate here for my birthday,” Katja said. “Oh,” I said, “which year was that?” “My last birthday,” Katja said, “just last December.” That was a total shock. I had no recollection whatsoever of the occasion. I said, “My short-term memory is getting worse and worse.” Katja suggested that I see the doctor, but, even though I was actually worried about losing touch with reality, I resisted her suggestion. 

 I had bad dreams that night about memory loss, and I went to the computer when I got up. I keep a daily diary there, so I went to Katja’s birthday on December 9, 2023. Much to my relief, it said that we celebrated by enjoying dinner out at McCormick and Schmick’s, a local seafood restaurant. I woke Katja up to give her the news. “So who is losing their mind?” I asked. Katja said, “Well, we did eat at Le Bar a Boeuf recently. Maybe it was for our anniversary.” 

 I went back to the computer and did a search on “Le Bar a Boeuf.” It turned out that we had eaten there on November 5, 2022, about five months ago. I still had no recollection of that recent an outing. My main conclusion is that I’m not the only one losing their mind. I was mixed up, Katja was mixed up. It’s not encouraging, but at least I’m not alone in the wilderness.

 Love, 

Dave

ON ALPHABETIZING ONE'S LIFE

Dear George, 

 When I turned 61 I decided it was time to write a memoir to pass along to the younger generation. The task, however, proved overwhelming. There was so much stuff. I didn’t know where to start, what to include, how to organize it. I got dizzy just thinking about it, and I didn’t complete a single word.. Then I was in the thrift store one day and I ran across a battered old dictionary with tons of illustrations in it. It was a eureka moment. I could use the illustrated items in the dictionary to write a memoir in alphabetical order, adding a personal anecdote with the picture and definition for each dictionary item. This still proved to be a big task, but selecting and organizing content became much easier. I finished half the alphabet back then and set it aside, but recently I decided I should complete the task. Here are selected entries for the letter A to give you a sense of what an alphabetical memoir looks like (though I haven’t included the illustrations here). The first half took three years. I hope to be quicker (and around) for the second half. 

 Love, 

Dave 

Abreast.  Walking or marching side by side. When my dad was scoutmaster of our troop, he recruited a former army drill sergeant to train us for three months to march in Menominee’s annual Memorial Day parade. While my father was sure that the rigorous discipline would have wholesome effects upon his attention-deficit charges, we scouts were less enthusiastic and grumbled a lot among ourselves. 

Addams, Jane.  A graduate of Rockford (Ill.) Seminary, Jane Addams was an American social worker who founded Hull House in Chicago. After working for years as an adjunct French instructor, my wife Katja followed her sister’s advice and completed her MSW at the university, then taking a full-time social work position at the Cincinnati Association for the Blind. She and her classmate Terry joked that they were cut out to be social workers for the wealthy. Katja was particularly successful in working with seniors, one of whom proclaimed, “I never knew it was so much fun to be blind.” 

Airplane Hostess.  Airplane hostesses render a variety of personal services to passengers of an airliner in order to make their trip as pleasant as possible. On one of Katja’s and my flights to Green Bay on North Central Airlines, she had a head cold and complained of pain in her ears. The hostess returned a few minutes later, asked if she felt better, and explained that the pilot had lowered the plane by 10,000 feet. 

Alaskan malamute.  The oldest known Alaskan breed originally bred by an Alaskan tribe known as Mahlemute and often crossed with the wolf. After graduating from college, our son J moved to San Francisco for the summer. When visiting an acquaintance and trying to pet his hybrid dog-wolf, the creature slashed J’s right eyelid in two. At the emergency room he was so impressed with his experience that he decided to become a doctor. Despite his father’ voiced skepticism, J persisted and carried out his dream. 

American literature.  Originating in the 17th century as a branch of English literature, American literature has become one of the most exciting national literatures the world has known. When I discovered in my freshman year of college that I was ill-suited to be an Engineering major, I switched to Literature, but then, when my lit professor explained that this was a gravely under-rewarded career choice, I followed his advice and switched once more to Psychology. 

Amoeba.  Any of a genus of unicellular, naked protozoans found in stagnant water. As a freshman biology student I bred amoeba and other protozoa in a dozen or so Mason jars filled with swamp water and yeast. Unfortunately my roommate became offended by the increasing swamp odor in our room and insisted that I move my collection to the fire escape. When I came out to check one day, they had mysteriously disappeared. 

Anchovy.  A small fish resembling herring in appearance, possessing very rich pungent flavor. One of the various conflicts Katja and I coped with in our early courtship was her strong preference for anchovies on the pizzas we ate at Com’s Hilltop Tavern. 

Animal intelligence.  The capacity of animals for learning new behaviors, memory, and other forms of adaptive behavior. Our sheepdogs Mike and Duffy pretty much failed every task set for them at dog obedience school, though everyone admired their cuteness and funny antics. We decided that sheepdogs are too intelligent to be engaged with the boring tasks of dog school. 

Antioch College.  Yellow Springs, Ohio; founded in 1853; about 600 students. An Antioch alumnus interested my parents in the college, but he became annoyed with my mother’s obsession with Greek houses and formal balls and sarcastically said that a tuxedo was an absolute must for Antioch students. When admitted, I managed to convince my mother that I should check out the campus before they buy me a tuxedo. 

Aquarium.  A vessel constructed of glass and containing fresh or salt water in which freshwater animals are kept. When Katja and I went on a weeklong trip, we asked our elderly upstairs neighbors if they would keep and take care of our aquarium. Though speaking little English and initially reluctant, they finally agreed. Unfortunately the air hose stopped working, and all the fish died. Our neighbors kept the little bodies in their freezer, riddled with guilt and not knowing what we might want to do. 

Armor.  Covering worn to protect the body against weapons; any defensive or protective covering. In grad school I participated in one of the professor’s pre-testing of a new projective measure of defense mechanisms he was developing. Later he took me aside and said I was the most defensive subject he had ever encountered. While he cautioned me about the negative effects of prolonged total inhibition, I’ve only experienced positive effects to date. 

Atomic bomb.  The atomic bomb, or more accurately the Nuclear Fission Bomb, relies upon a fast chain reaction in a sample of relatively pure uranium and produces an explosion greater than 40,000 tons of TNT. In the mid-1950’s when fears of a nuclear holocaust were reaching their peak, my father, my uncle Ralph, and my grandfather decided to build a nuclear fallout shelter in a small room in the basement of our family drugstore. There was a lengthy discussion of whether to stock it with guns to prevent neighbors from trying to break in, but they finally decided not to do so.

"I Am A City Girl" (by Katja L.)

 

Dear George, 

This summer Katja and I have been attending an informal OLLI-initiated poetry group that meets on Thursday mornings. Last week one of our members suggested that we write a poem about “Where I am from.” People responded with enthusiasm. Katja’s and my poems could not be more different. Hers about growing up in center city Philadelphia; mine about growing up in the country outside Menominee. I’m posting Katja’s here, will follow with mine in a week or so. 

Love, 

Dave 

             I Am A City Girl 

                by Katja L.  

I am a city girl 

Born from a flurry of sounds and smells 

Father and mother — two people and a 

four year old singing their way through 

the Blue Ridge mountains in a boxy 

old Chevy 

from Roanoke to our forever home — Philadelphia: 

     “It’s a long, long trail a winding 

     Into the land of my dreams 

     where the nightingale is singing

     and the white moon gleams “ 

I am a city girl 

Raised in a noisy, colorful world 

of trolley cars that clickety clacked 

across the cobblestone streets; ten 

cents to get me across town to Spring Garden School 

Lining up outside in perfect lines 

Eager to hear the buzzer — signaling 

our race to “home room” and snacks 

Apples, Twinkies, peanut butter and grape jelly, no crusts 

Every Monday lunch: 

Boiled Hot Dogs 

Boiled Sauerkraut 

Steamed Baked Beans 

Milk 

Junior High — so far away 

Trolley car, subway, bus — twenty five cents 

Eighteen hundred students 

Pushing, jostling, cursing, angry 

fourteen years old 

Algebra, English, Phys Ed 

So many smells 

Don’t forget homework, papers, deadlines, 

food, money! 

Missed the bus 

Wait until 4:30 for the next one 

Home by 5:30 

Help Dad with the animals. 

Clean cages. 

Hold the Tabbies. 

Feed the pups. 

Mom upstairs — home from her job. 

Tired and grouchy. 

The smells from the animals wafting 

up through the air vents — mixing with the aroma of hamburgers 

and onions frying. 

My father’s veterinary practice on the 

first floor 

My mother’s domain on the second 

a combination that drove the two 

of them into perpetual angry retreats 

Center City Philadelphia 

     The border between the ghetto and the Gilded Age. 

    Saturdays were the best. Grandfather

came and took me to the movies. 

Betty Grable in technicolor or 

Randolph Scott in a double header. 

Lassie Come Home 

National Velvet 

Popcorn and chocolate covered mints. 

My mother’s beloved father 

kind and gentle. A tailor from the 

“old country” living in a new world 

that had no need of bespoke tailored 

suits and, thus, had little need of him. 

Germantown — a large niche in the 

fabric of Philadelphia. 

His business was on the first floor — in front. The 

smells of dry cleaning fluid and musty 

fabric mixed with the aromas of his 

kitchen where my grandmother made 

borscht and black pumpernickel throughout 

the week. 

     Some Saturdays we would sit 

together in the kitchen before an old 

wooden cased radio listening to the 

Metropolitan Opera, marveling at the 

drama taking place before 

us — in our very own kitchen. 

Upstairs — the parlor. 

Covered in dark, prickly, plush 

fabric 

on the walls, two large black, velvet 

pictures of oriental ladies wearing 

pink geisha girl costumes — beckoning 

the onlooker in knowing ways. 

I would caress their velour bodies and 

wonder at their softness. 

 I am a city girl. 

     Years of piano lessons — another 

subway ride to Little Italy and Miss Theresa’s house. 

     The smells of Braciola and Ragu 

permeating my embrace of Grieg 

and Tschaikowsky while Miss Theresa, 

totally blind since birth, reminded

me to sit up straight and try “pianissimo”. 

 I am a city girl 

     Walking through Rittenhouse Square —

     pushing brother and sister in a royal 

     wicker pram up to Mickey’s Garage 

     where I stand — gorging 

     on gas fumes that left us swooning. 

 I am a city girl 

     I come from holiday dinners and loud, noisy eaters — each trying 

to capture the last matzoh ball 

or lightest knish. Three months of study 

with Rabbi Jacobs over in a blink! I ask 

the four Seder questions and am showered 

with gilded chocolate coins. My reward 

is candy and loud murmurings of 

“congratulations”. 

     I am the result of Sunday dinners 

at City Line Horn & Hardarts. 

Chicken a la King, Mashed Potatoes, 

Creamed Spinach, and cherry jello topped 

with real whipped cream for dessert. 

     I am a survivor of the Philadelphia 

High School for Girls. A test to get in — a test 

to get out! Rules, discipline, competition. 

Miss Wilhemina — Geometry. Failed again. 

Told to try harder — or else. 

     On to Shakespeare, French, Physics, Phys Ed. 

An opening in the orchestra. 

Hallelujah! Out of the gym, into the symphony. 

A percussionist. Big noisy me! Father comes 

every Friday to the school’s back door and off we go with the 

Timpani, snare drum, tambourines, and 

castanets to our little home where I 

practice like crazy. Poor Mr. Finkelstein 

and Mrs. Alberti next door. 

     Terrified of being cast back into 

     Phys Ed, my percussion skills improve 

     and warrant a solo performance in the 

     Girls’ High “Olympic” band. 

     My roots are in the city — 

     I come from a flurry of smells and 

     sounds that form the moving screen 

     of my life. 

     I am a city girl.

AN IMAGINED CONVERSATION WITH ARNIE EPPO

 
Dear George, 

It seems like every ten years or so I run into Arnie Eppo, one of my high school friends who lives in lower Michigan. Arnie’s always curious about my goings on and asks me lots of questions. Here’s a sample of how our conversation goes. (This, of course, is recreated from memory and imagination, so some parts may reflect a real-life conversation more than others.) 

Love, 

Dave 

 Arnie (A): So you’ve been retired for quite a while now. 

D (Dave): It’s actually been thirteen and a half years. Whew! That’s gone by so quickly. I’m trying to figure out some way of slowing time down. 

 A: I know the feeling. How has it gone so far? 

D: At first I would usually say that I liked working better, mostly because I missed contact with colleagues. But now I find retirement much more relaxing and less stressful. No bosses, no demands, I enjoy lots of freedom and spend my time doing things that give me pleasure. 

 A: Do you miss teaching? 

D (laughs): Actually I never wish that I were back in a classroom. I always found teaching stressful, even though I think I did o.k. at it. Every now and then I walk past my old classroom and feel a momentary pang of nostalgia. But it’s very momentary.

 A: I know you’ve also been married over sixty years. That’s pretty amazing. 

D: It is amazing. Katja’s really the first girl I ever dated seriously. I knew from the minute I saw her that she was the person I wanted to marry. It was a rocky process though. I was such a shy, introverted kid. Katja’s parents were certain that we would get divorced, and her father told my father that on the night before our wedding. My dad told us in no uncertain terms that nobody in our family had ever been divorced (and that no one ever would). It made a big impression. It probably helps account for why we’ve made it through sixty-two years. 

 A: You and Katja must share a lot of similarities to have stayed together so long. 

 D: If anything, it’s probably that old truism that “opposites attract”. Katja’s from Philadelphia; I’m from Menominee. She went to a prestigious big-city college prep school; I went to a small-town public high school. Her parents were staunch Roosevelt Democrats; mine, Eisenhower Republicans. She grew up with classical music; my family listened to big bands and jazz. Katja is very free with money; I’m very stingy.  She's very outgoing; I'm very introverted.  We did, of course, both go to Antioch College, we agree on most political and social issues, and we were both attracted to academic careers. But basically we’re more different than we are similar. 

 A: It’s sort of strange that you wound up going to Antioch, such a hotbed left-wing politics. 

D: It is strange. My conservative parents picked out Antioch for me based on conversations with an Antioch alumnus who worked at Ansul Chemical Co. in Marinette. But I don’t think they had any idea of the college’s political orientation. The alumnus reassured my mother that that there was a strong Greek system at Antioch (totally untrue) with ballroom dances practically every weekend (equally untrue). Needless to say, my first year at Antioch involved a total culture shock. I think I was probably the only student from the U.P. to ever attend Antioch. 

 A: Are you glad you went there? 

D: Definitely yes. It was an eye-opening experience, and my fellow students were exceptional – intelligent, value-oriented, creative. In many ways the most exceptional people that I’ve met during my life. Antioch, without a doubt, changed my life in important ways and shaped all that was to come, including my marriage, my career, and even our long-time residence in Cincinnati (which I picked in part because of its proximity to Yellow Springs). 

 A: So you met Katja at Antioch? 

D: Yes, I first saw her across the lawn at a freshman mixer, and she was so pretty and gregarious that I decided on the spot that she was the girl I would like to marry. I was much too shy to say hello, but I watched her from a distance for the next year and a half. By chance, I was on my first coop job in Madison, while two of my freshman hallmates and Katja were working at mental hospitals in Milwaukee. I came down for a weekend with my friends, met Katja, and things just developed from there. 

 A: How did you win her over? 

D: I can’t imagine. It’s amazing. Katja was very popular, and she told me at one point that 18 of our college classmates had proposed to her during her freshmen year. Not all of these proposals were serious, but some of them were. On our first date I told her that I’d thought that she was the person I’d like to marry the first time I saw her. Katja got really angry and said that that was the worst line she’d ever heard. I, of course, was completely serious. 

 A: Then what happened? 

D: At the end of our three-months stays in Madison and Milwaukee, I invited Katja to come home to Menominee with me over quarter break, and she accepted. I think she didn’t want to go home to Philadelphia. In any case, she was very taken with my parents and their friends, and they with her. My mother told her that she was the first girl that I had ever brought home. Katja wondered what she’d gotten herself into. 

 A: How about your son J? 

D: He probably thinks we’re sort of a weird couple. Like his mom, J is more gregarious and has better social skills than I do. He likes to travel like Katja does. Temperamentally, he’s may be a little more like me. As a teenager J would sometimes say that he’s a sort of balance between the two of us and that it wasn’t easy for him to integrate these opposite influences. 

 A: So, unlike your parents, you wound up having just one child. 

D: Yes, I think that was mainly Katja’s preference, though I went along with it. J often wishes that he had siblings, although when we asked him as a kid, he wasn’t interested. There were some advantages to having a solo child. In contrast to my own family which was sharply divided into separate parent and child sub-groups, Katja, J, and I operated pretty much as a cohesive threesome, and I think J wound up a lot more mature as a result from all that adult interaction. When J went off to college, he went sort of wild in immersing himself in his peer culture, something he’d never done in the process of growing up in Cincinnati. 

 A: Now, of course, you’re grandparents. 

D: Yes, that’s the biggest life change for us in our older years. Our grandchildren, A and L, are very bright and interesting. They’ll turn fourteen in September, are a lot more mature than we ever were at that age, and are doing very well in school. I’m sorry that they’re so far away in New Orleans, and the pandemic has put a crimp in our traveling. I hope we’ll do more trips during the coming year.

JUNE IS BUSTING OUT ALL OVER

 
Dear George, 

 I’m confused about where we stand with the pandemic. Some days the news sounds like it’s almost over, even though the disease will continue to be around for the indefinite future. Other days infections and deaths are reportedly on a sharp rise. Our own lives are about halfway back to normal. We’re been going to the Symphony and the Linton chamber music series again with no masks required. Aside from doctors’ offices, most places have dropped a mask mandate. Maybe 10% of people I see on the street are wearing a mask. We’ve also started going out to eat more than we have in the past two years, though we’ve yet to return to the movies. As an older person with a finite number of years left, I’m eager to be doing more in the world and am simultaneously cautious about taking risks. we recently learned that a long-time friend, a few years, younger than us and fully vaccinated, came down with Covid for the third time, was hospitalized for two weeks, and is currently in a nursing home. Gives one pause. 

 One of the best things for us is that OLLI (the university-sponsored Osher Lifelong Learning Institute) has resumed in-person classes, and Katja and I both enrolled this term, having taken a break in the winter. Katja is doing a cooking course on spices, a poetry workshop, a literature course on spies and detectives, and a course called “Let’s Do Lunch” which meets at restaurants around the city on Fridays. I’m taking Advanced Poetry for about the eighth time and a course called “Learning with Laughter through Improv.” I signed up for the Improv course with high hopes that it would offer dramatic personal change, helping transform me to become more open, uninhibited, and spontaneous. So far it’s not as life-changing as I wished, and I’m nowhere near as amusing as I imagined myself to be, but still it’s good for me. My poetry class has pretty much the same people each quarter, we know one another well, and the atmosphere is supportive. We’re not the world’s greatest poets, but everybody appreciates one another’s efforts. 

 Last week Katja couldn’t find her purse. She’d last had it when she went to visit a friend in a nursing home, but she was certain that she’d brought it home with her. I helped look. When she comes home she normally puts her purse in the kitchen, or, if not, she takes it into the solarium. We both searched the kitchen, then the solarium. Then both of them again. The foyer, the living room, all the upstairs rooms. In grocery bags, underneath furniture, behind doors, etc., etc. Every square inch. Katja began to worry that her purse was stolen. I constantly nag at her for living the kitchen door unlocked with her purse in plain sight. Maybe this time my fears had come true. Katja called Visa and American Express to report her missing cards. The next morning we drove to the nursing home, but no luck, and we stopped at all the other places she’d been: The Framery, Whole Foods, CVS. Still no luck. Fortunately I’d made a list of all the cards and documents in her purse. Katja prepared to start calling while I took one last look around. I went into the solarium. There, leaning against the vacuum cleaner near the table, was Katja’s purse. In plain view. We couldn’t believe it. I guess we don’t look near vacuum cleaners. We were very glad that the thief hadn’t gotten it, and we plan to be more mindful about where we put valuable stuff. 

We’ve rarely gotten together with friends since the pandemic started, so we were excited when a poetry class acquaintance from OLLI invited us to a riverboat party on the Ohio. Her daughter had given her the boat cruise as a Mother’s Day gift, and she invited 16 OLLI friends to join her and her partner. It was a lot of fun. The boat was equipped to hold about two dozen visitors. It took off from Newport and cruised up and down the river on both sides of downtown Cincinnati, along with a side trip up the Licking River for a quarter mile or so. Everybody brought tasty food, and we nibbled along the way. I’m not the world’s greatest party-goer, but it was an enjoyable occasion. Katja, on the other hand, is the world’s greatest party-goer so she had the best time. 

 I went down to the kitchen for a midnight snack last Saturday night, and, when I turned the light on, there was a mouse scurrying about the kitchen floor. Then on Sunday night Katja also saw a mouse. Maybe the same mouse, maybe his twin brother. I baited two mousetraps with peanut butter on Monday night. Two little dead mice on Tuesday morning. They were cute creatures with beady black eyes, and it made me sad. I hoped that I’d solved our problem with Mr. and Mrs. Mouse, but I put the traps out again anyway. Two more dead mice on Wednesday morning. Then two more on Thursday. To make a long story short we’ve caught two mice every night for a week. Do all these mice live in our house? Are there a hundred of them? When I was a teenager I used to enjoy catching mice in our kitchen on the river bank, but now it’s a grisly affair, and it’s more unpleasant every day. I’m not sure who’s going to run out of steam first. Me or the mice. 

Love, 

Dave

OLDIES ON THE ROAD

 

Dear George, 

Katja and I are just back from a memorable family visit in New Orleans. We hadn’t been on an airplane since before the the pandemic began, so it was more eventful than usual. I think our traveling skills have gotten rusty since we had a rocky journey. We left for the airport about 30 minutes later than I’d planned, and I was annoyed to find that the daily charge for long-term parking had increased from $7 to $11. We took the shuttle bus to the airport terminal and got in the TSA security line. I’d printed out our boarding passes at home so I gave Katja hers. The line was pretty long, and, when we’d gotten about halfway through, I suggested that we get our driver’s licenses out. Much to her consternation, Katja couldn’t find hers. She looked through her purse, her wallet, and her pockets. It was baffling because she had checked in the car to make sure she had it. I looked through her purse and wallet too, but with no luck. Deciding that she must have left it in the car, we got out of the security line and began to head back to the shuttle bus — a perilous choice since we didn’t have surplus time. However, an airport employee was standing nearby, and I explained our dilemma to him. He said that we could get through security with credit cards or similar I.D. with Katja’s name on it and advised us to go back into the line. 

The security line was a bit longer the second time around. When we got halfway through I suggested that we get out our boarding passes. Katja looked in her purse, but she couldn’t find her boarding pass there, and it wasn’t in her pockets either. I looked in her purse too. No luck. This was crazy — she had just had the boarding pass in her hand ten minutes before. We knew that they could print out boarding passes at the ticket counter for a $5 fee, so I suggested that Katja go back there while I stayed in the line. She said she would call me on her cell phone when she got the new boarding pass. 

Going through the security check I failed to take my cell phone out of my pocket and set off the alarm bells, so the guy had to give me a full-body putdown. Then I got confused and left my carry-on bag on the conveyor belt until a TSA lady pointed out that the purple bag was mine. At first I thought it wasn’t but the tag had my name on it. In the meantime I hadn’t heard from Katja, and I was getting worried about the time. It was a long walk to our departure gate, the very last one in the terminal. I explained to the airline representative at the check-in counter that my wife had had to go back and get a new boarding pass and that I was worried about her getting back in time. He said that the airplane door would close in exactly twenty minutes and there were no exceptions. If she didn’t make it back by then, we would have to reschedule. Their next flight to New Orleans was in three days. 

I got more anxious by the minute, but Katja did finally make it with seven minutes to spare. All the other patrons had boarded at least fifteen minutes earlier. We breathed a sigh of relief and took our seats. Katja said she had intended to call me, but she hadn’t been able to find her cell phone. Apparently she had left it in the car. A few minutes later she opened up the paperback book she had brought along to read. Much to our surprise, there was the original boarding pass that she’d lost. 

Our New Orleans visit was thoroughly enjoyable and proceeded without incident. We worried a bit about our return flight since Katja still lacked a photo I.D. However, since they’d accepted other forms of I.D. in Cincinnati, it seemed sensible that they’d do the same in New Orleans. That wasn’t exactly true. We went through the security line in the New Orleans airport, and Katja explained to the TSA official that she had left her driver’s license in our car in Cincinnati and only had other forms of I.D. She gave the man her Medicare card, her covid vaccination card, her American Express card, and her Macy’s credit card. The man, however, said these weren’t adequate because none of them listed her home address. Katja carries dozens of cards in her purse. She started going through them, and the TSA official started looking through her wallet too. None of the cards had a home address. Then, suddenly, the TSA man said, “Well, here’s a surprise.” He held up Katja’s driver’s license which he’d found in one of the deeper pockets of her wallet. Problem solved. 

Our 8:37 p.m.flight to Cincinnati was delayed 45 minutes for unknown reasons. Then, once we boarded the plane, we sat on the ground for another two hours, waiting for a worker to replace a filter in the rear lavatory sink. We arrived in Cincinnati about 3 a.m. I had some trouble with the automated checkout system at the long-term parking lot, but a human voice eventually came on an intercom and guided us through it. A thirty minute drive to home. We slept till noon the next day. Our air travel had its ups and downs, but I have nothing but happy memories of being in New Orleans. 

Love, 

Dave

1960

DEAR GEORGE, 1960 was a momentous year. The Cold War was in full sway; France tested its first atomic bomb; Fidel Castro declared allegiance to communist Russia, nationalizing American oil and sugar companies; the Soviet Union downed a U-2 reconnaissance plane and imprisoned American pilot Francis Gary Powers. In my Upper Peninsula home town rumors circulated that Menominee could be mistaken for the Soo Locks from the air and become the target of a nuclear attack by Russian bombers. My father and my uncle Ralph converted a room in the basement of our family drugstore to an atom bomb shelter, stocking it with canned goods, barrels of water, a radio, magazines, and a portable toilet.

Katja and I were busy finishing our fifth and final year at Antioch College in Yellow Springs. She was the T.A. for Romance Languages, and I had the same job in the Psychology Department. My friend John N. and I both put off our year-long senior year projects till the last night and nearly flunked out. The entire campus was overjoyed when President Eisenhower signed the Civil Rights Act of 1960 to prevent voter disenfranchisement in the South. Antioch students had carried out one of the nation’s first sit-ins to protest discrimination at a local segregated barber shop. Because Katja’s parents were unhappy about our pending marriage, we held our wedding at the Quaker chapel on the Antioch campus in August. My future father-in-law told my father he was certain we would be divorced within a year, and my dad took us aside the night before the ceremony and told us in no uncertain terms that Lundgrens never get divorced. We’re sure it’s one of the reasons that we stuck together for the next sixty years.

On September 1st we moved to Ann Arbor for graduate school, Katja in French and me in Social Psychology. We found a second-floor apartment at Mrs. Quackenbush’s house on Brookwood St., a five-minute walk from campus. Having come from a small liberal arts college, we were very skeptical (and snooty) about going to a huge public university. However, we immediately discovered that the U. of M. was amazing and Ann Arbor was a wonderful college town. Much to our surprise, we started going to all of Michigan’s home football games (we lost to Ohio State in 1960, 7-0). Katja bought a German Shepherd puppy who we named Heather, and she got a job at Faber’s Fabrics to help keep us a step ahead of poverty. We opened our first checking account and were called in by the bank and told not to cash a separate check for every $2.00 purchase that we made. The FDA had approved the pill as an oral contraceptive in the summer of 1960, and the Ann Arbor Planned Parenthood was made one of the first distribution sites. Katja signed up on the first day, and we fantasized that she might have been the first woman in America to be on the pill.

The war in Viet Nam was growing, and, with 900 military advisers already in South Viet Nam, President Eisenhower announced that the U.S. would be sending an additional 3,500 troops. Michigan, along with Berkeley and Columbia, was soon to become the site of massive anti-war protests. Home on vacation, I visited my local draft board which assured me that my graduate school enrollment would prevent my being drafted in the near future. John F. Kennedy and Richard Nixon were running for president, squaring off in the first televised presidential debates, and, along with millions in our generation, we became fervent Kennedy supporters. In October JFK came to Ann Arbor for a major speech (in which he introduced his idea for the Peace Corps), and Katja and I joined the huge crowd in front of the Michigan Student Union. Kennedy was several hours late, and around ten o’clock, when somebody accidentally stepped on our puppy Heather’s front foot, we decided not to stay for the historic address.

We voted in our first presidential election, and Kennedy won by a narrow margin of 112 thousand votes out of 68 million cast. Kennedy carried Menominee County, 5,857 to 5,064. On the home front, we went to the movies most Saturday nights at the Michigan or the State Theater: Ben-Hur, Psycho, The Apartment, Exodus, La Dolce Vita, Spartacus, etc. Charlton Heston and Simone Signoret won the best acting Oscars. Many other notable things happened in 1960. Elvis came back from his two years of military service in Germany, and Chubby Checker introduced The Twist on the Dick Clark Show. “Its Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polkadot Bikini” reached #1 on the Billboard charts. The Anne Frank House opened in Amsterdam. The Flintstones premiered on ABC. Wilt Chamberlain set an NBA playoff record, scoring 53 points against the Syracuse Nationals. Lew Burdette of the Milwaukee Braves pitched a perfect game against the Phillies (just 27 pitches). Hugh Hefner opened the first Playboy Club in Chicago. Adolph Eichmann was captured by the Israelis in Argentina and later hanged for his role in the Holocaust. The Surgeon General reported the initial findings that smoking causes lung cancer (launching my twenty-year struggle to quit). The Philadelphia Eagles beat Vince Lombardi’s Packers, 17-13, in the NFL championship game. Ted Williams hit his 500th home run, Cassius Clay (a.k.a. Muhammad Ali) won his first professional fight against Tunney Hunsaker, and the U.S. hosted the Winter Olympics in Squaw Valley, California. Grandma Moses turned 100. The Beatles had their first public gig in Hamburg, Germany. All in all, a year to remember. LOVE, DAVE

BAD HEARING FOLLIES

DEAR GEORGE, As you know, my hearing isn’t a hundred percent. Actually it’s improved a lot during the pandemic (since I rarely talk to anyone), but it’s still shaky enough that it can leave me muddling through public situations. For the most part, these are harmless but amusing encounters. I try to keep track of examples in my daily diary. Here are a few. LOVE, DAVE

HELPING OUT A STRANGER. Sometimes I’ll ask people to repeat what they said when I don’t get it. Other times, when it’s less important, I just fake it. The other day, for example, I was taking photos of the flowering trees on Ludlow Ave. A middle-aged man approached me on the sidewalk and said something like,“Is grat houch dooling arn the narket?” “Yes,” I said confidently. “I knew it,” he said, shaking his head vigorously. Then, double-checking, he asked, “That one?” and pointed to the house directly in front of us.“No,” I said cluelessly, “that one down there”, and I pointed in the general direction of the house next door. Suddenly it dawned on me that he’d asked me if the house we were in front of was going on the market. Too embarrassed to correct my misinformation, I sped up my walking pace, leaving my innocent victim in a state of befuddlement.

MY ERRONEOUS MEDICAL RECORD. When I went in recently for a medical checkup, the nurse went over my recent history, going through her list to see whether I’d been experiencing various symptoms (e.g., unexpected weight gain, chest pains, dizziness, medication allergies, etc.). As she read through the list, I said “no” for most of them. Sometimes, though, I didn’t quite hear what she said, so I just said “no” to those too. Later I decided that that might not be the best way of going about it since incorrect information could affect my treatment. I have survived so far though.

MYSTERY LUNCH. Returning from the dentist, I came upon a Long John Silver’s. I looked over the drive-through menu and decided on the two-piece fish lunch. The woman over the staticky loudspeaker said, “Would you like to try a kkrccash mnintrop vrvv? It’s $5.99.” She had a high-pitched voice which always gives me trouble, so I asked her to repeat it. She said, “Would you like to try a ppraavckr menffllk fibber? Only $5.99.” So I said, “Yes, that’s what I want.” She asked if I would like some Krrmlkfszces with that, and I said no thank you. It only took a minute or two to get my order, and I pulled into a space in their parking lot to eat. I was curious about my mystery lunch. Actually it turned out well: one piece of fish, one crabcake, four fried shrimp, French fries, and coleslaw. I’d order it again next time but I don’t know what to ask for.

MY FAVORITE SUPPER. The other night Katja brought in a delicious meal to the table. “What’s this?” I asked. “Chicken pot pie,” I heard her say. “Oh great, my favorite, chicken pot pie.” “No,” Katja replied, “chicken pot pie.” “Yes, chicken pot pie — my favorite,” I said. She spoke slowly and articulated carefully, “Chicken Pad Thai.” “Oh, Chicken Pad Thai, I didn’t think this looked like chicken pot pie.” In any case, it was tasty. The next day I sat down and Katja brought in another plate. “Chicken pot pie,” she said. “Oh, Chicken Pad Thai,” I replied. “No, chicken pot pie,” she said. “Are you saying Chicken Pad Thai?” I asked. As it turned out it actually was chicken pot pie this time. I gave up trying to get it right.

Winston and the Creatures

DEAR GEORGE, My household project this past month has been to clean up the attic room in which I’ve stored detritus that I’ve accumulated over the past four decades (e.g., 1970s magazines, old encyclopedias, antique photos and postcards). Thousands and thousands of items. What a mess. Most of it is useless, though, now and then, I’ve run across items of sentimental value. One of these is a story I’d written in February 1989 about our Bedlington Terrier Winston and the wild creatures that invaded our house and property. It brought back lots of memories, so I thought I would post it here.

“On a chilly Sunday morning at the beginning of the month we slept late, only to be awakened by Winston’s incessant barking. He was pawing wildly at the bedroom door, and he somehow managed to nudge it open, then dashed headlong down the stairwell. Katja followed him to check out the commotion, and moments later she was screaming uncontrollably from the kitchen. Our next-door neighbor was standing on the back porch with a baseball bat in hand. As Katja sobbed, the neighbor explained that two dogs roaming free had attacked our rabbit hutch to get at our bunnies, Jasper and Moonbeam. The dogs had run off when our neighbor approached, but the rabbits’ hearts had burst, and they lay dead on the floor of the hutch. We buried them solemnly next to the porch and grieved for days.

“Two weeks later Katja came in from the back porch, yelling urgently to me to come downstairs. She pointed out the back door. There on the porch, rummaging about the plastic garbage bags, was a full-grown opossum — an ugly brute, large, almost Winston’s size, with a pale whiskered face and a tail like a rat’s. I thought momentarily about trying to catch him, but the sight of him staring back at me made me nervous, and we left him alone.

“On the following Wednesday night, I was working at my office after Evening College when Katja called on the phone. She was sobbing, and I couldn’t make out her words. Something about Winston. As it turned out, she had stepped out on the porch to walk the dog. The 40-pound bag of dog food had been knocked over, and a large tail was protruding from it. Winston leaped at the intruder, and Katja slipped on the rain-soaked stairs, landing on her arm and back. Before she could recover Winston had the opossum by the neck and was shaking it to and fro. I raced home, and Katja was waiting for me. She explained that Winston had momentarily let go of the animal, and she’d pulled him back into the house. She assumed that the opossum was dead, but, when she looked back out, he had vanished. Winston was banned from our bed for the next two nights.

“Then, yesterday, I heard Katja screaming from downstairs again. (For unknown reasons, I am never at the scene of these events.) Winston was racing madly through the living room, and as I stepped into the foyer, a large bird flew past me and caromed off the front door window. Maybe a starling, I’m not sure. With the dog madly in chase, the bird zoomed through the living room, dining room, kitchen, and back again, bouncing off one window after the next. I tied Winston up and opened the front and back doors. Within a minute our aerial visitor was gone.

“These are, I must say, peculiar and trying times. As a lifelong city-dweller, Katja is a bit undone. Having grown up in the country, I take it more in stride. Winston is stimulated and full of fervor. This February, without question, has been the highlight of his mostly uneventful life. All in all, we’ve mad enough excitement from the wild creatures to last the rest of the year.” LOVE, DAVE

What's Happening At Our House?

 A Quiet Abode 

Our house nowadays is a quiet abode 

Even sassy little Iko forgets to bark 

I’m usually upstairs revising an ode

Our house nowadays is a quiet abode

At home in her kitchen, Katja cooks a la mode 

Cuisine de Francaise, her trademark

Our house nowadays is a quiet abode 

Even sassy little Iko forgets to bark 

Mozart in the Jungle  

“Mozart in the Jungle,” our favorite new show 

Katja loves it as much as raspberry wine  

Conductor Rodrigo, so kooky, you know  

“Mozart in the Jungle”, our favorite new show 

Newcomer Hailey practices the oboe 

Though her teacher has said she won’t shine

“Mozart in the Jungle”, our favorite new show 

Katja loves it as much as raspberry wine

The Plumber Calls   

The plumber came by again last week 

Of all his clientele he says we are the best 

One hundred dollars, I suppressed my shriek  

The plumber came by again last week

The garbage disposal had started to reek 

The egg shells, the celery, the melons, the rest  

The plumber came by again last week

Of all his clientele he says we are the best 

Jumble Madness 

My wife has gone mad for the Jumble 

She tackles it first thing each morn  

Though upstairs I still hear her mumble 

My wife has gone mad for the Jumble

This puzzle makes both of us humble

Though I’m sad that she feels so forlorn

My wife has gone mad for the Jumble

She tackles it first thing each morn 

Lil Goodies 

We drive to Lil Goodies for our weekend trip

The payoff, a small softserve sundae

Katja explains that the Turtle’s most hip 

We drive to Lil Goodies for our weekend trip

I order peanuts to get extra zip 

Chocolate syrup is heaven, I say

We drive to Lil Goodies for our weekend trip

The payoff, a small softserve sundae

The Mice   

The mice come out when we go to sleep

Scouring the counter for bread crumbs and scraps 

So quiet we don’t hear a single peep 

The mice come out when we go to sleep

They leave little pellets that cause some to weep   

So smart, they’re not fooled by my traps 

The mice come out when we go to sleep 

Scouring the counter for bread crumbs and scraps 

Sheltering 

We’ve sheltered in place for close to a year 

 Though I’m glad that the shelter’s our house 

Despite the ennui, we’ve had moments of cheer 

We’ve sheltered in place for close to a year

Our ventures in public cause covid-ish fear

I’d rather be home with my spouse 

We’ve sheltered in place for close to a year

Though I’m glad that the shelter’s our house