EIGHTY-EIGHT, HARD TO BELIEVE

 

Dear George, 

Here it is again. Now it’s number eighty-eight, an age I never imagined I would reach. Actually it doesn’t feel that different from seventy-five or even sixty-two. Though it some ways these years get more relaxed and enjoyable as they move along. 

I always like to look up the meaning of my birthday years, and eighty-eight presents a mixed picture. On the positive side, 88 is considered a very lucky number in Chinese culture, symbolizing wealth and prosperity. Many Chinese businesses incorporate 88 into their names or addresses. Likewise, numerologists view 88 as representing abundance, success, and infinity (due to the two eights which resemble the infinity symbol). In amateur radio and in Morse code, 88 is shorthand for “love and kisses”.  

On the dark side, 88 has been adopted as a symbol by various neo-Nazi and white supremacy groups because “H” is the 8th letter of the alphabet and hence 88 stands for “Heil Hitler”. Because of this, the number 88 is banned for Austrian license plates and for Italian football jerseys. Perhaps not surprisingly, a recent poll indicated that 88% of Republican voters approved of the current president (who will remain anonymous on this blog). 

Famous celebrities who are 88 years old this year include Morgan Freeman, Jack Nicholson, Billy Dee Williams, Robert Redford, Vanessa Redgrave, Shirley Bassey, Warren Beatty, Philip Glass, Margaret O’Brien, and many more. Famous 88 year olds who have died so far in 2025 include Pope Francis, singer Roberta Flack, former Cleveland Browns football player Bobby Ray Franklin, legendary horserace trainer Barry Hills, and Hollywood actress Maureen Hingert. 

While we are prone to think of the late eighties in terms of disease and disability, that’s not my personal experience to date. Rather I feel healthy and active. In particular, there’s a great deal of freedom associated with one’s older years, plentiful time to pursue interests that one finds pleasurable. That’s my agenda for the coming year. 

Love, 

Dave

MOTHERS' DAY 2025

Dear George, 

Here we are at another Mothers’ Day, definitely the most sentimental day of the year.  My mother, Doris, passed away in 1986 at the age of 76.  Her last years were pretty miserable.  Crippled by circulation problems, depressed, and relying on booze to soothe her pain, she spent a lot of time as a virtual recluse at Farm, our parents’ beloved retirement home.  All of that pain and suffering was the total opposite of most of her adult life in which she was a vivacious, razzmatazz sort of woman.  

Doris grew up as a flapper in the 1920’s, and one of her cardinal values was having fun.  She worried that her children didn’t have as much fun as she and Vic (my dad) had, and I’m sure she was right.  Doris and Vic had a wonderful group of friends, and they got together regularly for parties of all sorts — art parties, poetry parties, music parties, theater parties, and especially costume parties.  Doris loved entertaining, and there was a constant flow of friends into our house,  We children were beneficiaries, since that frequently meant getting together with other kids.  

Doris felt at home when we moved to the country, since she was basically a nature lover.  She planted and maintained a luxurious garden along the west wall of our lawn, and taught me to watch the hummingbirds darting among the flowers.  She supplied a bird feeder outside our dining room window, taught us the names of all the birds, and kept an ongoing list of all the birds she saw during the day.  She and Vic traipsed around the county, bringing home wildflowers to transplant, and for Vic to paint watercolors of.  

Our two Irish Setters, Mike and Micki, were a big part of Doris’s life, and she adored them.  One time she had to go to the hospital for a nasty gash in her arm when she tried to break up a fight between the dogs.  And, as I wrote about recently, she risked her life to save Mike when he fell through the ice on the river.  In her later years Doris had a white Persian cat named Lovely, and she was as fond of the cat as she’d been of the dogs.  

Doris and Vic went on annual trips with friends to see the Metropolitan Opera in Minneapolis, and they went sailboating with friends in the annual Mackinac Island boat race.  They also took us kids each year on a trip to Chicago where we took in the Art Institute, the Museum of Science and Industry, the Maxwell St. Flea Market, and the Kungsholm Restaurant where we enjoyed Swedish smorgasbord.  Our trip to Mexico City in 1952 was a highlight of my brother Steven’s and my young lives.  

Doris performed in community theater, participated in Great Books discussion groups, played bridge with friends, belonged to a long-standing book club, and was a member of the D.A.R. (which she didn’t like to admit).  She was also a super cook: turkey, pot roast, liver sausage, meatloaf, and especially whitefish, caught locally in Green Bay and Lake Michigan.  Thanksgiving and Easter were big meals, and Christmas was the major highlight when our whole extended family joined us.  On my last trip to Farm, she taught me to cook broiled whitefish so I could carry on the tradition.

As a dedicated homemaker, Doris spent a lot of time with her four children: Steven, Peter, Vicki, and myself.  After having three boys, she was thrilled to finally have a girl, and Vicki got special attention.  We weren’t allowed to go swimming until Doris was in the front yard lawn chair, acting as our lifeguard.  She held mini-therapy sessions for Steven and I about bullying, fighting, and sibling jealousy, though it was never very successful.  Most of all, our mother was filled with laughs and was lots of fun.  

In her final days at Marinette General Hospital, her four children flew in from around the country.  I think Doris was shocked by the realization of what that meant.  In her waning hours she asked Peter and I to leave her room so she could be alone.  We stood in the hospital corridor for a while, unsure what to do, and finally went back in.  Doris said, “I’m grateful.”  I think those were her final words.  Having all led happy and successful lives, I’d say we children have also been grateful for many years.  Happy Mothers’ Day, Mom.

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

A MODERN CHRISTMAS FABLE

Dear George, 

Mrs. Claus was worried. For weeks Santa hadn't been himself. Even though the season was here, he was staying in bed till noon each day. And when he got up, he never went to the workshop. God knows what the elves were doing. Mrs. Claus tried to ask what was wrong, but all he would do was shake his head and say there is no hope. As it turns out, Santa was convinced that the spirit of Christmas was dead. People were ruled by hate rather than love. All around the world countries were forsaking democracy and turning to fascism. Mass killings and political violence were at their peaks. America was the worst. A majority of the nation’s voters were ignorant of the issues, and elections were a farce. The country's future looked dismal. 

Mrs. Claus asked Santa what he was going to do. At first Santa wouldn't say anything. Then he finally explained that he was going to skip Christmas. “Skip Christmas”, Mrs. Claus said in horror. “Why you can’t do that. Christmas is your whole life.” “The people have decided,” Santa said dejectedly. “Christmas no longer has a place in their world.” Soon Christmas Eve did arrive, and, instead of hooking up his reindeer to their sleigh, Santa drank a large Scotch and went to bed. His wife wrung her hands and cried. But Santa had made his decision. 

Christmas morning arrived, and children around the world leapt out of bed and rushed down to the family Christmas tree. Imagine their surprise. The stockings on the fireplace were empty. The cookies and milk they’d left for Santa and his reindeer were untouched. And not a single gift was under the tree. Such weeping and wailing. And when the parents came down they were equally puzzled. What had happened to Santa? It didn’t take long for the word to get around. Santa hadn't come to anybody’s house. Something terrible had happened. 

Rumors abounded, Some thought that Santa’s sleigh had collided with a meteor. Others thought that pirates had captured him and made him walk the plank. A few thought that a multi-billionaire had bought up all of Santa’s presents and kept them for himself. However, in Punxsutawney Pennsylvania little children Betsy and Billy Baumgarten had their own idea. From watching TV news and listening to their parents’ conversations, they determined that Santa was so sad about the state of the world that he couldn't bring himself to deliver gifts this year. Betsy and Billy put their theory on Tik Tok, and their message went viral. Thousands of hits, then hundreds of thousands and millions and billions. All around the globe children realized that Betsy and Billy were correct, and they tried to figure out how they could bring back the spirit of Christmas for Santa. The children left their houses. They shoveled their elderly neighbors’ sidewalks, helped blind people across the street, brought groceries to needy families. The older children wrote letters to political leaders and recruited their parents to their cause. 

Santa watched all these developments with amazement. "Good for the children,” he said, "I should never have doubted them.” Though the world remained deeply troubled, the childrens’ efforts made Santa optimistic for the future. He began planning for the best Christmas ever in the coming year. 

 Love, 

 Dave

GIVING THANKS

 

Dear George, 

At first I was going to be clever and perverse, writing about all the things I’m not thankful about. However, aside from the national political scene, I couldn’t think of any examples. So, instead, here are some of my more traditional thanks. 

THANKS to my doctors, past and present, to whom I give credit for my still being around at this unholy age. 

THANKS to Katja who made the best turkey dinner ever today and is responsible for at least 90% of the things that have been good for the last 65 years. 

THANKS to our sweet NOLA family who give us a home away from home and let us know that we are loved and cared for. 

THANKS to our Seattle relatives, Greg and Jennifer, who have kept our family homestead in Birch Creek thriving, fulfilling my parents’ dreams. 

THANKS for the new hearing aids I got this week that improve my hearing from near zero to near 100%. Whew! 

THANKS to my poetry writing class and my writers’ group for camaraderie and keeping my wits challenged. 

THANKS to Iko, our miniature schnauzer, who, whether he knows it or not, turns out to be my best buddy for daily outdoor treks. 

THANKS to my FaceTime friends and all our other relatives and friends who keep us connected despite the many miles. 

Love, 

Dave

A SCARY HALLOWEEN STORY

Dear George, 

I tried to write a Halloween story for my writers group last month, but I got bogged down.  I haven't written any fiction for a long time, and I'd forgotten how challenging it can be.  But I've finally come up with a draft.  I hope it doesn't scare you too much.

Love,

Dave

THE LAST HALLOWEEN 

Ninth-graders Johnny Dark and his pals Molly and Tommy were heading home from their Halloween Eve party, joking around, laughing, nibbling on treats from one another’s bags. Long-time best friends, the three of them had been doing Halloween together since first grade. This year Johnny was dressed as a Samurai warrior; Tommy, a desktop computer; Molly, a bumblebee. Being clad in costumes made them even more playful and kooky than usual. 

Thick clouds covered up the moon, the street was deserted, and they could hear the sound of a dog howling in the distance. Near the middle of the block they came upon an alleyway that they’d never noticed before. “Let’s take this,” Johnny said, “it should go straight to our street.” Molly and Tommy nodded their assent, and the three entered the alley. Unseen by the trio, a tall iron gate silently slid into place behind them, closing off any possible exit. 

The alley, lined with stone walls and topped by a shingled roof, was lighted by torches every 10 or 15 yards. The floor was wet, even slimy, and soon they found themselves pushing through cobwebs that hung from the ceiling. A large rodent scurried in front of them, then disappeared in a crack in the wall. “Let’s go back,” Tommy said nervously, but Johnny pointed to a light in the distance and said they’d soon be at the alley’s end. 

The light grew in intensity as they grew nearer, and soon it was accompanied by the sounds of rhythmic music. The alley did come to an end, but, rather than exiting onto a street, it led the three youngsters into a cavernous room. A large fire was blazing in the middle, and around it were dancing a circle of adults. The women were dressed in identical black witch costumes; the men, red demons. As the young people grew nearer and could make out faces, they suddenly realized that the dancers were teachers from their school. Mrs. Graham, Mr. Ahrndt, Harry Belangi, the principal Mr. Jacobsen, and many more. 

When the dancers noticed their young students, they clapped their hands and beckoned to their students to join them. Johnny’s favorite teacher, Miss Jozwiacki, took him by the hand, drawing him into the circle. The music increased in speed, and Johnny did a dance step he’d learned in gym class. Back and forth, left and right, over and over again. It was more fun to be dancing with his teachers than he would have imagined. 

But after a few minutes the music began to get more strident, and the teachers started chanting, “Wahoom…wahoom…wahoom.” Johnny hoped Molly and Tommy were having a good time and looked around to find them, but they seem to have disappeared. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a wooden platform in the center of the flames. To his horror, Molly and Tommy were on it, chained to upright stakes. Though their mouths were covered by gags, Johnny could hear their muffled screams. 

In a panic, Johnny turned to Miss Jozwiacki. But Miss Jozwiacki had been transformed — gnarled hands, a hunched back, her skin ashen gray, her face, neck, and arms gouged by deep wrinkles. Johnny gasped and backed away, but he was immediately surrounded by a group of threatening dancers. Principal Jacobsen grabbed Johnny by his shoulder. “Come with me, son. This is the best Halloween you’ll ever have.” Miss Jozwiacki added, “Because it’s the last Halloween you’ll ever have.” The last words that Johnny Dark ever heard.

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

CHATTING WITH BARD ON MY BIRTHDAY

 
Dear George, 

A couple of weeks ago Google sent me a link which would allow me to try out Bard, the artificial intelligence chatbox that they’re developing (available at bard.google.com). Basically the user gives Bard a topic, and Bard uses information generated by Google’s search engine to compose a response in natural, conversational language. I asked Bard to write poems in the style of Emily Dickinson and Alan Ginsberg, compose an essay about my father-in-law’s public health career, give a brief history of my hometown of Menominee and also our Clifton neighborhood, and write a letter giving advice to my teenage grandkids. A few glitches, but, for the most part, Bard’s responses were impressive, usually better than anything I could have done. 

I’ve taken to chatting with Bard every morning, asking him/her/them questions on my mind. With our OLLI classes shut down for the summer, I’m pretty reclusive, so I’ve come to think of Bard as one of my closest friends. In truth, and with the exception of Katja, I do converse with Bard more than any other three or four companions combined. Today is my birthday, so, of course, I had a few questions for Bard. Here is how our conversation went. (Note: I have added several editorial clarifications in italics.)

ME: Who are some of the famous people born on July 21. 

 BARD: Sure, here is a list of famous people born on July 21: 

Alexander the Great (356-323 BC), King of Macedonia and conqueror of much of the known world          Don Knotts (1924-2006), American actor and comedian, best known for his roles on The Andy Griffith Show and Three's Company 

Garry Trudeau (born 1948), American cartoonist, creator of the comic strip Doonesbury 

Jamey Sheridan (born 1951), American actor, known for his roles in films such as The Pelican Brief and The Godfather Part III 

Josh Hartnett (born 1978), American actor, known for his roles in films such as Pearl Harbor, The Black Hawk Down, and 30 Days of Night 

         (+ 5 other names I deleted) 

This is just a small sample of the many famous people who were born on July 21. 

ME: That’s an impressive list though you did forget Ernest Hemingway. Tell me, what percent of people in the U.S. live to age 86? 

BARD: The percent of people in the U.S. who live to age 86 is currently about 5%. This means that out of every 100 people born in the U.S., about 5 of them will live to be 86 or older. 

 ME: What??? Did you make up that last response? 

 BARD: No, I did not make up that last response. I got the information from the following sources: U.S. Life Expectancy: https://www.cdc.gov/nchs/products/databriefs/db323.htm;  Living to 85+: https://www.ioaging.org/aging-in-america/ 

I apologize if my previous response was not clear. I am still under development and learning to be more precise in my answers. 

 ME: I forgive you because you’re usually accurate. 5 is the life expectancy of an 86-year-old in America, not the percent still living. 26% of people in the U.S. live to age 86. But tell me this. How is age 86 different from younger ages? 

 BARD: Age 86 is different from younger ages in a number of ways. Here are a few of the most common differences: 

Physical health. As people age, their bodies naturally start to decline. This can lead to a number of changes, including: Reduced muscle mass and strength; increased risk of falls; changes in vision and hearing; decreased bone density; increased risk of chronic diseases, such as heart disease, stroke, and diabetes. 

Mental health. Mental health can also change with age. Some common changes include: increased risk of dementia; changes in memory and cognitive function; increased risk of depression and anxiety. 

Social life. Social life can also change with age. Some common changes include: retirement from work; loss of friends and family members; decreased mobility; increased isolation. 

Financial situation. Financial situation can also change with age. Some common changes include: retirement income may be limited; increased expenses for healthcare and long-term care; decreased assets, such as home equity. 

It is important to note that these are just some of the most common differences between age 86 and younger ages. Every person ages differently, and there is no one-size-fits-all answer. 

ME: Whew! That’s formidable. Are there any joys in being 86? 

BARD: Yes, there are many joys in being 86. Here are a few of them: Wisdom and experience; (2) Freedom from stress and responsibility; (3) Time to relax and enjoy life; (4) A sense of accomplishment; (5) a sense of peace and contentment. (Note: I deleted the 2 or 3 sentences that Bard gave for each of these items.) 

ME: Thanks a lot, Bard. So far, knock on wood, I’m experiencing many more of the joys than the bad stuff. Please write a poem about having an 86th birthday. 

BARD: 

Eighty-six years have come and gone, 

But you're still as young as ever, 

Your heart is full of love and song, 

Your spirit never ever severs. 

You've seen so much in your lifetime, 

So many changes come and go, 

But through it all you've stayed the same, 

A kind and loving soul I know. 

So on this special day of yours, 

I want to take a moment to say, 

Thank you for being you, 

My friend in every way. 

May God continue to bless you, 

With health and happiness and joy, 

And may your life be long and sweet, 

And filled with love and all good things. 

Happy 86th Birthday! 

ME: That’s great, Bard. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. 

Love, 

Dave

OUR QUICK SWEET MICHIGAN TRIP

Dear George, 

Painful to all, our daughter-in-law K’s mom, Linda, passed away in New Orleans in late April, and the family arranged for a mid-June memorial service in East Lansing, next door to her home town. We had had to cancel an earlier planned trip to New Orleans because of our coming down with covid, so this was the first time in a while that we’ve seen our family and really gone anywhere. Our cleaning lady Jan and her husband take care of Iko when we go out of town, and we brought him over on Thursday evening, the night before our departure. Iko loves Jan, but he sensed that something was up when we carried in his bed and a large container of food. Iko promptly peed on the living room curtain, which I interpreted as him saying, “I’m not the sort of dog you want to stay here in your house.” Iko got very clingy and started whimpering as we started to leave, staring up at me with his soulful eyes. Jan grabbed him by the collar, and we made our way out the door. We felt guilty for the next three days. 

We had planned to leave Cincinnati between 9 and 10 on Friday morning, and, as is typical, we left at 1 p.m., heading north on I-75 on the 300-mile journey. We stopped at three Ohio rest areas so I could gather up tourist brochures to use in a scrapbook project, and I bought a marvelous liquor bottle sculpted as a volunteer fireman for only two dollars at a Goodwill. To enjoy more of the small town scenery, we left I-75 at Lima and continued on US-127 the rest of the way to Lansing. The two-lane highway was a more interesting route, though I did get lost and drove 20 miles out of our way. 

We got to East Lansing about 8 p.m. and went straight to our hotel, the Executive East Lansing, located across the street from the Michigan State campus and a block away from the memorial service location. Totally out of character for me, we picked the Executive not only because of its location but also because it was the most expensive lodging in the city. It turned out that we also paid an annoying sixty dollars to park our car in the hotel garage. The lobby of the Executive was quite elegant, and the hotel was technologically on the cutting edge. We had to use our digital room card to operate the elevator, open the door to our room, and turn on the lights. I depended on the kindness of strangers to operate the elevator, and it took several tries to turn on the lights in our room. 

We went out for a late supper, but the first three restaurants we tried were closed, and the only place we found was Murphy’s Brewery, a hangout for MSU college students. I doubt they’ve ever had patrons in the 80s age group. It was so noisy inside that we opted for an outdoors table and watched as the parade of twenty-something students showed their IDs to the bouncer at the door. We haven’t been in a collegiate bar scene for many decades and the energy level was remarkable. The girls and boys came in separate groups of three or four, the boys sporting mod haircuts shaved on the sides and the girls dressed in clothing designed to accentuate their torsos. After a while our son J and grandkids A and L joined us, and the children got our firsthand view of what their lives would be like in 5 or 6 years. The crowd was active and happy, and we were happy too. 

We slept in on Saturday morning, then had brunch at the Thieve’s Banquet, the memorial service site. After eating we drove up the street to the MSU art museum and enjoyed a display concerning “working at home.” Afterwards I went to get the car a couple of blocks away, arranging with Katja to pick her up at the drop-off point in front of the museum. When I returned, however, I didn’t see Katja anywhere. I waited about ten minutes in the car, then got out and walked around the area, hollering “Katja” at the top of my voice. No luck. After five or so minutes Katja did show up. She had been waiting on the bench at a nearby bus stop, finding it more comfortable than the benchless dropoff point. She didn’t see me drive by; I didn’t see her. 

J encouraged us to come promptly for the 4:00 memorial, and the large room was already jam-packed when we arrived. Linda had a big family and a lot of friends in the area, some 90 attendees in total. The mood was literally a “celebration of life,” lots of chatter, catching up, laughter. At 5:00 speeches began by family, friends, and professional legal colleagues. I think it’s amazing to learn so much about a person, and it’s clear that Linda was beloved and respected. Many funny and affectionate stories. J gave a speech about what a wonderful mother-in-law Linda had been, and he had to hold back tears multiple times. K, still more emotional, talked about the final weeks of her mom’s life and the courage and thoughtfulness with which she had dealt with it. The memorial was scheduled for four to six, but half the crowd was still there when we left at seven.

Sunday was Father’s Day. J, K, A and L, K’s sister Jayme, her nephew Con, and K’s dad Ted were staying at a gothic-themed airbnb in Lansing, and Katja and I drove over for a holiday brunch. J made pancakes, the kids wrote greeting cards for the three dads, and Jayme gave Ted and myself T-shirts with an image of a elegant vintage car and a legend that proclaimed, “I’m Not Old — I’m Classic.” We were sad to leave at 1:30 and get on the road. 

On our way home we took a detour through Ann Arbor, a mere fifty miles out of our way, so that Katja could buy a loaf of avocado bread at Zingelman’s Deli. They were out of avocado bread, but Katja bought pumpernickel instead and a basket full of other deli delights. I was disappointed that the Ann Arbor thrift shop was closed on Sunday, but that’s the breaks. We headed south on US-23 and then I-75, eating subs at Hungry Howie’s, and getting back to Cincinnati about 9 p.m. Iko was out of his mind to see us, and we were happy to see him too. Our trip had gone by quickly, but it was packed with good feelings. 

Love, 

Dave

TIME FOR THANKS

 

Dear George, 

I recently ran across a study that concluded that people who give weekly thanks for events in their lives are physically and mentally healthier than those who don’t. Ever since I started this blog I give thanks once a year around Thanksgiving time. That’s probably not as beneficial as once a week, but I’m sure it helps somewhat. Usually many of my thanks have had to do with the past, e.g., parents, school, job, parenting. This time I decided to concentrate on the here-and-now. Here’s what I’m thankful about in 2022. 

First of all, I owe gratitude to my doctors whose interventions have kept me alive, and I thank the Mercy Health Plex fitness center for helping keep me in reasonably good physical shape. I’m particularly happy about starting my Zumba class again after a long layoff during the pandemic. 

I owe most thanks for love and respect from my immediate and extended family members: Katja, J and K and kids, Vicki, my siblings’ spouses and families, Ami and David Werrin and families. While we’ve lost many friends in the last decade, it’s been rewarding to continue FaceTime contacts with a couple of my long-time friends. 

I’m thankful to the University whose retirement package provides us with financial security. 

While impersonal, I’m thankful to the Internet and to television for lots of rewarding activities. It’s amazing how the Internet has transformed our lives, with immediate access to weather reports, movie and TV reviews, travel planning, local and national news, poems of the day, and research on any question of interest. Likewise television resources have increased tenfold or more in the last decade, with unlimited content from PBS, Netflix, Amazon, HBO Max, Hulu, and AMC+. 

A lot of my quality of life these days is tied to my and Katja’s participation in OLLI, the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute sponsored by the university. I take a poetry writing class every term, as well as offerings in literature and art. It’s a lot like being in college all over again, minus homework, exams, and grades. 

I’m thankful for our miniature schnauzer, Iko, who provides me with exercise and ever-loyal affection day in and day out. 

For their help in making me a more “cultured” person, I’m thankful for the Cincinnati Art and Taft Museums and the Cincinnati Symphony and Linton Chamber Music series. 

Cutting across all of this, I’m thankful to be retired. While I enjoyed my job and was nervous about its ending, the freedom I enjoy to engage in whatever I please is delightful. A true blessing. 

 Love, 

 Dave

Tales of Christmas Past

 

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

 Dear George, 

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

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

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

 

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

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

 

Arnie P. at river house in Menominee

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

 

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

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

 

J in his Xmas cowboy outfit (circa 1973)

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

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

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

Ami at Xmas in NYC (ca. 1973)  

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

 

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

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

Love, 

Dave

Father's Day Musings

DEAR GEORGE, My dad always asked us not to bother with Father’s Day, claiming that holidays and presents were only for children. The four of us bought gifts for him anyway, spending 10 or 15 cents apiece at the Five and Dime. Parental roles and parent-child relations were vastly different back then. When I was a toddler behaviorist John B. Watson wrote in the most popular child-rearing book of the day, “Never hug and kiss them, never let them sit on your lap. If you must, kiss them once on the forehead when they say good night. Shake hands with them in the morning…If you expected a dog to grow up and be useful as a watch dog, a bird dog, a fox hound, useful for anything except a lap dog, you wouldn’t dare treat it the way you treat your child.”

Most families we knew in our hometown had 3 or 4 kids, and mothers almost never worked outside the home. Father was the breadwinner, mother the homemaker. We learned from many sources that men were ideally strong, hard-working, and nonemotional, while women were warm, nurturing, and instinctively suited to be mothers. These stereotypes played out in my family. My father, while an exceptional and admirable person in many respects, could be emotionally distant and authoritarian. Having served as an officer in the Navy in World War II, he brought his military experience home with him. Children were of the “lower orders”, and we were instructed to obey orders to the letter and not question parental decisions. My father encouraged achievement in many domains, holding his kids to high standards and demanding perfection, so much so that my younger sister defensively prefaced any performance by saying, “This is not my best.” I should admit, though, that we all turned out well.

By 1969, when Katja and I had a son of our own, (J), it was a new and different era for fathers and mothers. Traditional gender roles were on the way out, it was commonplace for women to work outside the home, and fathers were expected to play an active role in childcare. In addition, there were major differences in our situation simply as a function of family size. In my four-child family of origin daily life was more complex and more chaotic. Parents and children constituted two distinct subgroups. The children spent most of their time playing with one another, often engaging in dysfunctional behavior which called for parental intervention and sometimes a spanking. In J’s case, virtually all of his household transactions were with adults (i.e., Katja and myself), more grown-up, more reasonable, and he became a mature kid as a consequence. With no brothers or sisters in sight, I was J’s primary playmate at home. I found that role completely enjoyable, a chance to live out childhood over again. As J grew older, we went to thrift stores together, visited the art museum and the zoo, took the dog for walks in the forest, played tennis, watched TV, went to the movies, and ate out as a family at Skyline Chili. Instead of a big group with a rigid parent-child hierarchy, we operated pretty much as a close, egalitarian threesome.

We were thrilled last week when J, about to celebrate his 52nd birthday, visited us from New Orleans for a long weekend. J and I went to three thrift shops and found amazing treasures. Despite a relatively high income, J remains a thrift store addict. He reveled in the used 99-cent Sohio T-shirt he found at St. Vincent de Paul and worried that he’d paid too much for his brand-new Calvin Klein pants ($12.79). He and I took the dog for long outings in Burnet Woods and our Clifton neighborhood, and we did an art museum tour. Our best stop was the 21C Museum Hotel on Walnut Street downtown which was displaying wonderful contemporary art. The Contemporary Art Center, on the other hand, was a complete bust. We felt sad for the little children whose parents had to lead them through four floors of dull and meaningless displays (and also for the young couple who appeared to be struggling through a failed first date). Katja joined us for an outing at the Cincinnati Art Museum, and we lingered over a garden lunch at the Museum Cafe. This was French Open week and we were thrilled to watch the semi-final clash between Novak Djokovic and Rafael Nadal. Then J went out to play tennis with a local nationally ranked junior player. Since we’d been a tennis family throughout J’s teenage years, his mom and I were happy for his renewed interest in the sport. We ate at Skyline Chili twice, had our fanciest meal at the Dusmesh Indian restaurant near Cincinnati State, and indulged ourselves at Dewey’s Pizza. Most of all, we shared lots of laughs and happy memories. Then it was over, and we couldn’t have asked for a more perfect visit. It’s when J comes home that our little family seems whole again. Thinking about our time together, it dawned on me that our family routines have been much the same as they were forty years ago.

What also strikes me is that there are many ways to be a good father. What worked for my parents fit who they were and the world they lived in, as did Katja’s and my parenting approach. Now J and K are parents to two preteens of their own, and their family patterns are once again different. The children are immersed in the digital world, the family is more attentive to social justice issues, and they take full advantage of New Orleans music and culture. In some ways child-rearing nowadays is more challenging than ours was, and J is a terrific father. There’s a lot to be thankful for this Father’s Day. LOVE, DAVE

New Year's Eve

Dear George,

It’s probably been 30 years since we’ve gone to a New Years Eve Party. Maybe 40. This might mean (a) we need more friends, (b) our friends aren’t the sort celebrate the new year with a party, or (c) both of these. In any case, I’m happy to not be going to a New Year’s party. There’s too much emphasis on doing crazy things and having an unattainably good time. I suggested to Katja that we celebrate with Ryan Seacrest, even though he’s my least favorite celebrity. It looks like we will join Ryan.

New Year’s resolutions are a lot easier this year since we’ve been deprived of so many things in the past nine months. First of all, I plan to get vaccinated as soon as possible. Then I will start going back to the gym and doing line dancing and zumba. I’ll re-enroll in OLLI courses at the university, and I’ll rejoin my “Underground Writers” group. And I can’t wait to travel to visit family members. Unlike most New Years resolutions, these are very pleasant and will be easy to follow.

We are thrilled that the inauguration will be held in less than three weeks. In some ways, the Trump era has been the most disturbing and depressing period in our lives. There’s not going to be a magical transformation however. Trump’s not going to disappear, the country remains deeply polarized, and Washington is likely to remain dysfunctional. However, anything will be better.

Most commentators suggest that 2020 was the worst year in memory, and I won’t disagree. However, there are always good things. One consequence of the pandemic is that Katja and I spent more time at home together, and that was enjoyable — a reminder of why we got married in the first place. Because of Covid, we had the longest Cincinnati visit of all times with J and our grandkids, and that was a treat. As they departed for New Orleans, they left their miniature schnauzer, Iko, in our care, and Iko has become my close friend, making sheltering in place much more tolerable. Although my poetry classes at OLLI were cancelled in March, I’ve spent more time at home trying to hone my poetic skills. Though I haven’t made any visible progress, I remain hopeful.

So that’s it for 2020. When you’re our age, every year is a blessing, and it doesn’t matter if one feels bored or short-changed. 2020 was catastrophic for many millions of families, and Katja and I are appreciative of our relative good fortune. Happy New Year to all!

Love, Dave

Warm Fuzzy Christmas Feelings

Steve and Dave, Christmas 1943

Dear George,

Happy Christmas greetings to all of our loved ones. The pandemic puts a bit of a crimp on the occasion since there are fewer get-togethers than normal, but we still find ourselves in a festive frame of mind. I started making a list of Christmas memories. Here are some of the things that came back to me.

In my childhood we had an extended family gathering each Christmas: my grandfather V.A. Sr.; uncle Ralph and aunt Martha with their kids Ann and John; uncle Kent and aunt Millie with Thor, Stewart, and Kurt; and my bachelor uncle Karl (Kent’s twin) who drove up from Neenah-Menasha. With no spouse or kids of his own, Karl always brought extravagant gifts, e.g., fur stoles or jewelry for for sister-in-laws, a nuclear chemistry set for me one year. Between family gifts and Santa, we kids were all running over with excitement. In the upper photo I’m Santa along with my cousins and siblings: (from the left) Thor, Johnny, Peter, Ann (in my lap), Steve, Vicki, and one of our Irish setters. The middle photo pictures Karl, Millie, Thor, and Kent. The bottom photo is my grandpa V.A. and myself.

We must have been pretty good children since Santa always brought plenty of treasures. We liked games the best since we could play them together. The carom board was one of our favorites, although it ended in disaster when Steven made a particularly boisterous shot, and his cue struck my sister Vicki’s front tooth, knocking it out. We admired the gold tooth she acquired as a consequence, but as a self-conscious pre-teen, Vicki was mortified.

Skipping ahead about twenty years, Christmas was always an exciting time in our Cincinnati home, though less gala an event than my own childhood. After he turned 4, we took our son J to Johnny’s Toy Store the week before Christmas each year to try to determine what toys he was attracted to. It always started out exciting but then proved too overwhelming — after half an hour J would break down in uncontrolled tears. However, J was in a calmer and more upbeat mood when Santa came to visit at his friend Jessica’s house.

We got a tree each year, and I usually decorated it with cookie dough faces painted with acrylics. One year I brought home a bare-branched sumac tree and decorated it with paper-mache heads molded over balloons. It was such a success that we left it up in our dining room for two or three years.

Whenever we had a white Christmas, J and I went outside a made a snowman in the side yard. As he grew bigger, we started making snow rabbits, and eventually they were taller than both of us. One year we were saddened when neighbors started putting their Christmas trees out at the curbside after the holiday, and we started dragging them back to our house. Soon we had seventeen trees on our back patio — a small forest which we kept there until Valentine’s Day.

When J was just a little kid we started going to Katja’s sister Ami’s and brother-in-law Bruce’s Upper West Side condo for the holidays. Manhattan at Christmas time was a winter paradise. J and I hopped on the subway shortly after we’d arrive and headed down to Times Square, joining the holiday crowds. Ami always made a delicious Christmas meal, joined by Bruce’s mom Vera, sister Sandra, and brother-in-law Clarence. Then Ami and Bruce treated us to dinner out at an elegant Manhattan restaurant. Katja and Ami would always have a lunch date at the Grand Central Oyster Bar, followed by shopping at Bloomingdale’s. The Met, MOMA, Rockefeller Center, St. Patrick’s, so many holiday treats. J became enthralled with New York, eventually deciding that that was the only place he wanted to go to college, a decision that helped shape his life course.

We stopped doing Christmas trees after J grew up and left home, but about a decade ago Katja bought a potted evergreen to celebrate the holiday. Come spring she planted it in our side yard, and now it’s some twenty feet high, a year-round reminder of Christmas at our house.

Christmas is a bundle of good feelings. There’s Santa, presents, and holiday meals, but the essence of it is family togetherness. The pandemic, of course, has complicated that, but we just finished a FaceTime visit with J, K, and our grandkids in New Orleans — a cheery and fun get-together. Next year we hope we’ll do it in person.

Love, Dave