The Worst Winter Ever

It was the worst of winters. It was the best of winters.

The worst winter I ever experienced turned out to be one I have the fondest memories of and best stories about. It was 1977 in Pennsylvania. I lived in Boston, or at least the rest of my family did, and that was the address on my driver’s license—27 Dartmouth, Boston, Mass.

I was on the road that year all but seven weeks. The blizzard hit Pennsylvania like a fast freight train roaring by in the middle of the night. Only it stopped and dropped 3 feet of snow before moving on. I was snowed in for 2 weeks in Harrisburg. I couldn’t even get a train out to be home for Christmas. My host, one of our organization’s volunteers, put 10 of us up for 2 weeks.

The most “fun” that winter was a trip I made from Pittsburgh when I thought the storm had passed. I was on I-80 on the way to Snow Shoe, PA, when I began to snow again. The borrowed Nash had windshield wipers that didn’t work. I spent the next two hours reaching out the driver’s side window to grab the wiper blade to keep the snow off. I made it to Snow Shoe to find a group of townspeople waiting for the scheduled meeting I had arranged. The mayor let me know that a little dusting of snow like this would never stop them from meeting.

But it was the Harrisburg Christmas that taught me it was possible to bond with a dozen strangers, many of whom I’ve not seen again.

A Christmas Tradition Today

Christmas Eve is always at our house, at least for the past decade or so. We didn’t plan it so, but since no one else ever makes the offer, my wife and I have concluded that it is now a tradition, and our “gang” just assumes it as a given.

On Christmas morning we all go out for breakfast at IHOP. Or occasionally our friend Leslie T. makes sourdough waffles at his apartment. But that is only when he takes a notion, or one of us says “Why don’t we go to LT’s for waffles this year.”

In the afternoon we always troop over to the Krikorian for a Christmas day movie. Then in the evening we may take my mother and son for a drive around Redlands to see the lights, or if we feel adventurous, the Mission Inn in Riverside.

This year we may vary the schedule slightly.  We have a flexible tradition but the essentials will hold:  Friends and family together to share the spirit of the season.

Our (almost) Brand New Bathroom

Our bathroom is almost brand new. You would not believe what a small, 4’ X 8’ room would take to remodel it: Contractors for tearing out shower and floor tiles right down to the 2 X 4s; a counter-top company for the 24 by 18 inch sink cabinet; a mirror company to install the big wall mirror we had to buy when the tile contractor nicked the current one; and Ric the plumber/handyman who my wife worships for correcting all the mishaps made by contractor and husband. I am no longer allowed to install towel bars, hooks, door hinges, or anything that requires drilling holes in doors or walls. “Let’s call Ric” has become an oft heard mantra of Linda’s.

But in spite of the minor inconvenience of having to walk (or run) a quarter block to the pool bathroom and shower (we only have one bathroom) for a few days, and the few nicks and gouges in our bathtub (which Ric repaired), the tile looks beautiful, the new shower doors shine, the corean counter and sink is classy, the brown colors actually go with the light tan textured tiles, the chrome fixtures gleam, and even the new toilet stool seems proud to be in its place. I now understand why it is called the “throne.”

The mirror was delivered on time and Ric was there to see that it was properly installed and that the finishing touches were added. Just in time for Christmas Eve. I wonder if all of our guests can get in our 4 X 8 bathroom at the same time. It is the most elegant room in our home.

The Mysterious Patio Cat

It began to appear a couple of years ago. It would come two or three days a week and explore our patio. Then it began to settle on our chaise lounge. One summer evening when the patio door was open it stuck its nose in and then gingerly stepped into the living room and proceeded to explore every room in our 900 sq. ft. apartment. It disappeared for a few weeks or maybe a couple of months and then re-appeared on our patio. One thing we became aware of was that it was missing one important detail. In fact it was “de tail.” Was this the same cat? It must be, we concluded. Its actions were too much like the cat-with-tail that used to frequent the patio.

We had also been puzzled by a mysterious call from across the street that we noticed occurred each evening around 8 p.m., a high-pitched woman’s voice that sounded a little like a siren song. On one visit the cat was wearing a collar and we noticed a name engraved on it. The mystery was partially solved. Our patio cat’s name was Norma Jean and the strange sounding high-pitched call was a woman across the street calling her to come in for the night.

But we still had not solved the mystery of the missing tail. Until this week, that is. Norma Jean had been sleeping on our patio every day for several days and then going home at night. A couple of nights ago, the “Norma Jean call” came when we were watching the cat stir from her comfortable bed on the lounge. Linda called to the woman that Norma Jean was on our patio. The lady came across the street, surprised to learn what her cat had been doing every day. It was then that we learned that Norma Jean had been crossing Center Street a year ago and was hit by a car. Her injuries required the “amputation” of her tail.

I just looked out on our patio and Norma Jean is in her favorite spot on the lounge. So I took a few shots on my trusty Sony to show you Norma Jean, formerly known as the “mysterious patio cat.” We are pleased with her having adopted us because our apartment complex has a ‘no-pets’ policy.

Norma Jean

The Our Gang Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving is a major production; at least it has been for the last few years. We celebrate holidays, birthdays, and other such occasions with our “gang.” This is a collection of about six individuals whose family ties extend throughout several states. My wife and I are the only couple among our gang. We decided to call ourselves a gang after watching a TV interview between Bill Moyers and Kurt Vonnegut, the author, now deceased. Kurt said everybody should have a gang. By this he meant a group of friends who play the role of support, accountability, extended family, and all-around caring people. So we are now a gang. But I digress.

Thanksgiving, as I mentioned, has turned into a major production in recent years. Partly this is due to the spaces we live in. Two members of our gang occupy 8-900 sq. ft. apartments. A third has a town house that is only slightly larger. None of us has space to accommodate 17 people at a sit down Thanksgiving meal. So we have become very creative. We usually begin with our gang of six talking about who will host the dinner this year and who is coming. By the time we finish the discussion, we find that somehow between 12 and 18 people have already been invited and/or have expressed a desire to join us for dinner.

 

Linda and I always count on my mother, Opal, and my son, Robb. Then our friends the Butchers from LA have an open invitation and sometimes show up. Frank now has his son and daughter-in-law, Kyle and Jackie, who have somehow doubled in the last few years, with Ronin and Roxanne, three and 15 months, respectively. Tomi invited her sister and brother-in-law from Santa Fe and they in turn asked if their son Keith could join us. Two days before the big day one year our friend Paul, from Colorado, showed up, un-announced, to stay with Frank.  And this year my cousin Jan from Iowa, now a "California Snow Bird,”  is with us.

Every year we come up with plans A and B. Plan A is to have dinner by our community pool. Of course it is always too cool by Thanksgiving Day. So plan B is executed: hors d’oeuvres at someone’s place at 1:30 p.m., followed by dinner at another’s at 3, then dessert at a third house, whenever. We arrange to borrow tables from my Mom’s church and chairs from the Redlands Art Association, where Tomi is past president. A living room is transformed into the “Great Hall” by moving every piece of furniture. The setting is just enough space for seating the 17-19 of us, but with no room to move around otherwise. Hence the decision to have a “progressive” Thanksgiving, dividing up all the ingredients among the participants. Frank’s son, Kyle, sometimes cooks the turkey and dressing. This year Tomi’s sister and brother-in-law did the deed on their Weber. Amazingly, it all works and comes together without a hitch.

Our gang is amazing. We are still friends after many years and several Thanksgivings and even bigger productions for milestone birthdays. I heartily concur with our late friend, Kurt Vonnegut. Everyone should have a gang. If you don’t have one, get one.

First Times

I used to eat meat. In fact, I was known in the family for eating hamburgers. My mother delights in telling the story of how upset my dad got, and continued to get on the occasions, not at all that often, when he took us out to eat at a “real” restaurant. One where you could get a thick juicy steak. “And Milan would ask for—a hamburger.”

There were other firsts when I disappointed my step-father. Like the time he took me fishing with him. In a boat. On Medicine Lake. His favorite escape (besides drinking). Like the time he took off from work to come to a football game and I never got off the bench. He never let on about being disappointed. But deep down I knew.

My Dad did love to fish!

The real disappointment was that we never developed a father-son bond. He tried. But an alcoholic has a hard road. I remember another first. He lay on his death bed in a nursing home. He was only in his late fifties and had never recovered from a botched surgery where they damaged the nervous system somehow. We had been estranged for the past year or so. He grabbed my hand with his shaking one and said in his feeble voice, that sounded like he was a little drunk, “You’re a good boy, Milan.” I still couldn’t respond.

A few days later he died. It was 1976—in the spring. I remember because Linda and I were married that spring.

I Still Don’t Understand Why . . . . . .

. . . . . .the American people elect a President every four years or Congressional Representatives every two. It’s OK with me that Senators run every six years: their old boys club, punctuated by a few females to keep a semblance of sanity, is largely an obstructionist bunch and we might as well deposit them all in the Smithsonian.

My main issue is with the incessant amount of time, energy and money it takes to crank up the campaign machines with such repetitive regularity. No sooner are they sworn in than they have to start the next campaign.

Why not just elect a President every eight years, give him or her the charge to get something done and that’s it? They get only one term to lift us up or drive us to ruin. And Congress—I don’t know what to do with them. How about staggering elections across the country so that not all of them are taking office at the same time? And then let’s have performance reviews by panels of regular citizens. Two bad ones and they are out!