Ready for summer

When my grandmother died thirty years or so ago, one of the things I inherited was an old lawn chair that I remember my grandfather sitting in after a day of tending his garden. He used to grow lots of vegetables on about a quarter-acre patch of ground in addition to hundreds of irises. I dug up a few of the irises and have moved them from house to house. Right now, some of them are being “fostered” by friends in Leawood until the day I can transplant them to our new house in Manhattan, Kansas.

But, back to the lawn chair. I’ve moved that thing around from house to house, like the irises, always intending to repaint it. Needless to say, the six layers of paint have peeled and rust, as it does, attacked it. This is what it looked like until about a week ago:

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Here is what it looks like today:

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I found a company here in town that does powder coating, so I took the chair apart and they stripped it and coated it in a K-State purple. That’s also a Monett High School purple, since my grandfather and grandmother lived in Monett, Missouri, and I graduated from MHS. Suzanne, being a K-State grad, likes the purple and I like having my grandfather’s chair ready for summer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Only Child

My brother used to tell people that he was an only-child; most of them knew that wasn’t true.

“But what about Mike?” they’d ask. My name is Mike.

“Oh, he’s just a guy that’s staying with us while his parents are in Europe. I think they are spies.”

I was three years older than Tim, so maybe that’s why he didn’t acknowledge me as being a part of the family. He wanted to be the oldest, the only.

It’s not that we didn’t get along. In private, he’d say that he was really glad that I was his brother and that I was his best friend. Actually, Tim didn’t seem to have many friends. To tell the absolute truth, Tim didn’t have any friends.

When my friends came to the house, Tim would go out to the tool shed in the back yard and tinker with his bike or that ancient lawnmower he used to earn spending money. He never seemed to want to be around my friends, which was just as well; they were a pretty worthless bunch.

Eddie, my best friend, besides Tim, was what was usually called in those days a “juvenile delinquent.” He was the stereotypical JD, right down to his motorcycle boots and the pack of cigarettes rolled up in his t-shirt sleeve. He was also Fonzi from “Happy Days” around my parents and the rest of our gangs’ parents, as polite and deferential as he could be. How he managed to stay out of jail was a wonder. He must have been a hypnotist because every time he got into a scrape with the principal or the police, he’d look them right in the eye and talk his way out of it. As far as I know, he never made anyone cluck like a chicken, though. Whenever Ronnie and Ned and I were with him, when Eddie was speeding or stealing soda from the gas station cooler, it was the three of us who were caught and punished, not Eddie. We managed to stay out of jail because of Eddie’s skill at explaining the situation as our youthful indiscretions and his promise to keep us in line in the future. I think I heard that Eddie is in the State Department now, a job that I’m sure he’s very good at.

But back to Tim. Being an only child (well pretending that he was) meant that he got special privileges from my parents, and especially from my grandparents. Not only was he the only child, he was also the first grandchild and the first male grandchild back in the days when that really, really mattered. You’d think that we were English nobility, the way our family rewarded birth order.

The first son, of course, inherited the title and money from his father. The second son was expected to go into the church and the third son joined the army. Subsequent male off-spring and daughters basically didn’t count. If you were the fourth, fifth, or sixth son, you might as well have been born into another family, though there had only been one fourth son in eight generations of Watcyn in the “colonies,” he being a complete surprise. Roy Watcyn was my great-great-great Uncle and that’s about all I know about him. No one talks about him, and the family historian, the Rt. Rev. Norman Watcyn, M Div, PhD Psychology, added an asterisk beside his name in the official account of Watcyns down through the ages, with the footnote saying that he was “the fourth son of Grenville and Hilda Watcyn, and a complete surprise.”

My father, Timothy Franklin Watcyn the third, followed his father, my grandfather, Timothy Franklin Watcyn II, in the family business, namely being a modern day robber baron. The family fortune had been assured in the late 1790s when General Augustus Louis Watcyn was granted 75,500 acres of land in western Virginia (now the state of…. West Virginia) by George Washington. Augustus had been one of Washington’s trusted generals in the later stages of the Revolutionary War. Family legend has it, though not entirely confirmed by recorded history, that he had urged Washington to follow General Cornwallis and the British army down to Yorktown, Virginia and engage them in battle. Washington was always conservative when it came to a big fight and he wanted to stay on his plantation at Mount Vernon and wait for the British to make the first move. Again, according to family legend, Augustus went behind Washington’s back and convinced the French to get into the fight and the rest, as they say is history.

Washington never found out what great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather Augustus had done, but since the result was so favorable, a reward was due, hence the land-grant, under which just happened to be tons and tons of coal. Now in the 1790s, no one was looking for coal, but the forests were exploitable, as Grandfather Augustus certainly did, after he divided up and ostensibly “sold” off the land to the participants in westward settlement of the new country. As it turned out, when coal was finally discovered, the deeds to parcels sitting atop that coal had a clause that stated that if any minerals were ever found, those minerals could be extracted without permission of or compensation to the owner of the land. At first, the disruptions were minimal, with mines that were little more than shallow holes in ground. But by the time of the outbreak of the Civil War, Augustus’ grandson, Grenville, had established an extensive extraction operation that some say (again family legend) helped the Union to win the war. Moving the great amounts of war equipment and provisions necessary for the war effort would not have been possible had it not been for the extensive rail system in the east, railroads that ran on coal.

By the end of the war, Grandfather Grenville was one of the richest men in the country and his sole goal in life was to increase that wealth. He was pretty good at it, but his son, Timothy the first, was even better. Coal mines turned into railroads which turned into oil wells which turned into banks which turned into mansions in Pittsburgh and Manhattan, Grandfather Grenville having abandoned Wheeling for the centers of wealth and power. Pied a terre were planted in London and Paris, and a trek to some far-off locale was an annual occurrence.

The first chink in the wall of the family fortune happened in 1905 when Grenville decided to build a house at Oyster Bay, New York, next to the Summer White House of President Theodore Roosevelt. Grenville and Roosevelt had become acquainted when Roosevelt was the police commissioner of New York City. Grandfather Grenville had been an early backer of Roosevelt’s political career, but had become more and more critical of his progressive ideas. By the time Roosevelt had become President, Grenville was a sworn enemy and the house on Oyster Bay was meant to be a snub to the President, being three times the size and many times more luxurious.

At first, Roosevelt and his family ignored their new neighbors, but when the Watcyn parties (which sometimes went on for several days, with hundreds of guests) began to disrupt the Sagamore Hill tranquility, Teddy started looking for ways to take Grenville down a peg or two. He found it at the Federal Security Trust Bank, owned by Grandfather Grenville. The bank was the center of a web of interlocking companies and financial institutions which controlled much of the economy of the country, and thereby, the politicians in scores of cities, counties, states and Washington, D.C. Now not all of Grandfather Grenville’s dealings were corrupt (he was a noted philanthropist, though there aren’t any Watcyn Libraries around the country; he was more inclined to having the family name on hospitals and, ironically, “insane asylums”), but enough questions were asked on occasion to raise suspicions and along with other notables such as Gould, Frick and Morgan before him, he began to lose his grip on his political power and on his empire. By the time Roosevelt left office, most of the Watcyn family fortune had vanished, as had Grenville’s grasp on the world. For the last years of his life, he was confined to a room in the Watcyn State Lunatic Hospital, an institution he endowed with his money from the sale of a couple of oil fields to some guy named Rockefeller.

My great grandfather, Timothy Franklin Watcyn determined to undue damage done by his father and through the remaining connections the family had, obtained a position on the staff of Congressman Nicholas Longworth, who you may remember was married to Teddy Roosevelt’s daughter, Alice. It seems that while their fathers were feuding back in Oyster Bay, Tim and Alice became playmates and life-long friends, which hastened Timothy’s reentry into the world of power and wealth. When Nick Longworth became Speaker of the House in 1925, Timothy was in a position to grant and withhold favors all day long, which he was remarkably good at. When the Republicans lost the majority in the House in 1930, Tim used his influence (and the small fortune he managed to amass on his salary as assistant to Nick Longworth!) to buy a bank in Cincinnati that was about to close as a result of the aftermath of the 1929 crash. He renamed it the Federal Security Trust Bank, thumbing his nose at the people who deserted the family after his father’s fall from grace.

The bank had grown to be one of the largest and most influential in Ohio when my father joined it in 1941, having just graduated from the Wharton School of Business. His fledgling finance career was cut short by the entry of the United States into the Second World War. Given the family connections, it was quite possible that my father could have avoided serving, that honor to have befallen my Uncle Richmond, the third son. But my father’s sense of duty (and my grandfather’s insistence) led him to sign up for the Army Air Corp on the same day that my Uncle Gus joined the navy as a chaplain and Uncle Richmond volunteered for the army.

My father came home from the war a hero, having flown some of the final missions over Germany in 1945. Uncle Gus landed on Iwo Jima and Uncle Richmond served out the war as a clerk at Fort Riley, Kansas. Dad picked up where he left off at the bank and in the early ‘50s was in charge of buying up properties along the Cincinnati waterfront because my grandfather got news that the Federal government was about to begin a program to build a network of “super highways” across the nation. He and Uncle Gus (who had, as a second son was expected to, gone into the church) got into a fight one day because many of the properties dad was buying belonged to some of the poorest of the poor residents of our town. My dad said it was just business, but Uncle Gus said it was immoral to offer almost nothing for their homes, especially since they would have little money to buy anything else. That was the last time I saw my Uncle Gus at our house.

One day, Tim asked, “Mike, do you think it would be OK if we went to St. Auben’s to see Uncle Gus?” Tim knew about the fight between the adults, but he and Uncle Gus seemed to have a special bond and Tim didn’t want to lose that connection.

“Well, I don’t think it would hurt, as long as dad doesn’t find out.”

“Does your dad know Uncle Gus?” Tim asked. I couldn’t tell if he was just kidding or if he was really puzzled by my statement.

This was a new development in our relationship. In public, he never acknowledged that we were brothers, but in private, it was never a question. Something had changed.

“Tim, he’s my uncle, too. You know that. Why would you ask that question?”

“Sorry, Mike, I forgot.”

Maybe Tim was beginning to think that I really wasn’t his brother. Maybe he’d said it so many times that it was becoming real.

A few days later, we hopped on a streetcar and went to St.Auben’s to see Uncle Gus. St.Auben’s was one of the largest Episcopal churches in Cincinnati and Uncle Gus was the Assistant Rector. Our great Uncle Harrison had once been the Rector at St.Auben’s until his elevation to Bishop of Cincinnati. It was assumed that Uncle Gus would become Rector when Rev. Nelson retired, which seemed imminent, family connections paving the way even in the world of religion.

When we got to St.Auben’s, we found Uncle Gus in the garden, tending to the roses; he was an avid gardener, having won medals at the Cincinnati Rose Show, three years in a row. When he saw us he said, “Hi, Tim. How are you doing? Whose your friend?”

Whose your friend?

“This is Mike. He’s staying with us until his parents get back from Europe.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mike. Having a good time with Tim and his family?”

I was so taken aback by this that I didn’t respond right away. By the time I had gained some composure, Tim was asking Uncle Gus what kind of roses he was growing.

“Uncle Gus, quit kidding around. Have you forgotten that I’m Tim’s older brother?”

Tim and Uncle Gus looked at each other with one of those looks that you use when you want to humor someone.

“Mike, I’m sure that Tim appreciates having an ‘older brother.’ It’s always been hard on him, being an only child.”

Uncle Gus was trying to be kind, but it came across as slightly condescending, like somehow I couldn’t possibly be a part of the family. It was also clear that no other discussion or explanation was possible. Tim was an only child and I was a friend whose parents were in Europe. Period. Full stop. OK, that’s redundant, but you get the point.

On the way home, Tim was quieter than usual. Several times I started to ask about what had just happened, but it didn’t seem to be something he wanted to talk about. I let it drop, but a few days later, I heard our dad talking to Tim.

“Tim, I know that you are just a freshman in high school, but you need to be thinking about your future,” dad began. “This is the time in your life to start getting serious about your studies. You know that after high school, your grandfather and I want you to go to Wharton and then come work with us in the bank.”

Wait, he wants Tim to go to work in the bank? That’s what I’m supposed to do when I graduate. I’m going to send my college application off in a few weeks and I have no doubt that I’ll be accepted, considering who my father and grandfather are. Before I knew what I was doing, I walked into the next room where Tim and my dad were talking and I said, “Why are you making plans with Tim when the oldest son in this family always goes into the family business? That’s what I’m supposed to do.”
For the first time in my life, I actually felt like an outsider. Perhaps that was when I realized that I was an outsider.

“Mike, I’d be happy to talk to you about making banking a career, but I have some news for you that I think will make you much happier: I got a telegram from your parents this morning. They are coming home from Europe and will land tomorrow afternoon in Washington. They’ve asked me to get a ticket for you on the Friday morning flight to Dulles, so you’d better go start packing. They’ll meet you at the airport.”

I suppose the look on my face could have been mistaken for joy, but in fact it must have reflected my incredulity. The man I thought was my dad wasn’t and Tim wasn’t my brother. Like my Uncle Gus said, Tim really was an only child.

The Neosho Massacree

Today is the day that many of us of a certain age (over 6o, let’s say) celebrate… the real-life incident that inspired “Alice’s Restaurant Massacree,”  a song about criminal behavior, the war in Vietnam and a Thanksgiving dinner of unusual proportions. This, in fact, is the fiftieth anniversary of that event.

The song has special meaning for me because I was part of something quite similar. The following is a true account, as far as I can remember the details (it happened a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, you know), of the Neosho massacree.

The story starts in the summer of 1966 when I join a rock ‘n roll band called The Approximate Thots. Previously, I was the stand-up bass player in a Dixieland band that performed at summer church picnics, senior citizens’ parties and political events. One day, we traveled around the county on the back of a farm truck, playing at rallies for a Republican candidate for state representative. Sunburn and $25 to split between the five of us was our reward. I’m pretty sure the guy won, since only Republicans ever ran for office in Lawrence County.

Joining the Thots was a real change in prestige, especially among my peers. There was nothing less-cool in the mid-sixties than playing Dixieland jazz, so being in a rock band was big stuff. We were the prototypical garage band, rehearsing in our parents’ garages, breezeways  or back yards until the neighbors had had enough and the police came to tell us to pull the plug. We were what was known then as a “cover band” doing faithful renditions of the Young Rascals, Buckinghams, Dave Clark Five, Byrds, Lovin’ Spoonful, and Freddie and the Dreamers, with a few Beatles and Stones thrown in. We played sock hops around southwest Missouri and ironically, that summer we were invited to play one of the church picnics my Dixieland band had done the year before. The gentleman who invited us had no idea what type music we played; he just had the business card with my number on it. Boy, was he surprised when a bunch of “long-haired hippies” showed up and started playing “Get Off My Cloud” at 110 decibels. He literally pulled the plug on us.

When fall came, we headed off to school, then known as Southwest Missouri  State College, now Missouri State University. I had a full scholarship to SMS, having been a good student in high school, but I managed to spend all my time either playing in the band or listening to music with my roommate. After the first year, I was politely asked not to come back. I was not heart-broken, to say the least, but I began to be aware that not being in school was not a good idea, given that the war in Vietnam was heating up and a college deferment was an important thing to have.

I managed to enroll at Crowder Junior College in Neosho, despite having a .01 grade point from SMS. I spent a semester commuting back and forth between Monett and Neosho, attempting to atone for my academic sins. By the end of the semester, I had proven to the Dean of Students that I was worthy to continue and so decided to move to Neosho to save the commuting time. A couple of my friends from SMS who had also had lackluster careers there and I rented a house and settled down to work on our studies.

By this time, the Approximate Thots had become the Ultimate Purpose and we continued to play dates around the area. That lasted until one of our members, the organ player, Steve Vermillion, got drafted, which meant that quite a bit of our repertoire followed him to the Army. No more Rascals, Buckinghams, Dave Clark Five, Doors. The band membership had always been fluid: sometimes there were five of us, sometimes four, sometimes even six, but the core group was made up of John “Breeze Blues” Mitchell on drums, Dennis “Denny” Willard on guitar and vocals, and me on bass. At just about the time that Steve was heading off to boot camp, we heard a group called the Jimi Hendrix Experience that had only three pieces: drums, guitar, bass. Heck, we thought, we could do that. And so we did.

Despite rehearsing and playing gigs, I managed to keep my grades up and prepared to graduate with an associate of arts degree. Shortly before the end of the semester, my friends and I started cleaning out the house we were renting. I was planning to move but a couple of my housemates intended to stay on. Now, in southwest Missouri at the time, not many towns provided trash service. Most people either used a barrel in their back yard to burn whatever would burn or hauled the refuse to the town dump (at that time, as far as I know, there were no “landfills,” that being a rather modern linguistic convention). Over the course of the semester, we had “stockpiled” our trash in the garage, but finally decided that it was prudent to dispose of it properly, so we piled it into the back of a friend’s pickup and headed to the dump. Much like Arlo Guthrie discovered on Thanksgiving Day in 1965, we discovered on a Sunday in 1968 that the town dump was closed. Now, most folks would just turn around and go home and wait until the next day to deliver the trash to the dump, but as I remember it, it was a nice spring day and we weren’t inclined to make a return trip, so on the way back to our house, we happened to pass a spot at the side of the country road that obviously had been used by other impatient folks to leave their unneeded bread wrappers, food cans, old clothes, and letters from long-lost relatives. We looked at each other, stopped the truck and began tossing our treasures onto the obviously well-visited pile.

A few days later, as I sat in the front room of our house listening to The Blues Project play “Violets of Dawn” (actually, I certainly can’t remember what I was listening to but that was, and still is, a favorite of mine, so it very well might have been on the turntable. Note for my younger readers: a turntable was a device that we used back in the olden days to play round pieces of plastic called “records.” I know, it seems like an inefficient way to listen to music, but it was all we had and it worked, unless you happened to step on the records, which always seemed to be strewn across the floor) when I heard a knock at the door. Not expecting company, I opened the curtains just a bit and peeked out. Caution was called for at that time because a couple of my friends were in the back bedroom experimenting with an herbal compound that was said to have spiritual and soothing properties. To my shock, on the other side of the door was a Sheriff’s deputy, looking quite perturbed. For a moment, I considered just pretending that I hadn’t heard him knock but knock again he did, more forcefully this time. Nothing to do but open the door and be arrested, along with my friends, for inhaling, as Bill Clinton would say (for the record, I only tried pot one time, not this time, and even though I inhaled, I really didn’t enjoy it).

“Are you Charles St.Clair?” the deputy asked. “Is this your letter?”

He handed me an envelope that clearly had my name on it.

“Yes, I am. I guess this is my letter.”

“We found it out in a pile of trash by the dump. We think you should go out and clean it up. Get in your truck and I’ll follow you out.”

By this time, my friends had emerged from the back room, looking a bit glassy-eyed, but wondering what was going on.

“Maybe your friends can help you clean up the mess,” the deputy suggested.

“Yeah, we’d be happy to, officer,” one of them said, just managing to suppress a laugh.

So, we all got in my friend’s truck, with me driving, and followed the deputy and his partner to the dump site and spent the next couple of hours throwing trash, ours and everyone else’s who used that place, into the back of the truck. My friends would occasionally descend into a fit of giggling and snorting, which irritated the deputies, but since we were doing what we were told to do, they let it slide, not suspecting the reason for the mirth.

When we finished, we got one of those “don’t ever do it again” lectures and were allowed to go on our way. The next day, we went back to the dump and emptied the truck.

There were a few times after that, especially after I heard “Alice’s Restaurant” and Arlo’s experience with the draft, that I wished I had gotten arrested and fined for “litterin’.” That would have solved my problem with the draft board, but looking back, I’m proud that I chose another route and applied for a “conscientious objector” classification, which I miraculously was granted. Being a CO is, on the whole, more honorable than being a convicted felon, although I know in some circles, they are considered to be pretty much the same thing.

So, happy “Alice’s Restaurant Massacree” 50th anniversary to you all. Don’t litter.

 

The thing about insurance….

Suzanne got a new iPhone the other day (and I inherited the old one; this is the second hand-me-down I’ve gotten, the first being a bizarre Windows phone that only marginally qualified as a “Smart phone”; I got her “old” iPhone 5c which does seem pretty smart in comparison). It’s bright and shiny and does all kinds of wonderful things, including making phone calls. Funny how the phone feature of most “phones” these days is not really one of the selling points (I almost typed “celling points” but decided that pun might just be too much); apps and texts and tweets and the fact that your phone can talk back to you (Siri, where did Ernestine go? Did she get fired?) without having to make a call to someone are the things that seem to attract most buyers these days (and what ever happened to the days when the phone company gave you a phone, albeit not one you could carry around in your pocket, for the privilege of gouging you on long-distance calls?).

Not too long ago, you walked into the phone store and plunked down a fifty bucks and walked out with a device that looked and mostly acted like the communicators on Star Trek, and that was pretty much their only function: to communicate. Now, you walk into the store and plunk down $600 to buy one; or even better, “lease” a Smart phone for $25 a month, with the right to get a new one every six months, since that seems to be the time-frame in which your phone becomes oboleted (I’ve decided to start making verbs out of nouns like GWB used to do; ah, how I miss that moron; he somehow looks almost intelligent, or at least benign, compared to the current crop of wackos running for President on the GOP side of the political spectrum) by Apple or Samsung.

In addition to the purchase price, we learned this time that you can get insurance for your phone, in case you drop it or lose it or it gets eaten by a bear while you are on vacation in Yellowstone Park (which, by the way, I understand has great reception; the park, not the bear). For only $8 a month, all of those mishaps, and many more, are covered. However, there is a deductible of $150, so over the course of your two-year lease you get to pay $192 plus $150 if something happens to the phone. That’s 57% of the price of the phone.

Hmmm.

So for comparison, let’s say you lease a $30,000 car for two years. The monthly insurance cost would be $400 and your deductible would be $7,500. Now, I suppose if you have two teenage sons, you might be paying $400 a month, but would you even let them drive your $30,000 car? An accident would wind up costing you $17,100 for the two years you had that car. Somehow seems like a lot to me.

Well, Suzanne declined the insurance for her bright, shiny new iPhone and vowed to herself never to drop or lose it, but it looks like we will have to cancel our trip to Yellowstone next summer. Wonder what there is to do in Topeka? Hope there aren’t any bears there.

Manhattan Meanderings #1

The dogs and I have been in Manhattan for a month now (Suzanne came over in April) and we are beginning to settle into a routine. Well, to be honest, I’m beginning to settle into their routine.

I’ve been getting up at 6:00 a.m. and going to the recreation center at K-State. Suzanne and I signed up a few days ago and so far, I’ve made it over to stretch and walk three times. Since I don’t have a parking permit for any of the campus lots, I have to make sure that I leave the rec-center before 7:00 or risk getting a ticket. There are a few parking meters and parking is free before 7:00 a.m. and after 4:00 p.m., so those are my target hours. Before I leave the house, I turn on the coffee pot so Suzanne will have hot coffee when she gets up. When I get back, I let the dogs out for a couple of minutes, which begins their day. I usually get to have a cup of coffee before they are ready for breakfast. After they eat, they are ready for a nap for a few minutes and I get to sit and check the news on HLN and finish my coffee. By this time, Suzanne is ready for work and the dogs are ready for their morning constitutional. They’ve figured out a few routes they like to walk. We live about two blocks from Cico Park, so we go up that way sometimes or walk a block over to Claflin, one of the main east/west roads. There are sidewalks along both sides of Claflin, so that keeps everyone relatively clean and dry. We’ll see who shovels their sidewalks come winter, but for now, it’s a pleasant walk. We occasionally venture onto some of the side streets, but our walks are usually less than a mile or so; Harry can’t make it much more than that these days, but he’s game for the adventure.

When we get back to the house, I give Harry his Shen Calming capsules. Harry is almost 14 years old, so he’s lost a lot of his hearing and some of his eyesight. When he thinks that he is alone, he gets a little anxious, so the capsules help to calm his nerves. In the evening, he gets Hindquarter Weakness capsules to help with his back end. Our vet in Leawood, Dr. Sally Barchman, has been practicing holistic animal medicine for a couple of years now and Harry has been getting Chinese herbs and acupuncture to help with the weakness he developed. Now that we are in Manhattan, we will continue with the herbs, but I’m not sure we’ll find an acupuncturist. I’m taking Harry for a visit to the K-State Vet School next week, so we’ll see what they may recommend.

Harry’s herbs come in powder form. I tried sprinkling them on his food for a while, but they are rather bitter and he finally decided he’d had enough of that, so I bought a “capsule machine,” a little plastic gizmo I use to fill gelatin capsules with the herbs. I can fill 24 capsules at a time. He gets nine Weakness capsules at night and nine Calming capsules in the morning, all with peanut butter to make them go down easily. So, we run through a lot of peanut butter and I fill a lot of capsules.

PillsAfter the dogs’ breakfast and a walk, I attend to things that need to be done after our move. We have a contract on our house and close on the 20th. I have one more trip to make back to Leawood to gather up the last couple of pieces of artwork and garden tools, and to dig up and divide some heirloom irises that I’ve been moving from place to place. I have four that I got from my grandfather’s garden in Monett. He was a champion iris-grower, which seems improbable for an engineer on the Frisco Railroad, but it was his hobby and he was good at it. I also have an iris from our friends in Columbia, Lynda and Dan Dunham, and one from Suzanne’s mom’s old house in South Holland, Illinois. Our friends Dave and Amy and Buck and Sherri have agreed to “foster” my iris until such time as we buy a house here in Manhattan, probably next summer.

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Last week, Suzanne and I got a tour of the K-State Vet School. Our other vet in Leawood, Dr. Vern Otte, is a graduate of K-State, so we decided to check out the school here. We had a good experience with the vet school and hospital in Columbia, at Mizzou, when one of our dogs, Maggie, had to have some surgery. Harry and I will be meeting Dr. Nelson next week and seeing what she might recommend for Harry.

Before I moved, Suzanne sent me a link to a place on the K-State campus called the Sensory Analysis Center. It’s a unit that does product research on all kinds of things. You can sign up and participate in product testing, for which you get a small stipend. Depending on your interests, you might get to test foods, beverages, cosmetics, fabrics, packaging, paints, health care, personal care products or fragrances. I participated in a preference test related to dog food a couple of weeks ago . I’m not supposed to reveal the details of the test, but I felt really full after it was over. I’m doing another one tomorrow; I hope the samples are smaller.

Getting to know a new place takes some time. It helps to have had several geography classes in the past; I’m good at reading maps and once I figure out which way is north, I’m hardly ever lost. Discovering the major east/west, north/south streets helps, too. North/south streets in Manhattan are numbered, up to 17th Street; after that, they have names. East/west streets are all named. So far, I haven’t found any “rhyme or reason” to the naming. There are a couple of neighborhoods that seem to have a bit of a theme, one in which the streets are named for states (Virginia, Indiana, Illinois, Montana and Utah) and one neighborhood with street names of Ivy League schools (Princeton, Dartmouth, and Harvard), and for some reason Amherst, but it seems pretty random. We live on Cherokee Circle, but across the street, Givens, that our cul-de-sac is off is another cul-de-sac called Sioux Circle. Why not Cherokee or Sioux for both of them? There’s a Chippewa Circle in our neighborhood, but also a Bigfoot Street. Odd.

One of my goals over the next year is to eat at all the non-chain restaurants in Manhattan, or at least most of them. We are doing pretty well so far, but it’s easy just to grab something at Panera or Dairy Queen or Olive Garden rather than putting in the effort to seek out the local joints. More on our culinary cruising (as well as success/failure in finding a doctor, dentist, barber, the Goodwill store) in a later Meanderings.

From the Little Apple, the #1 Most Livable College Town in America (according to livability.com)…

Would you like a walker with that bagel?

Like most Baby Boomers, I don’t feel old. I mean, I’m only 67; old doesn’t start until around 90, right?

Every now and then, though, I get hints. I don’t mean having trouble getting up off the sofa or unaccountably falling asleep in the middle of the afternoon and then having trouble getting up off the sofa. No, the hints usually come from an encounter I have with someone much, much younger.

Like today. I had stopped at Panera to get some bagels. I’ve been wanting a bagel for the last few days and since I was out, I decided to stop by and… buy. Panera is one of my favorite retail establishments. For a couple of years after I retired, I went to the Panera near our house almost every morning for a pastry and an unlimited cup of coffee. I’d sit and read, or work on my cookbook (http://www.amazon.com/dp/1495304442). And surprisingly, over those two years, I managed to gain ten pounds. I can’t imaging how it happened, exactly; bear claws and cherry pastries and cinnamon rolls don’t weigh much and coffee certainly doesn’t. Well, after I finished my cookbook (http://www.amazon.com/dp/1495304442), I decided I’d start my mornings doing something different and I began going to the Jewish Community Center, where we had a membership, four, sometime five, sometimes six times a week. Over the past year, I’ve not only lost those ten pounds I had gained, but lost a few more. I discovered that some of the pants in my closet had not actually shrunk, as I was pretty sure they had done (there is scientific research that suggests that the atmosphere in closets contributes to shrinkage of clothing fibers; really, you can look it up). The combination of not going to Panera ever morning and our preparations for moving to Manhattan have cut my calories and my writing, but over all, it’s been a good trade-off.

But, I digress.

This is not about gaining weight or about my cookbook (http://www.amazon.com/dp/1495304442); it’s about aging.

As I said, now and then an encounter provides a renewed glimpse of reality. The young lady who cheerfully asked if she could help me and if I had a Panera card, had a name-tag that said “The Beatles.” In addition to their name, like Mary or Tom or Rolando, every Panera associate puts a word or phrase on their tag that indicates something they are really interested in. I think it’s meant to be a conversation-starter or way to connect with the customer, though I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone but me ask about why they like photography or “my kids” or Jesus. Well, as I said Jessica’s (not her real name, wink, wink) tag said the Beatles, so I asked “What’s your favorite Beatles song?”

“Blackbird,” she answered without hesitation.

“Ah, that’s a good one,” I said. “Why do you like ‘Blackbird’?”

“My grandmother used to sing it to me all the time,” Jessica replied.

GRANDMOTHER. Not mother. GRANDMOTHER. Jessica’s GRANDMOTHER grew up listening to the Beatles. Jessica got her love of the Beatles from her GRANDMOTHER! I grew up listening to the Beatles (all those 45s and LPs are stored in boxes awaiting our next move). Jessica’s GRANDMOTHER and I are probably about the same age!

So, there it was, in the middle of Panera, the reminder that I’m not 21, or 35, or even 45. I’m not old, but I’m not chronologically young either. I guess this is what middle-age feels like. Fortunately, I’m not sitting on the sofa writing this, but I do feel a nap coming on.