Sunday, February 7, 2016

Garage Door - Adventures in Property Management

I received a call while I was at work from the Mrs. - the upstairs tenant couldn't get into his apartment - a very old lock was frozen up. So that evening I jumped off of the bus already knowing that I was stepping into One of Those Nights.

No answer at the broken-lock tenant's house, I left a message.

Mrs.: "He wasn't home?"

Me: "Nope, not home. Just give me the keys, and I'll go up and take a look at the lock without him"

"I don't have the keys, they are lost - I had them when I left the house"

Sigh. Another call to the tenant's answer machine: "We'll have to wait until you're home again, Milt, because we have no keys."

Retracing my wife's steps, I found the keys mashed into the slush in the road, the key ring in pieces. Another victim of Parallel Parking.

I let myself in to the tenant's apartment, the sluggish lock had been worked open. Annabelle, the Labrador answered the door. She decided that there was nothing she could do to help, what do dogs know anyway? Annabelle went back to her sofa, and resumed her nap. Then, I heard Milton's voice.

"Gary is that you?"

"Yes, I'm here to look at the lock."

"I'm here on the bedroom floor. I couldn't get to the phone."

Milton is a weight trainer. One of his over-tensed muscles had tangled into a paralyzing leg cramp. He wasn't even able to get to the phone.

"Could you bring me a glass of water from the kitchen?"

I brought him the water - "Say, isn't Annabelle supposed to run for help or something when you can't get to the phone? Like Lassie?"

Ignoring the sarcasm, slowly, Milt worked the hydration into his system, and soon was able to try standing up. While waiting to make sure Milt would be OK, I fixed the lock with a judiciously placed spritz of WD-40.

And So - Milton standing? CHECK
Lock working again? - CHECK-O My work there is finished.

Arrived At Home. - My wife was waving the TV remote at me menacingly. "I can't get this @#$@ to work." Wanna see vexation personified? Separate my wife from her TV! The remote had lost its programming. I think it was just despondent from all those lawyer ads and courtroom shows. Reprogrammed it to factory freshness while waiting for the Mrs. to put on her coat - we had places to go! Couldn't do anything about the crappy programming, that's a network thing.

Next Stop - 3rd street, a mile away, to show The Duplex to Dave, a prospective tenant. Dave was on time, he took the tour, and talked awhile, and then he wanted to see the garage. I've always believed that if you've seen one empty garage, you've seen them all, but the customer is always right. So, we left Mrs. inside the heated house because she had a cold, too. And I took my own cold, the remote opener control, and Dave, and went out to the garage to have a look.



I pushed the button on the remote control, and, the door went up three feet. Then it changed its mind and went back down. Repeated that a few times. Finally, wanting something more than a 3-foot preview, with a little upward pressure, we got the door to go up all the way. Dave toured the empty garage, that didn't take long, and we headed back. Close the door? Push the button!

This time when I pushed the button on the door control, the door rumbled down halfway, and turned around and went back up to the top, kind of the opposite of its opening act. A few of these capers, and Dave and I decided to give it an assist via the handles, me on the inside, Dave on the outside. Finally the garage door rode all the way down. Me on the inside, Dave on the outside. Yes, this is, after all, Excelsior's Adventures in Property Management, and something always goes wrong. And to answer your question in the back row, "Yes, yes. Gary has trapped himself inside the garage." As the garage door settles down and comes to rest on the driveway, I just knew that the door had completed its last move for the night. We tried the button a few more times, and all we were able to get was one side of the door to shrug up about 2 inches.

In the stillness of the winter night, one comes to the realization that there is no door, no other way out of the garage, except through the garage door. But the garage door does not go up. Dave was asking if there was anything he could do, but by then I was already making plans to spend the winter in the bleakness of an empty garage - we could slip some books through the 2 inch space under the door, maybe some protein bars, and sooner or later, it would be spring.

But, then gradually, I regained my will to live. MacGyver that I am, I found a 3 ft length of 2x4, and went to work wedging it into the space at the bottom of the door. Heave the door up about 9 inches above the ground. Dave kicked away an ice shelf at the base of the door. I took off my jacket, and managed to ooze through the 9 inch space. Filthy but free, I emerged into the cold and spacious freedom of the near-zero Milwaukee night. Free at last.

Of course, my wife was mad at me for keeping the prospective tenant out in the cold so  long with my time-consuming shenanigans. Why, yes it IS a beautiful night when you're watching it from the comfort of a heated house!

Wednesday, January 20, 2016

Sparkle - (repost - but look at the new photo!)


This post was originally run a few years ago, and has been a perennial reader favorite, judging by the analytics.  The reason for the repost is to show off a photo of something I got for Christmas.  My friend Norm has a brother in Minnesota, Dave.  This year, for Christmas, Dave sent me an antique Sparkle Spritzer. I filled it up with the secret formula, and what we now have is a tangible piece of good times gone by.  Thanks, Dave!
=====================
It occurred to me as I started writing this, that, at the time this story takes place, 1959, my grandfather was the same age that I am now.  He always seemed so old, even then...When he was at home, my grandfather, Lionel Kuhn, would wear a white t-shirt and blue-and-white pinstripe bib overalls.  He'd be constantly puffing on a cheap cigar - White Owls were his favorite. 

Grandpa worked for a commercial painting contractor.  When he was not on an out-of-town contract, Grandpa's world was a finished basement in the house he had built himself on Center Street in Watertown in the 1930s.  Every corner of the basement was finished - ceilings tiled, walls papered, and floors painted, kitchen, refrigerator stocked with frosty bottles of Hamm's beer.  

One of Grandpa's favorite pastimes on weekends was cleaning paint brushes.  Raue and Sons would supply their workers with the finest paintbrushes available, but at the end of the week, the brushes would be tossed away, for a new start the following week. Properly cleaning a brush is a time-consuming process, and the contractor found it more cost-effective to discard the brushes. Grandpa would save the old brushes in sealed paint cans, and would take them home and clean them.  Sometimes there would even be remnants of paint, which Grandpa would meticulously strain, and bring to proper consistency.  Grandpa knew and loved paint.  From his arsenal of thinners, linseed oil, turpentine and white lead, he could practically build his own paint. 

We'd use wire brushes, and a crank-operated brush spinner, and plenty of hard work to get the brushes back to like-new cleanliness. Grandpa had hundreds of paintbrushes that he had rescued, and kept them in a metal steamer trunk. While we worked, there was plenty of entertainment.  An old phonograph worked away at a stack of 78s.  The Missouri Waltz, polkas and waltzes by Bernie Roberts, Lawrence Duchow, and Frankie Yankovic, Oh Them Golden Slippers, organ music by Ken Griffin, and tunes by the Andrews Sisters.  We'd sing along, beat on the table with paint sticks

And ... we'd cuss.  Why, where the hell else is a kid going to learn to say "Goddammit!" when he hits his thumb with a hammer?  Hey, what happens in Grandpa's goddam basement stays in Grandpa's basement!


Grandma seldom came down into the basement - only to do the washing.  But she had Grandpa trained to come whenever he was called.  So, no matter how inconvenient, when the call came floating down the stairs, he was there for her ....

"Lionel, I can't find the Windex!  Were you using it to wash the car?"

under his breath, "Goddammit!", then, yelling back up the stairs

"WHAAT?" 

Even though he heard her the first time, he'd make her repeat the question a few times just to be cantankerous.  Grandpa looked quickly through the shelves of the paint room, and found a bottle of Sparkle Window Cleaner, but no Windex.  He went to the bottom of the step:  

"I've got Sparkle!"

Grandma's smoldering reply to this helpful hint came booming back down the steps:  

"I'LL SPARKLE YOUR ASS! Go downtown and get me some Windex!"


We were stunned, at first. She was really in a mood, today.  Then Grandpa, aside to me mimicked softly  "I'll Sparkle your ass!"
Have you ever been laughing so hard that you couldn't even breathe?  Neither of us could speak for about 10 minutes, we were laughing so hard, and then, Grandpa would gasp out in a whisper "I'll Sparkle your ass!"  and we'd start laughing all over again.

We resigned ourselves to having to go downtown.  But, it wasn't all that inconvenient - there were plenty of other necessary side-trips on the way to National Tea - Albrecht's Badger Paint, Kusel's Hardware, coffee and donuts at Zweig's Grill, Charlie Howard's Tavern if Ed Raue's truck was there, Drost's Smoke Shop for some more cigars -- another story another time.  But, we almost drove Grandpa's '39 Chevy into a light post when Grandpa once again whispered "I'll Sparkle your ass!"

To this day, with a little turpentine and a cigar, I can travel in time back to my Grandpa's basement. 

Monday, January 18, 2016

Meatball Sandwich

A few weeks ago, my true luv and I went grocery shopping.  The holidays had taken their toll on our pantry - we can usually only go shopping on Friday nights, and the last two Fridays had been Christmas Day and New Year's Day.  

I love that Joyce has taken an interest in the weekly grocery shopping. We are both so busy, me with the Day Job, and her with her Women's Apparel shop and then we are always both working on the rental properties.  So, grocery shopping actually gives us time to do something together, for a change.

Let me tell you something about my wife - she is a careful shopper. She's been called thrifty, frugal, and a whole lot of other less pleasant things by people she's done business with.  She will not buy anything without thorough cost comparisons. This carries over into our everyday life as well.  If we're dining out, I am not surprised when she calls the restaurant ahead of time to get a quote on a martini.  

On the way home, after an evening of taking advantage of the grocers, it was getting kind of late, so I suggested that we stop at Subway and pick up some nice tasty meatball subs. Subway Meatball Marinara sandwiches are, in my opinion, the best sandwiches available from a sub sandwich chain. 

We went down the order  line. You get to choose your type of bread, type of cheese, and then on to the garnish table, where you can add lettuce, peppers, spinach, onions, olives, who all knows what else, and various salad dressings. Well, on a meatball sandwich there's not too much to add, it's kinda self-contained, put on a few pepperoncini, (yellow peppers) and you're good to go.  I headed for the wrapup/cash register counter.  

But Joyce was being precise, as usual.  She told them she wanted to heat up her meatball sandwich in the oven when we got home, so she would like her toppings on the side, thank you very much. The sub technician said 'no problem', and got out a small container, and put the garnishes in there.  There was spinach, lettuce, some red onions,, green peppers.. . and then I suspected what Joyce was up to....   I looked at her, and she gave me that "shut up or you'll die" look.  I looked straight ahead and paid for the order.  After the tech had assembled Joyce's vegetables, Joyce asked for a bit of ranch dressing as well, and then the tech put a cover on it.

When we got out in the mini-van, I said to her. "You're welcome.  I didn't use the 'S' word inside."

"Good thing for you." She replied. "And I'm not going to give you any of my FREE SALAD."

The things we do to get through the winter....

Friday, December 25, 2015

God Bless Us Every One

Author's Note



Yesterday's post, a short story called Angela had one glaring omission.  In my hurry to meet the Christmas Eve deadline, I forgot to credit my best friend Norman Lorenz for his help in the creation of the story.  Christmas programs were always a focal point in both of our lives - we were always in the same classes together from first grade on.  We lived for -- and lived in -- scenes like the fictional one depicted in the story - a blessed and wonderful childhood.

Norm and I are always reminiscing about how important the Christmas services always were to us. Without Norm's encouragement and suggestions,  the story first of all mightn't have had a full moon, and the story mightn't have gotten finished at all. Thank you, Norm for your constant encouragement.

Norm's probably up in Door County today, with the relatives, singing Christmas songs like Elvis, or Bing.  Merry Christmas to everyone there, and everywhere.

God Bless Us, Every One!


Wednesday, December 23, 2015

Angela

This is a work of fiction. If you notice any resemblance to people in real life, then I've done my job! Thanks to my lifelong friend Norm Lorenz for his encouragement and story ideas.

Pine View Memorial Manor in Sun Prairie! Imagine living a happy normal life, and then ending up commited to a hell hole like Pine View Memorial Manor.  Not quite Carnegie Hall, but we did our part to make sure that the poor captive old people would have decent Christmas music on Christmas Eve. My friend Norm plays saxophone, banjo, and has a resonant singing voice like a fine old wood-cabinet radio. And I play accordion.  We all had a good time re-discovering the old Christmas favorites from the '40s and '50s. Our Christmas show is about as good as it gets.  And now, I was heading home.  Taking little-known county highways through all sorts of tiny villages, and speed traps without names.

And of course a red light called "ALT" lit up on my dashboard. I had a slight suspicion that this light did not mean "Tune in some nice Alternative music on your car radio."  The hopeless noise that the car made next confirmed my suspicion.  My knowledge of things automotive is so little that people near me suffer from second-hand idiocy.  My car was broke. Broke. I tried starting the engine once more. There was a half-hearted grunt from the engine room.  The next time I tried, there was only a menacing castanet sound.

Just like the movies. Nothing like car trouble to put people in places they'd rather not be.  In the eerie stillness of the moonlit night, I thought to myself "Well, ain't this just your average Twilight Zone! What's next? Clarence the angel coming with jumper cables? 'You've had a wonderful life, George  Bailey!' Or maybe it's Freddie Kruger, come to wish me a merry holiday – "Now slash away hack away whack away all!"

Damn. All I could think of was what Baldoni said after my almost $1000 accordion overhaul.  "Whatever you do, don't let the box out in freezing weather. You'll wreck the seals on the reed blocks."  So, how am I going to get home before my reed blocks freeze? And, how am I going to get home at all?  Maybe my accordion repair budget would have been better spent on giving the old vintage piece of Americana Chevrolata a bit of a preventive once-over!

I got out of my car, and stepped into the stillness of the moonlit Christmas Eve night.  A breath of fresh clean air, that would soon become the onset of hypothermia unless I could find some help. A sign next to the road said "New Hope", pop. 637. Yeah, right. 637 people and nobody's ever heard of Triple A.  I grabbed my accordion case and headed down the side of the deserted highway in the direction of the "city".  Lotta luck finding something open on Christmas Eve.

The first sign of civilization was a dark church on the right side of the road.  Someone walking in front of the church. From this distance in the frosty winter air, it looked like the person walking toward me had wings on their back. As we got closer together, it turned out it really was a person with wings. A lady with honest-to-god angel wings was walking toward me from the church. Oh, wait, duh, Christmas Eve – Church - there's always a Christmas pageant.

The angel-lady walked right up to me.  "You're here, Peter. This way. We found some candles, in case the power doesn't return."  The lady had golden hair and huge beautiful eyes. Close up she looked a lot older than my first impression, but still - those eyes!. She spoke softly, but with such authority that I would feel out of place turning her down. She turned around and I found myself walking to the church with her. And, how on earth did she know my name? These small country churches don't have very big budgets for things like costumes. That angel costume definitely had a few miles on it, yet although ancient looking, the costume had remarkable detail.

She paused, looked at me and, clasping my hand, said "I'm Angela." Her hand felt warm, surprising for the way she was dressed.  She couldn't fit a top-coat over those wings.  "The lights, the organ, even the boiler, all the things we take for granted, all of them stopped working. The power is gone." Her eyes, very dark and deep in the moonlight gave extra meaning to every word she spoke.  "The service starts in less than half an hour, and no lights on the Christmas tree.  I hope you'll be able to help..."

And I thought I was the one looking for help...

The church doors opened to reveal a chaotic darkness inside. People were lighting candles, trying to see without the lights. The children were grouping on one end of the foyer, rehearsing their recitations for the service with one another, nervously wondering how this would all go without the organ to lead them, and hardly able to see the director in the dark. The priest, dressed in his special white Christmas surplice, was helping to distribute his supply of extra altar candles. And they getting more light - candles lighting other candles.  Apparently the plan was to proceed with the service by candlelight.

I looked around for the angel wings, but Angela was nowhere to be seen. Making myself "at home", I placed my accordion case on the floor of the coat room.  A very old Italian-looking guy eyed the case familiarly.  I explained – "It's my accordion. It can't stay outside because the reed blocks will freeze."

"Good care makes sweet music", the old guy replied.  "I'm Luigi, the organist. Out of work tonight, so sad," a hitch in his voice.  "In old country, I was very good accordionist. Wedding, church, dance.  So long ago..." His eyes were misty. "Was a Baldoni, such a sweet sound."

"Baldoni? Hey, guess what? This is a Baldoni, too!"  I flopped the accordion case flat on foot of the coat rack and snapped it open.  "That's why I take such good care of it."

With awe in his gaze, Luigi touched the closed bellows of the instrument, as if he couldn't believe it was real. "Oh, so beautiful" he whispered.

I could see that he wanted to, so I asked "Would you like to try it out?"  After all, without power for his organ, an organist has a lot of free time on his hands. just a frustrated bystander.

"Bless you," said Luigi and began to pick up the instrument.

A lady barged into the coat room and grabbed me by the elbow. "You are the one.  Thank you very much to help us with the electric. I'll take you down and show you what a shambles we are in!"  She was a stocky red-faced lady wearing a white apron. "I'm Marilyn. She beckoned me to come down the stairs.  She held a candle.  I pulled out my pocket flashlight to see my way down the creaking, turning stairway.  My accordion, I was sure, was in good hands with Luigi.

The church basement, an instantly recognizable church basement smell. The flashlight revealed a room all set up for an after-service dinner that was not to be.  Tables were set with  with napkins and utensils. The serving table was filled with a row of Nesco roasters, the food warmers of choice for generations. "Look, LOOK! My meatballs, so good, and now so very cold."  She slammed down the lid of the Nesco.  "Kielbasa, borscht, we all make our best food, our old family recipes, and now  -- all we will have -- just cookies! Might as well be Baptists."

Apparently, this was a case of mistaken identity. The person they were expecting was probably someone who would know how to solve the problem. Someone with a little mechanical aptitude. Somebody had been called, and they thought I was him. I am not he. And how had they even placed a call, if there's no power in the building? Where was this guy?

"There!" she pointed to a small utility room next to the stainless steel kitchen sink. "The power, the boiler, it's all in there! There's a screwdriver and some hammers in the drawer over there." Marilyn did NOT ask if there were any further questions.  She turned around and went back upstairs. It was all my own problem, now. Why me?  Bewildered, I stepped into the foreign confines of the church's utility control room.... The main circuit breaker had tripped, and I know that it takes a severe trauma to knock out a main breaker.  I looked carefully around with my flashlight. Having reset all the breakers, the main breaker still would not hold the circuit. Nothing was apparently wrong, no melted or disconnected wires.  I'm no electrician, but I know when not to touch something you don't know about.  This problem would take more electrical know-how than I had accumulated in my entire life.

I felt sorry for the parishioners, and wished I could have helped them. Memories of cherished childhood pageants past helped me to appreciate the ultimate importance of the focal social event of the church's holiday season. Defeated, though, I went softly up the stairs, to find Angela, and explain that there was nothing I could do. There would not be any electricity tonight, so sorry.

The church was very quiet as I entered, and stood against the back wall by the organ loft. The service had begun. Lighted only by candles, the church had been transformed into a golden sanctuary. Parishioners huddled together for warmth. The children were performing the recitations they had been rehearsing. They  told the timeless familiar story of the prophecies, and the Nativity, in unison, individually, and in song. A pause, then a familiar sound - Luigi had my accordion in the organ loft, and was leading the songs. He coaxed a sweet harmonious voice from the accordion, each note caressing the voices of the children as they sang "Away in a Manger". Wished I could play like that!

The beautiful golden candlelight gave newness to the old familiar verses. "And she brought forth her first-born son and wrapped him in swaddling clothes and laid Him in a manger."  A pause. A lady whispered loudly "LOOK!" She was pointing to the life-size nativity set in the front of the church. The rest of the congregation, momentarily distracted, whispered and pointed to the stable. The light from the full Christmas moon had focused through the stained glass windows a beam of clear white moonlight directly on the baby in the manger.

Silent Night, Holy Night.  Luigi began to play softly on the bassoon reeds of the accordion. The children began the verse softly, and by the end of the first stanza the entire congregation had joined in. By the end of the third stanza, about the "Son of God, Love's Pure Light", the singing had swelled to a volume you could feel as well as hear.

The children continued with the angel's appearance before the shepherds. "For unto you is born this day in the city of David a savior which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you - you shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes lying in a manger"

Suddenly, an inspiration struck me:  MEATBALLS! Of course! I bounded down the stairs to the basement, flashlight in hand, and unplugged some of the Nescoes. The excess of power-sucking Nesco roasters had been overloading the circuit, keeping everything from going on!  I could hear the children above " . . . a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying... " I strode confidently to the utility room, and threw the main breaker.

A momentary hush from the room above.  Then the children, at the top of their voices.  "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will to men."

As I re-entered the now-brilliantly lit sanctuary, Luigi had fired up the organ, and burst out into "Joy to the World". Fortissimo Sforzando! The congregation was standing up, singing loudly as their joy gave them expression. The Christmas tree almost reached the ceiling, and it was almost hard to look at all the brilliant white lights. Luigi's feet were dancing on the organ pedals. I wanted, needed to be a part of this moment. walking up to the organ, I picked up my accordion where Luigi had gently laid it. Luigi smiled and nodded. I joined in. It was, without a doubt the most joyful musical experience I have ever had. Joy to the World.

By the second stanza, people were hugging each other in the aisles, shaking hands, wishing one another a blessed Christmas.  The church elders brought out washtubs full of huge brown paper bags full of fruits, candy, and peanuts, and started passing them out to the overjoyed kids. Across the room, through the hubbub of joy, I spotted the pair of wings that I just couldn't get my mind off of. I saw Angela. She smiled with her beautiful eyes, and waved to me. I looked again, and she was no longer there.

Marilyn headed downstairs, where the Nesco power load had been re-distributed to other outlets, and started heating up the food. The radiators began to give up the first hints of warmth. The parishioners began to find their way down the stairs into the hall.

As I was packing up my accordion to head back to looking for a fix for my car, Luigi put his hand on my shoulder. "Peter, such a blessing you bring us. Please, you must stay. Eat! Eat!"  Well, I'll admit I wanted to spend a little more time getting acquainted with Angela, I kept thinking of those eyes. so I followed the crowd downstairs.

The food wasn't quite warm, yet, so Luigi and I traded tunes on the Baldoni. Luigi played some traditional European dance music, I ripped out a few Frankie Yankovic tunes. Although the hall was crowded, some tried dancing.  And the food - out of this world. But I never ran into Angela. And, as I stepped out into the cold calm December air, far Off, I could see my car.  It looked like someone was shooting off fireworks in the night. From this distance it looked like a shower of white sparks was raining down on my car. And then, it dawned on me, I was filled with a warm realization from deep within.  I was not alone, on this holy silent night. My car would start just fine.

Merry Christmas, Angela!

Thursday, November 26, 2015

Nesco


Can one still purchase a Nesco? Are Nescoes manufactured, or do they come into existence through some special Divine act of transubstantiation? The Nesco is a semi-portable free-standing electric roasting oven. So powerful, it will inevitably blow a fuse and plunge the entire house in darkness. In our extended family, at least, the Nesco was by far the most revered and coveted family item. Whenever the old Angel of Death would flap his wings over our family, the Holy Succession of the Nesco was set in motion. Ordained and strictly enforced by Aunt Meta. As the soul rises gently to the afterlife, the Nesco descends majestically to the appointed successor. Thus Meta hath declared and so shall it be!

The smells of thanksgiving - a turkey roasting in the Nesco in the basement. The smell of the basement room under the garage - cold, damp concrete, drafty windows, lead paint, linseed oil and turpentine, the fragrance of the usual basement activities. And in the air, the holy incense of Grandpa's cheap cigars. My grandpa's basement - his kingdom.

From the time the stuffed bird was placed in the Nesco (usually about 5:00 am), Grandpa would have to baste the turkey every half hour until it was done, else it would get dry, Thanksgiving would be ruined, and that would be his fault. So, Grandpa kept the lonely watch. Grandma would preside by periodically yelling down the stairs. "Lionel, did you baste it?" It was very easy to lose track of time in the basement, so many more important things to be done, sorting paint brushes, sweeping floors, smoking White Owl cigars, and drinking beer, conveniently stored in the Kelvinator of the basement kitchen. "Lionel - all the lights went out again! Fix the fuse!"

The last hours of basting would always be the best. A cloud of fragrant steam would fill the room each time we opened the hatch. And from the hot hissing cauldron, some little crackly bit of turkey skin, or a wing tip would inevitably fall off, and would have to be eaten, isn't it unfortunate how these things happen? When the bird was done, Grandpa would load it onto a huge platter and start whacking away at it with a butcher knife. The Nesco pan would go on the gas range in the basement kitchen. Grandma would come down to the basement and make gravy.

Meanwhile up in the house Family Thanksgiving traditions were in full swing. Grandma, Aunt Bumpy and my mother getting into each other's way in the kitchen, whipping cream, mashing potatoes. My brothers and sisters and Aunt Bumpy's kids clomping incessantly up and down the stairs. There was always some board game thing going on in one of the upstairs bedrooms. Aunt Bumpy's nasty little dog, Gidget - Little Gidgie could never quit barking, and the kids would just encourage her by throwing things for her to fetch.

The table loaded with mashed potatoes, gravy, platters of turkey, mounds of squash, cranberries, bowls of stuffing and gravy, stacks of Brown 'n' Serve dinner rolls, and the Ring Mold - a ring of Jello impregnated with floating bits of raw cabbage and carrots. And then, clear off the plates and bring out the pie plates! Pumpkin pie with whipped cream, and mincemeat pie with its cloying sweetness.

After dinner, we'd all pitch in doing the dishes. The older kids would carry plates of leftovers to the cold basement room under the attached garage, covered with dish towels placed on the newspapers Grandpa had arranged on top of the paint cabinets.

Somehow by the end of the dishes, Aunt Bumpy would already have a card game going on the dining room table. nickels accumulating in front of Aunt Bumpy, although sometimes my Grandma was pretty sharp at that game, too. They'd play either Sheepshead, or a simple rummy game called "31". Drop another nickel in the pot.

In the living room, the men would fall asleep in chairs, football blaring away on the black and white Motorola TV - a console floor model. Kids would stomp back up the stairs to their board games.

Back down in the basement - that's was where real the activity was. Grandpa would fire up the phonograph with some polka music, and we'd take the roasting pan into the wash machine room, and place it in the stone laundry sink. Ist das nicht ein Schnitzelbank? Ja, das ist ein Schnitzelbank! We had the usual dishrags, SOS pads, scrubbing brushes. In addition we had all the secret weapons from the paint closet - scrapers, wire brushes, and industrial grade steel wool. It took hours, but we didn't care because we loved working in the basement, cleaning the Nesco pan, and the outside housing of the Nesco, and all the various greasiness.

Sometimes during the basement operations, we'd have to stop for a short trip to check on things in the cold room. Pulling up a corner of the linen towels, Grandpa and I would pick up little bits of stuffing, and chunks of leftover turkey. My grandpa could never get enough of that white meat. With a conspiratorial wink, we'd just grab it with our fingers - who needs forks - we're in the Basement! And cold stuffing is so much better than the hot. What happens in Grandpa's basement, stays in Grandpa's basement!

Sunday, October 18, 2015

Stage Setup - Any Questions?

Last Sunday my wife staged her annual Fall Fashion Show. Alana Women's Apparel paraded the best of the New Looks for Fall 2015.  It's a fun event, and attracts lots of loyal customers, as well as the merely curious. The event used to be held in her store, but has outgrown the venue, and we now set up the runway in our theater across the street.  Of course there was shopping afterwards, and refreshments at the store. 
Sunday, October 11, 2015
Alana Women's Apparel Fall Fashion Show

Five days later, the theatre featured a spectacular classical accordion recital by the world-renowned Stas Venglevski.  Completely captivating recital - we hung on his every note, as he played a variety of compositions. Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D minor  (Yes, the organ piece) which he transcribed for his accordion, as well as compositions by Liszt, Tchaikovsky, and some very intricate Russian Folk music. His own compositions brought the audience to their feet at the end of the show, and we wouldn't let him go without an encore.  


Saturday, October 17, 2015
Stas Venglevski accordion Concert
After the show, some people who had been to both the fashion show and the accordion concert wondered how the theatre had been so radically transformed in just the few days from Sunday to Saturday.  Wasn't there a lot of setup? How many people helped us take down the runway stage, reset the lights, reconfigure the seating, and reset the stage platforms?  

Well, not to brag or anything, it's just a 45-second one-man job. See how it's done - here's the video  :>
video