I had a wart on my right index finger, right smack in the middle of the pad at the point where everything you touch with the tip of your index finger touches right there. It was round, about 3 mm in diameter, and stuck up about 0.025 mm, roughly the thickness of a piece of paper. Sometimes it hurt.
My doctor told me warts are caused by a virus and can pop up anywhere on your body. She also gave me advice for a home cure, something that involved over-the-counter wart-freezing compound and duct tape. I decided a dermatologist was a better idea.
I called our town’s most famous dermatology practice and was told they had on staff a podiatrist (!) who did nothing but excise warts on hands and feet. Treatment by an expert sounded good, so I made an appointment.
The famous wart and foot doctor was nice enough, although mostly businesslike, and after looking over my particular protuberance decided to zap it with a red laser beam. He actually took two passes at it with the laser, scraping it with some implement in between, and then used some scissors for something. I’m not sure what he did exactly because I didn’t watch.
His assistant put ointment on it, covered it with a band-aid, and sent me away with a sheet of instructions – wash with soap twice a day, apply Neosporin, keep it covered with a band-aid. It would heal completely in three to four weeks, they said.
It did heal within the promised time frame. That was four years ago, and I can report I have been wart-free ever since. Where the wart used to be, however, there is now a small round scar about 3 mm in diameter that sticks up about 0.025 mm, about the thickness of a piece of paper.
But it doesn’t hurt.
Saturday, December 31, 2016
Saturday, December 24, 2016
Remembering a green Christmas
There was no snow in the Chicago area at Christmastime in 1952, and I was worried sick about it.
I had somehow decided that Santa's sleigh could not travel without snow. It did not enter my six-year-old mind that Santa Claus also visited places all over the world where it never snowed.
The closer it got to Christmas, the more I fretted, until finally some adult – I really don’t remember who – told me that when there is no snow, Santa Claus comes in a helicopter. A helicopter, after all, can land on a rooftop just as easily as Santa’s sleigh.
That calmed me down.
It was traditional in our family to open presents on Christmas Eve – but only after dinner and after the dishes were done. We were at Grandma and Grandpa’s house that night, and because his heavy schedule was complicated somewhat by his slightly less mystical mode of transport, Santa was to make his delivery to us relatively early in the evening so that we could open the gifts he left too.
I was sitting at the kitchen table with my aunt and my father and probably some other people I don’t now recall, nearly unable to endure the excitement, when suddenly -- I heard it! I heard the helicopter! Santa was here!
Just as suddenly, the sound of the helicopter stopped. Wide-eyed, I waited nearly breathless, listening to the relative silence. Then again, the helicopter’s engine started, but after a few seconds, it was gone.
It was magical.
It was my grandfather in the basement, starting and stopping an outboard motor he had set up in a large drum of water.
I had somehow decided that Santa's sleigh could not travel without snow. It did not enter my six-year-old mind that Santa Claus also visited places all over the world where it never snowed.
The closer it got to Christmas, the more I fretted, until finally some adult – I really don’t remember who – told me that when there is no snow, Santa Claus comes in a helicopter. A helicopter, after all, can land on a rooftop just as easily as Santa’s sleigh.
That calmed me down.
It was traditional in our family to open presents on Christmas Eve – but only after dinner and after the dishes were done. We were at Grandma and Grandpa’s house that night, and because his heavy schedule was complicated somewhat by his slightly less mystical mode of transport, Santa was to make his delivery to us relatively early in the evening so that we could open the gifts he left too.
I was sitting at the kitchen table with my aunt and my father and probably some other people I don’t now recall, nearly unable to endure the excitement, when suddenly -- I heard it! I heard the helicopter! Santa was here!
Just as suddenly, the sound of the helicopter stopped. Wide-eyed, I waited nearly breathless, listening to the relative silence. Then again, the helicopter’s engine started, but after a few seconds, it was gone.
It was magical.
It was my grandfather in the basement, starting and stopping an outboard motor he had set up in a large drum of water.
Friday, December 23, 2016
Apparel oft proclaims
My brother was getting married. We didn't know the bride well, but we approved, and when the day came, my father and my Aunt Blanche and I got all dressed up and trundled off to the church.
My dad wore his best (actually, only) suit, and my aunt and I were wearing long dresses. Yes, shoe-top length. Mine was navy blue and had long-stemmed flowers going up and down it. (It was not as hideous as it sounds, although by some very quirky turn of events, among the scores of photographs that were taken, I appear in only one.)
Adhering to family tradition, we were early. Adhering to female-wedding-guest tradition, Aunt Blanche and I went to the ladies’ room. We were washing our hands when two older women came in. They were dressed up too, but not in long gowns, and one of them, noticing our skirt lengths, said with interest, “Oh, are you in the wedding party?”
We said no, we were just the groom’s aunt and sister. She was absolutely delighted to meet us, she said, introducing herself as Clara and the other woman as Olive. “We’re Frances’s sisters!” she concluded with a big smile. While we dried our hands, she told us how very fond of the groom they had already become.
We were just as delighted to meet them, enthusiastically agreed that our nephew and brother was such a nice guy, and, smiling all over ourselves, left the room.
On the way back to the sanctuary, my aunt asked, “Who the hell is Frances?” to which I replied, “I have no idea.”
It turned out that Frances was the mother of the bride. And a very nice lady, as we were to learn in succeeding years.
My dad wore his best (actually, only) suit, and my aunt and I were wearing long dresses. Yes, shoe-top length. Mine was navy blue and had long-stemmed flowers going up and down it. (It was not as hideous as it sounds, although by some very quirky turn of events, among the scores of photographs that were taken, I appear in only one.)
Adhering to family tradition, we were early. Adhering to female-wedding-guest tradition, Aunt Blanche and I went to the ladies’ room. We were washing our hands when two older women came in. They were dressed up too, but not in long gowns, and one of them, noticing our skirt lengths, said with interest, “Oh, are you in the wedding party?”
We said no, we were just the groom’s aunt and sister. She was absolutely delighted to meet us, she said, introducing herself as Clara and the other woman as Olive. “We’re Frances’s sisters!” she concluded with a big smile. While we dried our hands, she told us how very fond of the groom they had already become.
We were just as delighted to meet them, enthusiastically agreed that our nephew and brother was such a nice guy, and, smiling all over ourselves, left the room.
On the way back to the sanctuary, my aunt asked, “Who the hell is Frances?” to which I replied, “I have no idea.”
It turned out that Frances was the mother of the bride. And a very nice lady, as we were to learn in succeeding years.
Sunday, December 18, 2016
Someone thinks we're special
There is a waiter at our local Bob Evans restaurant named Jeff. He is 50-ish, slim, not tall, is married, has worked there a long time, and waiting tables at Bob Evans seems to be his only occupation.
He is friendly and efficient, willing to suggest a slightly different menu combination to save the patron money and magically appearing at just the right time to take an order, bring a drink refill, or remove dirty dishes. He will engage in innocuous conversation about, say, the weather, but he doesn't hover.
Jeff provides good service to all customers, but he definitely has his favorites who warrant special attention. My wife and I have become members of this group.
After one particularly enjoyable meal served by him, my wife left Jeff a sizable tip along with a short note of thanks that she signed, "Judy and Jan." The next time we went there and were seated in Jeff's section, he called us by name as he approached. When we asked him how he remembered our names, he replied that he had taped the note to the inside of his locker.
When preparing those menu items for which the wait staff is responsible, Jeff is generous -- the salad is huge, the soup about overflows its cup, and the specialty bread is cut thickly. If she asks for a take-out container for the uneaten slab of toffee almond bread, the little styrofoam box Jeff brings to the table will have another slice already inside.
And then there is the matter of the drinking straws. Whereas others are given Bob Evans' standard clear plastic straw in the white paper wrapper, for his special customers Jeff pulls from his apron an array of straws encased in clear plastic so their bright colors can be seen and from which we are to choose our favorite. (Blue for her, purple for me.).
Obviously being good tipper will reap benefits at Bob Evans. If Jeff waits on you.
He is friendly and efficient, willing to suggest a slightly different menu combination to save the patron money and magically appearing at just the right time to take an order, bring a drink refill, or remove dirty dishes. He will engage in innocuous conversation about, say, the weather, but he doesn't hover.
Jeff provides good service to all customers, but he definitely has his favorites who warrant special attention. My wife and I have become members of this group.
After one particularly enjoyable meal served by him, my wife left Jeff a sizable tip along with a short note of thanks that she signed, "Judy and Jan." The next time we went there and were seated in Jeff's section, he called us by name as he approached. When we asked him how he remembered our names, he replied that he had taped the note to the inside of his locker.
When preparing those menu items for which the wait staff is responsible, Jeff is generous -- the salad is huge, the soup about overflows its cup, and the specialty bread is cut thickly. If she asks for a take-out container for the uneaten slab of toffee almond bread, the little styrofoam box Jeff brings to the table will have another slice already inside.
Obviously being good tipper will reap benefits at Bob Evans. If Jeff waits on you.
Monday, December 12, 2016
The Honey-Do List
My great-grandfather, Turner Hefley, was a coal miner in Hillsboro, Illinois, a job he started as a young man in the 1890’s and pursued for most of his working life.
The Clover Leaf Coal Company, like most others around the country, had a steam whistle that was loud enough to be heard all over town. A simple code determined by the length and number of blows signaled the beginning and ending of shifts, for instance, and it was blown late every evening to let the miners know if there was work the next day. What nobody wanted to hear was a long, steady blowing of the whistle, which indicated a disaster at the mine, such as a cave-in or explosion.
Although meant to communicate to the miners, everybody knew what the whistle blows meant. When Great-Grandma Hefley heard the whistle telling the miners not to report the next day, she would lay awake making a mental list of all the chores she wanted him to do on his day off.
That story came to mind last evening when, in the midst of our huge winter storm, the long list of school closings was scrolling across the bottom of the television screen. I wondered if the mothers of Mid-Michigan were thinking about putting their children to work cleaning their rooms, washing up dishes, and folding laundry on their day off.
The Clover Leaf Coal Company, like most others around the country, had a steam whistle that was loud enough to be heard all over town. A simple code determined by the length and number of blows signaled the beginning and ending of shifts, for instance, and it was blown late every evening to let the miners know if there was work the next day. What nobody wanted to hear was a long, steady blowing of the whistle, which indicated a disaster at the mine, such as a cave-in or explosion.
Although meant to communicate to the miners, everybody knew what the whistle blows meant. When Great-Grandma Hefley heard the whistle telling the miners not to report the next day, she would lay awake making a mental list of all the chores she wanted him to do on his day off.
That story came to mind last evening when, in the midst of our huge winter storm, the long list of school closings was scrolling across the bottom of the television screen. I wondered if the mothers of Mid-Michigan were thinking about putting their children to work cleaning their rooms, washing up dishes, and folding laundry on their day off.
Thursday, November 10, 2016
The 2016 Presidential Election
I do not intend to perpetuate the political moaning and groaning about our recent election, but I have given it a great deal of thought and will reward myself for that effort by sharing my conclusion here. These will be my last words on the subject.
Donald Trump won this election by winning the hate vote. He campaigned for it, he cultivated it, and people who hate other people who are not just like them voted for him in droves.
This includes people who hate people of different races, colors, religions, nationalities, politics, gender, sexual orientation, physical and mental ability, social standing, wealth, and (God knows) intellect. I believe that some people who voted for Trump hate some other people who voted for Trump, but he brought all the haters together, and together they gave him victory.
The most insightful post-election comment I’ve heard regarding that victory came from an 18-year-old college freshman named Richie Knez who posted on Facebook, “I think the bigger issue is us as a country, not him.”
I think he is absolutely correct, and I know that it will be Richie and America's younger generations who will have to fix it.
Good luck, kid.
Donald Trump won this election by winning the hate vote. He campaigned for it, he cultivated it, and people who hate other people who are not just like them voted for him in droves.
This includes people who hate people of different races, colors, religions, nationalities, politics, gender, sexual orientation, physical and mental ability, social standing, wealth, and (God knows) intellect. I believe that some people who voted for Trump hate some other people who voted for Trump, but he brought all the haters together, and together they gave him victory.
The most insightful post-election comment I’ve heard regarding that victory came from an 18-year-old college freshman named Richie Knez who posted on Facebook, “I think the bigger issue is us as a country, not him.”
I think he is absolutely correct, and I know that it will be Richie and America's younger generations who will have to fix it.
Good luck, kid.
Sunday, November 6, 2016
Moon Struck
We were driving home from a late dinner and Walmart visit last night around 8:30 when I caught sight of the moon. It was prominent in the night sky, and, according to what I can find at the font of all knowledge (that is, the Internet), it was a Waxing Crescent, on its way to becoming the First Quarter. Its crescent wasn’t straight up and down, however; it slung off a little to the bottom left.
It made me think of a big curvy chair, just like the moon in cartoons where we see the Man in the Moon lounging upon it, his legs dangling as he straddles it while leaning back with his hands behind his head.
And then we turned a corner onto another street, and there suddenly – there he was! I could see him plain as, well, day. I was delighted. What a joy actually to see the Man in the Moon!
But when I moved my head slightly, I realized it wasn't the Man in the Moon at all. It was bug guts on the windshield.
It made me think of a big curvy chair, just like the moon in cartoons where we see the Man in the Moon lounging upon it, his legs dangling as he straddles it while leaning back with his hands behind his head.
And then we turned a corner onto another street, and there suddenly – there he was! I could see him plain as, well, day. I was delighted. What a joy actually to see the Man in the Moon!
But when I moved my head slightly, I realized it wasn't the Man in the Moon at all. It was bug guts on the windshield.
Tuesday, October 25, 2016
Go Cubs Go
Everybody who watches baseball knows that the Chicago Cubs have not won a World Series since 1908 and have not even been in a World Series since 1945. That year they lost to the Detroit Tigers. That was the year before I was born.
I have, therefore, been waiting all my life for the Cubs to win the National League Pennant, which they did Saturday, beating the Dodgers and causing me and a bunch of other people who never thought that day would come to weep tears of joy.
I said I didn't even care if they won the World Series -- I just wanted them to win the Pennant and be in the World Series. That's not true, of course. I do hope they win the whole thing.
Game 1 tonight in Cleveland, another team without a win in a long time. Too bad. Our turn.
Hey, Chicago, what'd'ya say? The Cubs are gonna win today!
I have, therefore, been waiting all my life for the Cubs to win the National League Pennant, which they did Saturday, beating the Dodgers and causing me and a bunch of other people who never thought that day would come to weep tears of joy.
I said I didn't even care if they won the World Series -- I just wanted them to win the Pennant and be in the World Series. That's not true, of course. I do hope they win the whole thing.
Game 1 tonight in Cleveland, another team without a win in a long time. Too bad. Our turn.
Hey, Chicago, what'd'ya say? The Cubs are gonna win today!
Friday, September 30, 2016
Vanity and Diplomacy
Foreign heads of state who come to the United States on an official state visit are greeted by the President in a formal ceremony at the White House, almost always on the South Lawn. The South Lawn, of course, is outside.
Therefore, I want to urge all those who are thinking about voting for Donald Trump to ask themselves how they would feel if they saw the President of the United States shaking hands with, say, the Chancellor of Germany or the King of Saudi Arabia while wearing a ball cap to keep his comb-over from blowing in the wind.
I’m just sayin’.
Therefore, I want to urge all those who are thinking about voting for Donald Trump to ask themselves how they would feel if they saw the President of the United States shaking hands with, say, the Chancellor of Germany or the King of Saudi Arabia while wearing a ball cap to keep his comb-over from blowing in the wind.
I’m just sayin’.
Monday, September 26, 2016
And the Cubs won the game
It is well known in my circle of family and friends that I am a big soft mush who can be moved to tears in any sentimental moment. Yesterday was a hard day.
I was barely holding it together last night while ESPN showed ballplayers in stadiums all over the country remembering Miami Pitcher Jose Fernandez, killed the night before in a boating accident. If they couldn’t hold back their tears, how could I?
Then during the Cubs-Cardinals game, David Ross, Cubs catcher who in only two years has endeared himself to the fans in Chicago, came to bat in what was to be the Cubs’ last home game of the season. Ross, 39, has announced this is his last year in the big leagues. When his name was announced, the crowd gave him a rollicking standing ovation. He was moved. So was I.
When he came up to bat for the second time in the game, the Cub fans again got to their feet and cheered him noisily. He thanked them by hitting a home run. That alone could have put me over the edge, but then they broke away for a special news break saying Arnold Palmer had died.
Later in the game, with two outs in the seventh inning, Joe Madden came out of the dugout and ambled toward the pitching mound. Nobody could understand why he was doing that since Jon Lester was pitching a fine game and in no trouble at all. But Madden went out there not to relieve the pitcher but to take Ross out of the game so the fans could shower their appreciation on him all over again. Ross was moved. So was I.
I blinked the tears out of my eyes, trying to put myself back together as I watched Ross leave the field, waving his thanks to the fans. I had almost succeeded when the picture switched to a shot of the next St. Louis batter, Catcher Yadier Molina, standing at home plate sincerely applauding Ross as he walked toward the dugout.
No more holding back. More Kleenex, please.
I was barely holding it together last night while ESPN showed ballplayers in stadiums all over the country remembering Miami Pitcher Jose Fernandez, killed the night before in a boating accident. If they couldn’t hold back their tears, how could I?
Then during the Cubs-Cardinals game, David Ross, Cubs catcher who in only two years has endeared himself to the fans in Chicago, came to bat in what was to be the Cubs’ last home game of the season. Ross, 39, has announced this is his last year in the big leagues. When his name was announced, the crowd gave him a rollicking standing ovation. He was moved. So was I.
When he came up to bat for the second time in the game, the Cub fans again got to their feet and cheered him noisily. He thanked them by hitting a home run. That alone could have put me over the edge, but then they broke away for a special news break saying Arnold Palmer had died.
Later in the game, with two outs in the seventh inning, Joe Madden came out of the dugout and ambled toward the pitching mound. Nobody could understand why he was doing that since Jon Lester was pitching a fine game and in no trouble at all. But Madden went out there not to relieve the pitcher but to take Ross out of the game so the fans could shower their appreciation on him all over again. Ross was moved. So was I.
I blinked the tears out of my eyes, trying to put myself back together as I watched Ross leave the field, waving his thanks to the fans. I had almost succeeded when the picture switched to a shot of the next St. Louis batter, Catcher Yadier Molina, standing at home plate sincerely applauding Ross as he walked toward the dugout.
No more holding back. More Kleenex, please.
Sunday, September 4, 2016
How To Maintain Control
I used to collect pencils from golf courses, those stubby
little things they give you to mark your scorecard that have the name of the
course printed on them. At first I saved pencils only from courses I had
actually played, basically as souvenirs.
But then I started having friends bring me pencils from
courses they played in other towns or states, and any time I drove past a golf
course from which I had no pencil, I’d stop in and ask for one. I faxed or
e-mailed scores of courses asking them to send me a pencil or two. Through the
miracle of the Internet I found other collectors to trade with, and I created a
web page (that was mentioned in Sports Illustrated magazine) to promote the
hobby. I became quite the Grand Poobah of golf course pencil collecting. I had
pencils from over 2,600 golf courses from all over the country and the world.
And then one day I was tired of it, so I sold the whole
bunch to a fellow collector and was glad to be done.
I have a collection of casino chips. I save one or two chips from every casino I gamble at, basically as souvenirs.
Friends sometimes offer
to bring me a chip from some casino they plan to visit, but I politely decline;
or if they do give me one, I accept it with thanks but keep it separate from
the others, limiting my collection to chips from casinos I have actually been to and gambled at.
You see, I learned my lesson from the pencils.
Friday, August 26, 2016
A fried cake by any other name
I downloaded an eBook I found online called "Bohemian-American Cook Book," which I thought might be amusing and possibly useful. It is a translation into English of a cookbook originally published in Bohemian by one Marie Rosický in 1915. It is intended for the daughters of Bohemian immigrants who, to Mrs. Rosický's sorrow, cannot read the language of their forebears.
There are exactly 1000 recipes in 43 categories covering, literally, soup to nuts. Some are for dishes I would never prepare, much less eat (jellied carp, calf’s brains) and things I don’t even know what they are (sago soup, breaded salsify). But, to warm the heart of any grandchild of a Bohemian grandma, there are 29 recipes for dumplings.
Each recipe includes both an English and Bohemian name, and in the section on Doughnuts and Fried Cakes, Recipe No. 809 (Fried Cake, or Šišky) caught my eye. I loved my grandmother's Šišky (pronounced SHISH-key), which is a fried, hole-less doughnut. I got Grandma's recipe from an aunt who spoke but couldn't read Bohemian and who said she translated as Grandma gave her the recipe orally.
Here is what Marie Rosický says to do: Cream together half a cup of butter, four yolks, a dash of salt, a dash of grated lemon rind, a dash of mace, add a quart of warm flour, then a cake of compressed yeast dissolved in tepid cream enough to make a thick batter. Beat until the dough does not stick, then stir in two tablespoons of seedless raisins, sprinkle the dough with flour and let it rise. When it has risen, turn it out on a floured bread board, cut into small pieces, roll each into a small roll, let them rise again, then fry in deep hot fat. When done on both sides drain and dust with powdered sugar.
Except that there is no reference to the temperature of the flour, Grandma's recipe calls for the exact same ingredients in the exact same amounts and includes such instructions as "then the yeast dissolved in tepid cream enough to make a thick batter. Beat until dough does not stick."
I'm guessing Grandma didn't bring that recipe with her from the old country.
There are exactly 1000 recipes in 43 categories covering, literally, soup to nuts. Some are for dishes I would never prepare, much less eat (jellied carp, calf’s brains) and things I don’t even know what they are (sago soup, breaded salsify). But, to warm the heart of any grandchild of a Bohemian grandma, there are 29 recipes for dumplings.
Each recipe includes both an English and Bohemian name, and in the section on Doughnuts and Fried Cakes, Recipe No. 809 (Fried Cake, or Šišky) caught my eye. I loved my grandmother's Šišky (pronounced SHISH-key), which is a fried, hole-less doughnut. I got Grandma's recipe from an aunt who spoke but couldn't read Bohemian and who said she translated as Grandma gave her the recipe orally.
Here is what Marie Rosický says to do: Cream together half a cup of butter, four yolks, a dash of salt, a dash of grated lemon rind, a dash of mace, add a quart of warm flour, then a cake of compressed yeast dissolved in tepid cream enough to make a thick batter. Beat until the dough does not stick, then stir in two tablespoons of seedless raisins, sprinkle the dough with flour and let it rise. When it has risen, turn it out on a floured bread board, cut into small pieces, roll each into a small roll, let them rise again, then fry in deep hot fat. When done on both sides drain and dust with powdered sugar.
Except that there is no reference to the temperature of the flour, Grandma's recipe calls for the exact same ingredients in the exact same amounts and includes such instructions as "then the yeast dissolved in tepid cream enough to make a thick batter. Beat until dough does not stick."
I'm guessing Grandma didn't bring that recipe with her from the old country.
Monday, August 22, 2016
There she is ... Miscellaneous
I stuck with the Cubs games on TV yesterday afternoon, even when the score was 7 to nothing at the end of the first inning, but when the score reached 10 to nothing, I started flipping channels. I landed on something called “Toddlers and Tiaras” on TLC.
It was a behind-the-scenes look at child beauty pageants for which very young girls (and even infants) are dressed up and coiffed up and made up within an inch of their lives and, as soon as they are old enough to walk, are taught to dance and pose and sashay across a stage like grown women.
It was kind of like when you see a bad accident that is horrifying, yet you can’t turn away.
The perpetrators of this appalling exploitation are the girls' mothers, all of them very obviously trying to live their unfulfilled dreams vicariously through their daughters. They should be ashamed of themselves, and the male judges, especially given the way they talk about how the little girls look, ought to be arrested.
It was a behind-the-scenes look at child beauty pageants for which very young girls (and even infants) are dressed up and coiffed up and made up within an inch of their lives and, as soon as they are old enough to walk, are taught to dance and pose and sashay across a stage like grown women.
It was kind of like when you see a bad accident that is horrifying, yet you can’t turn away.
The perpetrators of this appalling exploitation are the girls' mothers, all of them very obviously trying to live their unfulfilled dreams vicariously through their daughters. They should be ashamed of themselves, and the male judges, especially given the way they talk about how the little girls look, ought to be arrested.
Saturday, August 20, 2016
Olympic Workout
The 2016 Summer Olympics are almost over, and I would just like to say that I think NBC did a lousy job showing it, despite airing events on NBC, NBCSP, MSNBC, CNBC, Bravo, USA, the Golf, Basketball, and Soccer channels, and the Internet.
Either because of or in spite of NBC’s coverage, I was not inspired to comment on it daily in this here blog thing like I did four years ago. My opinion of rhythmic gymnastics and synchronized swimming hasn’t changed, after all, so there’s no point.
My wife and I have, however, invented a new event – synchronized recliner. It’s uncanny the way we are able to grab that La-Z-Boy handle and pop the footrest up at exactly the same time.
In addition to that, I have given a whole new meaning to “armchair athlete.” While sitting in my recliner, I get physical while watching, assisting the competitors by performing small, well-controlled body movements – tensing muscles, shifting to one side, twisting, bobbing up and down, leaning toward the finish line – hell, during a soccer match my feet and legs never stop.
I'll bet I burn 500 calories for every hour I watch.
Either because of or in spite of NBC’s coverage, I was not inspired to comment on it daily in this here blog thing like I did four years ago. My opinion of rhythmic gymnastics and synchronized swimming hasn’t changed, after all, so there’s no point.
My wife and I have, however, invented a new event – synchronized recliner. It’s uncanny the way we are able to grab that La-Z-Boy handle and pop the footrest up at exactly the same time.
In addition to that, I have given a whole new meaning to “armchair athlete.” While sitting in my recliner, I get physical while watching, assisting the competitors by performing small, well-controlled body movements – tensing muscles, shifting to one side, twisting, bobbing up and down, leaning toward the finish line – hell, during a soccer match my feet and legs never stop.
I'll bet I burn 500 calories for every hour I watch.
Sunday, August 7, 2016
Bloggers blogging blogs
At the top of this page above the title of this here blog thing there is a little toolbar with a search function and a thing you can click to recommend this blog (feel free), and there's a "More" drop-down, and then to the right of that is another thing you can click on, "Next Blog." If you click on it, some random blog will appear.
Now and then will I click on that just to see what I can see in the world of blogging. I usually visit at least a dozen. This morning I did a couple dozen, and I learned from this exercise the following things:
1. Most blogs have gobs of pictures; I seldom use pictures.
2. My blog layout is not very fancy.
3. I write better than most of those people.
4. Some blogs have scores of followers; I have seven.
5. There's a lot of weird shit out there.
Now and then will I click on that just to see what I can see in the world of blogging. I usually visit at least a dozen. This morning I did a couple dozen, and I learned from this exercise the following things:
1. Most blogs have gobs of pictures; I seldom use pictures.
2. My blog layout is not very fancy.
3. I write better than most of those people.
4. Some blogs have scores of followers; I have seven.
5. There's a lot of weird shit out there.
Wednesday, August 3, 2016
Nothing but the best
One time, about twenty years ago now, we took a weekend trip to Toronto where we stayed at the lovely old Royal York Hotel. It was a bit expensive, but we thought we deserved it because we had just quit smoking. The trip really was a way to distract ourselves for our first smokeless weekend.
Either they hadn’t invented non-smoking hotel rooms yet, or we couldn’t get one on short notice, but in any case there were ashtrays all over our room. So that seeing them wouldn’t tempt or torment me, I gathered them all up and stuck them in a drawer.
On Saturday afternoon we ended a day of sight-seeing at the CN Tower, which at the time was the world’s tallest free-standing structure. Up toward the top we found the bar and stopped in to refresh ourselves. We got to talking to the bartender, a middle-aged woman who looked like her feet hurt her. We said we were hoping to have dinner at the tower’s famous rotating restaurant, called “360” because it affords a 360-degree view of the city as it turns. She said that without a reservation, we’d never get in, especially on Saturday night.
It came up in conversation that we were staying at the Royal York, and all of a sudden life changed. Our bartender friend picked up her telephone, pressed a button, and, after a short conversation, informed us she had booked us a window table at 360.
Sometimes it pays to put on the dog.
Meanwhile, when we got back to the hotel that evening, we found that housekeeping had left even more ashtrays all over the room. I put all of them in the drawer with the others.
It wasn't until the next day when we were about halfway home that it dawned on me I should have put the ashtrays back. I was afraid they would think we had stolen them and we'd be getting a bill for them. But we never heard anything about it.
Sometimes I wonder how long it was before somebody found all those ashtrays in the dresser. Or if they ever did.
Either they hadn’t invented non-smoking hotel rooms yet, or we couldn’t get one on short notice, but in any case there were ashtrays all over our room. So that seeing them wouldn’t tempt or torment me, I gathered them all up and stuck them in a drawer.
On Saturday afternoon we ended a day of sight-seeing at the CN Tower, which at the time was the world’s tallest free-standing structure. Up toward the top we found the bar and stopped in to refresh ourselves. We got to talking to the bartender, a middle-aged woman who looked like her feet hurt her. We said we were hoping to have dinner at the tower’s famous rotating restaurant, called “360” because it affords a 360-degree view of the city as it turns. She said that without a reservation, we’d never get in, especially on Saturday night.
It came up in conversation that we were staying at the Royal York, and all of a sudden life changed. Our bartender friend picked up her telephone, pressed a button, and, after a short conversation, informed us she had booked us a window table at 360.
Sometimes it pays to put on the dog.
Meanwhile, when we got back to the hotel that evening, we found that housekeeping had left even more ashtrays all over the room. I put all of them in the drawer with the others.
It wasn't until the next day when we were about halfway home that it dawned on me I should have put the ashtrays back. I was afraid they would think we had stolen them and we'd be getting a bill for them. But we never heard anything about it.
Sometimes I wonder how long it was before somebody found all those ashtrays in the dresser. Or if they ever did.
Wednesday, July 27, 2016
Concerto in E Minor, Opus 64, for Violin and Orchestra
I am listening to a recording of Mendelssohn’s violin concerto. I can’t hear this piece without thinking about my friend Ann. We met in college in 1965 and were close friends until her untimely death 10 years ago.
She liked classical music and was fairly well informed about it, but I think she felt a little intimidated around me since my background in music was extensive.
Once back in the late 1970’s I visited her when she lived in Washington, D.C., and one pleasant evening we went for a walk down Embassy Row. As we strolled along in companionable silence, looking at all the fabulous sights, she began to hum. The tune she was humming was the theme of the first movement of this Mendelssohn concerto I’m listening to.
Suddenly, she stopped walking, grabbed me by the arm, and said happily, “Hey, get me! Humming Tchaikovsky!”
Bless her heart. I still miss her.
She liked classical music and was fairly well informed about it, but I think she felt a little intimidated around me since my background in music was extensive.
Once back in the late 1970’s I visited her when she lived in Washington, D.C., and one pleasant evening we went for a walk down Embassy Row. As we strolled along in companionable silence, looking at all the fabulous sights, she began to hum. The tune she was humming was the theme of the first movement of this Mendelssohn concerto I’m listening to.
Suddenly, she stopped walking, grabbed me by the arm, and said happily, “Hey, get me! Humming Tchaikovsky!”
Bless her heart. I still miss her.
Saturday, July 23, 2016
You have to break some eggs to make an omelet
Within the last few months I became a convert to cooking hard eggs in muffin tins in the oven. I experimented with only a few eggs at a time so as not to waste many. My first attempts failed, but I adjusted times and temperatures and muffin-cup liners and finally achieved what I thought was the ultimate method.
I kept a running account of my efforts on Facebook, surprised by how many people indicated they were waiting for my final "recipe." Once I achieved success, I became a tireless advocate for the baked hard-cooked egg. I swore I'd never boil eggs again.
Then a few weeks ago, for no reason I can think of, I ended up with a dozen eggs thus baked that would not peel right -- a layer of white adhered to and came off with the shell in several spots. It bordered on disaster.
For the first time since, I made hard eggs today, and I admit that I went back to boiling, with excellent results. Now, however, I am faced with the prospect of having to go on Facebook and recant. It will be embarrassing, but not as embarrassing as taking deviled eggs to a pot-luck that tasted good but looked like hell.
But I am reminded of what Thoreau said about speaking your mind in a loud voice today and again tomorrow even if it's different -- something like that. Wait. I need to look that up.
Here we go: “Speak what you think today in hard words and tomorrow speak what tomorrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said today.”
Right. Except it wasn't Thoreau, it was Emerson. I always get those two guys mixed up.
I kept a running account of my efforts on Facebook, surprised by how many people indicated they were waiting for my final "recipe." Once I achieved success, I became a tireless advocate for the baked hard-cooked egg. I swore I'd never boil eggs again.
Then a few weeks ago, for no reason I can think of, I ended up with a dozen eggs thus baked that would not peel right -- a layer of white adhered to and came off with the shell in several spots. It bordered on disaster.
For the first time since, I made hard eggs today, and I admit that I went back to boiling, with excellent results. Now, however, I am faced with the prospect of having to go on Facebook and recant. It will be embarrassing, but not as embarrassing as taking deviled eggs to a pot-luck that tasted good but looked like hell.
But I am reminded of what Thoreau said about speaking your mind in a loud voice today and again tomorrow even if it's different -- something like that. Wait. I need to look that up.
Here we go: “Speak what you think today in hard words and tomorrow speak what tomorrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said today.”
Right. Except it wasn't Thoreau, it was Emerson. I always get those two guys mixed up.
Tuesday, July 19, 2016
Not when I lived in New Orleans
Once long ago I had a young guitar student whose name I don't recall but whom I remember as being a very nice girl, a little shy and what I would call wholesome.
She had the unfortunate habit of saying, "Oops," whenever she made a mistake while playing, which was often, sometimes so often that she hardly had time to take a breath before saying it again. After she finished playing, I would ask her, "Where in the music does it say, 'Guitarist says Oops'?" I never broke her of doing it.
One week I had assigned her to practice the next piece in her songbook, which happened to be "The House of the Rising Sun." The lyrics were printed after the music at the bottom of the page:
"Well," I said, hesitating because I felt delicacy was called for, she being fifteen and innocent and impressionable. "It's, um, about a house -- of ill repute."
"Ill repute?" said asked, furrowing her brow.
"Yes," I pressed on, "it's, uh, a house where men go to, um --"
"Do you mean a whore house?"
Uh-huh.
She had the unfortunate habit of saying, "Oops," whenever she made a mistake while playing, which was often, sometimes so often that she hardly had time to take a breath before saying it again. After she finished playing, I would ask her, "Where in the music does it say, 'Guitarist says Oops'?" I never broke her of doing it.
One week I had assigned her to practice the next piece in her songbook, which happened to be "The House of the Rising Sun." The lyrics were printed after the music at the bottom of the page:
There is a house in New Orleans they call The Rising Sun.
It's been the ruin of many a poor girl, and, oh God, I know I'm one.
I've got one foot on the platform; the other foot's on the train.
I'm going back to New Orleans to wear that ball and chain.
Now mothers, tell your daughters not to do what I have done,At her lesson the next week, she was oops'ing her way through it when she stopped and said with a frown, "What's this song about?"
Spend their lives in sin and misery in the House of the Rising Sun.
"Well," I said, hesitating because I felt delicacy was called for, she being fifteen and innocent and impressionable. "It's, um, about a house -- of ill repute."
"Ill repute?" said asked, furrowing her brow.
"Yes," I pressed on, "it's, uh, a house where men go to, um --"
"Do you mean a whore house?"
Uh-huh.
Sunday, July 17, 2016
Check the Index
The Internet has revolutionized genealogical research, and its greatest treasures are historical records that have been indexed. Instead of combing through physical pieces of paper in the county clerk’s office or rolling through reels and reels of microfilm in the library basement, one can search online and in many cases find links to images of the actual birth record or census report or marriage license.
But somebody has to do the actual indexing, and that's what I've been doing for the past week, as part of a campaign by the FamilySearch.com* web site to make more records available to online researchers. They provide the images of the old documents, and I transcribe what I see.
I have done almost 1000 Cook County, Illinois, birth certificates for 1936 and 1937, including some births that occurred at West Suburban Hospital in Oak Park, where I was born and also had my tonsils out.
What I’ve enjoyed even more, however, is transcribing mortality schedules, which are supplements to the federal census. As they went from door to door interviewing people for the census, the enumerators were required to ask if anybody in the household had died during the preceding year. If so, the deceased’s name, age, race, place of birth, month of death, and cause of death were recorded.
The ones I did were from 1860, 1870, and 1880. The various causes of death are fascinating and include some of those old-fashioned terms like dropsy, consumption, and childbed fever, plus things nobody dies of any more (usually), such as typhoid, scarlet fever, small pox, diphtheria, and cholera. In Shelby County, Illinois, in 1870, there were an inordinate number of infants who died of hives.
There were accidents (kicked by horse, run over by wagon), one suicide by shooting, and there's no wonder that some of these things could kill you: amputation of arms, paralysis of bowels, and cancer in the eye.
In one 1880 schedule, the cause of death of a 64-year-old man was given as “old age.”
I guess I'm on borrowed time.
But somebody has to do the actual indexing, and that's what I've been doing for the past week, as part of a campaign by the FamilySearch.com* web site to make more records available to online researchers. They provide the images of the old documents, and I transcribe what I see.
I have done almost 1000 Cook County, Illinois, birth certificates for 1936 and 1937, including some births that occurred at West Suburban Hospital in Oak Park, where I was born and also had my tonsils out.
What I’ve enjoyed even more, however, is transcribing mortality schedules, which are supplements to the federal census. As they went from door to door interviewing people for the census, the enumerators were required to ask if anybody in the household had died during the preceding year. If so, the deceased’s name, age, race, place of birth, month of death, and cause of death were recorded.
The ones I did were from 1860, 1870, and 1880. The various causes of death are fascinating and include some of those old-fashioned terms like dropsy, consumption, and childbed fever, plus things nobody dies of any more (usually), such as typhoid, scarlet fever, small pox, diphtheria, and cholera. In Shelby County, Illinois, in 1870, there were an inordinate number of infants who died of hives.
There were accidents (kicked by horse, run over by wagon), one suicide by shooting, and there's no wonder that some of these things could kill you: amputation of arms, paralysis of bowels, and cancer in the eye.
In one 1880 schedule, the cause of death of a 64-year-old man was given as “old age.”
I guess I'm on borrowed time.
_________________________________
*FamilySearch is “a service provided by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints."
*FamilySearch is “a service provided by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints."
Tuesday, July 12, 2016
A Nose for News
When I was growing up in Palatine, Illinois, there was a weekly newspaper, the Palatine Enterprise, which came out on Thursdays. Our neighborhood, called Orchard Hills because all the streets had tree names, had a social column, as did other named sections and subdivisions of town. The woman who wrote it called my mother often to find out what the Knez family was up to.
Sometimes our comings and goings were more or less newsworthy, such as my appearance in a piano recital or my brother attending summer camp, but mostly it was mundane and trivial in the extreme. There are numerous reports of our having dinner at my grandparents' house on a Sunday or having relatives visiting from out of town. Here, for example, is an item from February 24, 1955:
And how about this fascinating little tidbit from September 15, 1960:
There is one piece, however, that I have never forgotten. It appeared on March 18, 1965:
That’s all true, except that my co-worker’s name was Trudy Benson. While giving the details to the social reporter lady, my mother couldn't remember my friend’s last name, so she made one up, assuming nobody from Arlington Heights would ever see it.
But Glovits? I have no idea where she came up with that one.
Sometimes our comings and goings were more or less newsworthy, such as my appearance in a piano recital or my brother attending summer camp, but mostly it was mundane and trivial in the extreme. There are numerous reports of our having dinner at my grandparents' house on a Sunday or having relatives visiting from out of town. Here, for example, is an item from February 24, 1955:
Mrs. Betty Knez of Cedar st. is enjoying a visit from her mother, Mrs. Ralph Weatherford, of Litchfield, Ill., this week. Last Thursday Mrs. Knez and Mrs. Lee Vogeler, also of Palatine, took a bus trip into Chicago to do some shopping.
And how about this fascinating little tidbit from September 15, 1960:
Al Knez of Cedar st. attended the machine show at the amphitheatre last Saturday.
There is one piece, however, that I have never forgotten. It appeared on March 18, 1965:
Jan Knez and a co-worker, Miss Trudy Glovits of Arlington Heights, stayed in the city after work last Friday to have dinner and attend a performance of the Smothers Brothers at the Opera House.
That’s all true, except that my co-worker’s name was Trudy Benson. While giving the details to the social reporter lady, my mother couldn't remember my friend’s last name, so she made one up, assuming nobody from Arlington Heights would ever see it.
But Glovits? I have no idea where she came up with that one.
Thursday, June 30, 2016
The importance of an onomatopoeic reference
Everybody loves my scrambled eggs. Yes, that is egotistic and narcissistic and just plain bragging, but whenever I make scrambled eggs for someone, they always indicate how tremendous they think my scrambled eggs are by smacking their lips, or by moaning softly while looking heavenward, or by making mmm and yum sounds, or by actually saying something like, “Wow, these are great scrambled eggs.”
I mentioned in a recent post that scrambled eggs was the first thing I ever asked my mother how to make. I can still hear her saying, “For each egg, add this much milk – blurp – blurp,” demonstrating a couple quick pours from the milk jug.
That was somewhere around 55 years ago, and people have been praising my scrambled eggs ever since, even though I've changed my method over the years.
I used to beat the eggs and milk with a fork and fry them in bacon grease (newly rendered or from the jar on the counter) in an iron skillet, turning them with a metal spatula.
Nowadays I use no milk, only a little water, beat the eggs with a whisk and fry them in whatever I happen to have (butter, bacon fat, sausage grease, Pam) in a non-stick pan, turning them with a rubber scraper.
And somehow they are still very good. Even without the blurp.
I mentioned in a recent post that scrambled eggs was the first thing I ever asked my mother how to make. I can still hear her saying, “For each egg, add this much milk – blurp – blurp,” demonstrating a couple quick pours from the milk jug.
That was somewhere around 55 years ago, and people have been praising my scrambled eggs ever since, even though I've changed my method over the years.
I used to beat the eggs and milk with a fork and fry them in bacon grease (newly rendered or from the jar on the counter) in an iron skillet, turning them with a metal spatula.
Nowadays I use no milk, only a little water, beat the eggs with a whisk and fry them in whatever I happen to have (butter, bacon fat, sausage grease, Pam) in a non-stick pan, turning them with a rubber scraper.
And somehow they are still very good. Even without the blurp.
Friday, June 24, 2016
Could have been my last supper
The other day I thought I should try this carb-free cloud bread about
which there is a lot of talk. I will not be doing it again.
It’s basically whipped egg whites folded into a mixture of egg yolks and
cream cheese. The batter resembles snot. Round discs of it are spread on cookie
sheets and baked. Once cooled, it actually tastes sort of like bread, but the
texture is nothing like. The way it dissolved on my tongue reminded me of communion
wafers.
And that reminded me of the time I choked on the communion
wine – well, it was grape juice. The Methodists would never serve an intoxicant.
I was in high school at the time.
Eating the bread in remembrance
of Him went smoothly, but then came the tiny little glass cup of juice. I tossed it back, and it went down the wrong pipe. My body wanted me to
cough, but I was not about to let the entire congregation know that I had just choked on the blood of Christ.
Unable to breathe, I nevertheless got up off my knees and walked nonchalantly back to my pew,
probably growing alarmingly red in the face. Once seated, I let loose, hacking strenuously until my airway was cleared. I was sure, however, that nobody realized that the faux vino was to blame, thus saving myself from humiliation, mortification, and general teenaged angst.
Thursday, June 16, 2016
Room and Board
My mother was nothing if not frugal. She was in charge of the family finances, which she handled with great care and economy. Sometimes this was a good thing, and sometimes it was just annoying.
We were a typical lower-middle-class, blue-collar family. My father, a machinist, didn’t make a ton of money, but he was perfectly able to provide for his family so that we lived, as Cornelia Otis Skinner once said, “if not in the lap of luxury, at least on the knees of comfort.”
When I was growing up, there was always something I wanted to have or wanted to do, and when she said no and I asked why, my mother would always say, “We can’t afford it.” She meant the money could be put to better use, but I heard that statement so often that it seemed to me we couldn’t afford much of anything. For a time, I actually thought we were nearly destitute.
One of the things I would like to have done was go to college, but that was something we really could not afford. To make matters worse, during my senior year of high school, my father took sick and was unable to work for several months. My mother’s thriftiness pulled us through that time.
Upon graduating from high school, therefore, I got a job as a stenographer for an insurance company in downtown Chicago. My salary was $265 a month. (This was in 1964; adjusted for inflation, that’s a dollar or two over minimum wage now). My mother suggested that since I was now working, I ought to contribute something toward the household expenses. She thought $40 a month would be about right. My father had recovered and gone back to work by then, but I knew she was still juggling the books paying off bills and that she could use some extra money. So, twice a month when I cashed my paycheck, I gave her $20 for what she called my “room and board.”
The glamour and excitement of being a working girl in Chicago’s Loop took very little time to wear off, and I decided I did not want to type for an insurance company for the rest of my life. It was clear that if I was to improve myself, higher education was a must.
I began looking into it and, despite not having the best grades in school, I found a couple colleges that were willing to take me. I decided on Wisconsin State University in Stevens Point. All I had to do was figure out how to pay for it.
I saved my money diligently, but by the next spring I was still a few hundred dollars short of what I needed for a full year. Then one evening at supper, my mother said she’d been going over the budget and thought they would be able to help me. “If you can cover your tuition and fees and books,” she said, “we will pay for your housing.” I was ecstatic. It looked like I was going to college after all.
My wardrobe at the time consisted mostly of business attire, and the week before I was to leave for school, my mother recommended that I buy some more campus-appropriate clothes, like jeans and sweatshirts. I demurred because, although I had more than I needed for my school costs, I wanted to keep the surplus for the incidental expenses I was sure to incur.
“Well, I’ll tell you what,” she said, taking an envelope out of her apron pocket. “You take this and go shopping, and you can have what's left for your ‘incidental expenses.’”
The envelope was full of twenty-dollar bills, every one that I had given her during the preceding year for my room and board.
We were a typical lower-middle-class, blue-collar family. My father, a machinist, didn’t make a ton of money, but he was perfectly able to provide for his family so that we lived, as Cornelia Otis Skinner once said, “if not in the lap of luxury, at least on the knees of comfort.”
When I was growing up, there was always something I wanted to have or wanted to do, and when she said no and I asked why, my mother would always say, “We can’t afford it.” She meant the money could be put to better use, but I heard that statement so often that it seemed to me we couldn’t afford much of anything. For a time, I actually thought we were nearly destitute.
One of the things I would like to have done was go to college, but that was something we really could not afford. To make matters worse, during my senior year of high school, my father took sick and was unable to work for several months. My mother’s thriftiness pulled us through that time.
Upon graduating from high school, therefore, I got a job as a stenographer for an insurance company in downtown Chicago. My salary was $265 a month. (This was in 1964; adjusted for inflation, that’s a dollar or two over minimum wage now). My mother suggested that since I was now working, I ought to contribute something toward the household expenses. She thought $40 a month would be about right. My father had recovered and gone back to work by then, but I knew she was still juggling the books paying off bills and that she could use some extra money. So, twice a month when I cashed my paycheck, I gave her $20 for what she called my “room and board.”
The glamour and excitement of being a working girl in Chicago’s Loop took very little time to wear off, and I decided I did not want to type for an insurance company for the rest of my life. It was clear that if I was to improve myself, higher education was a must.
I began looking into it and, despite not having the best grades in school, I found a couple colleges that were willing to take me. I decided on Wisconsin State University in Stevens Point. All I had to do was figure out how to pay for it.
I saved my money diligently, but by the next spring I was still a few hundred dollars short of what I needed for a full year. Then one evening at supper, my mother said she’d been going over the budget and thought they would be able to help me. “If you can cover your tuition and fees and books,” she said, “we will pay for your housing.” I was ecstatic. It looked like I was going to college after all.
My wardrobe at the time consisted mostly of business attire, and the week before I was to leave for school, my mother recommended that I buy some more campus-appropriate clothes, like jeans and sweatshirts. I demurred because, although I had more than I needed for my school costs, I wanted to keep the surplus for the incidental expenses I was sure to incur.
“Well, I’ll tell you what,” she said, taking an envelope out of her apron pocket. “You take this and go shopping, and you can have what's left for your ‘incidental expenses.’”
The envelope was full of twenty-dollar bills, every one that I had given her during the preceding year for my room and board.
Sunday, June 12, 2016
Béchamel
My mother used to say that if you can make a good white sauce, you can cook anything.
Now, she was a good cook (and an even better baker), but she struggled with sauces. I don't know why; she made excellent gravy. I think she simply lacked confidence.
I did not learn to cook from my mother. She would have been thrilled if I had shown an interest, but I never did, beyond asking her to show me how to make scrambled eggs when I was about 11 years old. I think I already knew how to boil hot dogs by then.
When I started preparing meals, they came mostly from boxes and cans and envelopes, but then I found that carefully following a (good) recipe will produce first-rate fare. It also provides experience that helps to develop culinary skills.
I've heard that all cooks, even professional chefs, have one thing that is the bane of their existence, one ingredient that confounds them or one technique that they just can't master. Mine is phyllo dough. I cannot make it work, and I've given up trying.
But I make a terrific white sauce.
Now, she was a good cook (and an even better baker), but she struggled with sauces. I don't know why; she made excellent gravy. I think she simply lacked confidence.
I did not learn to cook from my mother. She would have been thrilled if I had shown an interest, but I never did, beyond asking her to show me how to make scrambled eggs when I was about 11 years old. I think I already knew how to boil hot dogs by then.
When I started preparing meals, they came mostly from boxes and cans and envelopes, but then I found that carefully following a (good) recipe will produce first-rate fare. It also provides experience that helps to develop culinary skills.
I've heard that all cooks, even professional chefs, have one thing that is the bane of their existence, one ingredient that confounds them or one technique that they just can't master. Mine is phyllo dough. I cannot make it work, and I've given up trying.
But I make a terrific white sauce.
Wednesday, June 1, 2016
Healthy Canadians
I am grateful that the handicap license plate on our car allows us to park in those reserved spots that are usually (although not always) closer to the door.
The number of such parking spaces is directly proportional to the size of the establishment -- a small restaurant might have two, whereas a large discount department store might have ten times that many. At peak times of the day, we often cannot find an unoccupied handicap spot, something that is especially true at grocery stores on weekends and at restaurants around lunch or supper time any day of the week.
Our recent trip to New England took us through Ontario and Quebec to Maine. Wherever we went in Canada, we found the usual number of handicap parking places when we wanted to stop, but not once did we find all of them occupied. Often, in fact, there were no cars at all parked in those reserved spaces.
I doubt there are, per capita, fewer disabled Canadians than Americans, so only two possible explanations for this phenomenon come to mind: either handicapped Canadians don't go out much, or it is harder to get a handicap parking permit in Canada than it is here.
Although, they are a hardy lot, those Canucks.
The number of such parking spaces is directly proportional to the size of the establishment -- a small restaurant might have two, whereas a large discount department store might have ten times that many. At peak times of the day, we often cannot find an unoccupied handicap spot, something that is especially true at grocery stores on weekends and at restaurants around lunch or supper time any day of the week.
Our recent trip to New England took us through Ontario and Quebec to Maine. Wherever we went in Canada, we found the usual number of handicap parking places when we wanted to stop, but not once did we find all of them occupied. Often, in fact, there were no cars at all parked in those reserved spaces.
I doubt there are, per capita, fewer disabled Canadians than Americans, so only two possible explanations for this phenomenon come to mind: either handicapped Canadians don't go out much, or it is harder to get a handicap parking permit in Canada than it is here.
Although, they are a hardy lot, those Canucks.
Monday, May 30, 2016
Remembering those who fell
Every year that I was a Brownie or Girl Scout, my troop marched in our local Memorial Day parade. What I remember about it is that it began in the center of our small town and wound its way to two cemeteries, at both of which there were speeches and prayers and three-volley salutes among graves festooned with flowers and flags and surrounded by old men wearing Garrison caps emblazoned with service ribbons. Afterwards there was always a hot-dog-and-potato-salad picnic in our backyard.
When I was older and able to understand the importance and solemnity of the day, I agreed with those who argued against the Uniform Monday Holiday Act of 1968, pointing out that the purpose of the Memorial Day holiday was to honor our war dead, not to give people three-day weekends.
The numerous ancestors and relatives in my family tree who fought for America in various wars all survived their service, except for my father's brother, Irvin Knez. His regiment participated in the invasion of North Africa in November, 1942. His remains were never recovered; his name appears on a tablet at the North Africa American Cemetery in Carthage, Tunisia, among those missing.
I never met my Uncle Irvin, but I am proud to be able to remember him today as well as all the other men and women I never met who have given their lives for our freedom.
When I was older and able to understand the importance and solemnity of the day, I agreed with those who argued against the Uniform Monday Holiday Act of 1968, pointing out that the purpose of the Memorial Day holiday was to honor our war dead, not to give people three-day weekends.
The numerous ancestors and relatives in my family tree who fought for America in various wars all survived their service, except for my father's brother, Irvin Knez. His regiment participated in the invasion of North Africa in November, 1942. His remains were never recovered; his name appears on a tablet at the North Africa American Cemetery in Carthage, Tunisia, among those missing.
I never met my Uncle Irvin, but I am proud to be able to remember him today as well as all the other men and women I never met who have given their lives for our freedom.
Friday, May 27, 2016
Knedlíky a zelí
We spent the last night of our recent vacation in Vermillion, Ohio, a pretty little town on Lake Erie with many marinas and a gazillion boats.
We wanted our last meal on the road to be special, and we found a restaurant called Old Prague which boasted of serving authentic Czechoslovakian cuisine. That piqued my Bohemian interest, so we decided to Czech it out. (Sorry. I couldn't help it.)
It turned out to be a lovely meal, and very Czech: an appetizer of potato pancakes with sauerkraut, then pork roast for my wife and Wiener Schnitzel for me, all served with bread dumplings and sauerkraut.
Back out in the parking lot, we were about to take pictures of each other when a couple came by and the woman volunteered to take a picture of us together, an offer we gratefully accepted.
It reminded me of a similar experience we had in California many years ago when we visited the Inglenook Vineyard in Napa Valley. We were taking photos of each other in front of the place when I saw a man approaching, and I thought we might ask him to take our picture together. Then we noticed he only had one arm, so we nixed the idea. As he came closer, he called out, "Would you like me to take your picture?" Well, sure. I handed him the camera, pointed out which button to push, and he had no troubling at all handling it with his one hand. Just goes to show you.
We wanted our last meal on the road to be special, and we found a restaurant called Old Prague which boasted of serving authentic Czechoslovakian cuisine. That piqued my Bohemian interest, so we decided to Czech it out. (Sorry. I couldn't help it.)
It turned out to be a lovely meal, and very Czech: an appetizer of potato pancakes with sauerkraut, then pork roast for my wife and Wiener Schnitzel for me, all served with bread dumplings and sauerkraut.
Back out in the parking lot, we were about to take pictures of each other when a couple came by and the woman volunteered to take a picture of us together, an offer we gratefully accepted.
It reminded me of a similar experience we had in California many years ago when we visited the Inglenook Vineyard in Napa Valley. We were taking photos of each other in front of the place when I saw a man approaching, and I thought we might ask him to take our picture together. Then we noticed he only had one arm, so we nixed the idea. As he came closer, he called out, "Would you like me to take your picture?" Well, sure. I handed him the camera, pointed out which button to push, and he had no troubling at all handling it with his one hand. Just goes to show you.
Sunday, May 22, 2016
Home Again
My father always said -- and I mean, always -- after we had been away somewhere, "It's nice to go, but it's better to come home."
Yes, indeed. I am so very happy to be home from our most recent motoring excursion. Three years ago we were gone 30 days on a trip out west, and I now wonder how I did it. We were only gone two weeks this time, and I was ready to come home by day 12.
It was a wonderful trip, however. We saw many fun and interesting sights and a great deal of spectacular scenery. We drove through Ontario and Quebec to Maine and then ate our way through New England on magnificent seafood. Haddock is now my fish of choice.
I visited six states I had never been to before (Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, and Connecticut) and added seven capitals to my collection -- those six, plus Albany, New York. I also added Nos. 98, 99 and 100 to my list of casinos visited.
By sheer serendipity we ended up in Kinderhook, New York, where we saw the home of President Martin Van Buren, and in Plymouth, Massachusetts, we took pictures of ourselves at Plymouth Rock.
We also visited Lubec, Maine, the eastern-most point in the contiguous 48 states. Having been to the western-most point, in Washington State, it can now be said I have spanned this country from one end to the other.
As for accommodations, we stayed in ten different hotels, and, on the whole, they were fine. I have, however, been able to determine from first-hand experience that the level of one's satisfaction with any hotel depends almost entirely upon whether or not the location of the toilet-paper holder puts it within easy reach.
Yes, I am glad to be home.
Yes, indeed. I am so very happy to be home from our most recent motoring excursion. Three years ago we were gone 30 days on a trip out west, and I now wonder how I did it. We were only gone two weeks this time, and I was ready to come home by day 12.
It was a wonderful trip, however. We saw many fun and interesting sights and a great deal of spectacular scenery. We drove through Ontario and Quebec to Maine and then ate our way through New England on magnificent seafood. Haddock is now my fish of choice.
I visited six states I had never been to before (Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, and Connecticut) and added seven capitals to my collection -- those six, plus Albany, New York. I also added Nos. 98, 99 and 100 to my list of casinos visited.
By sheer serendipity we ended up in Kinderhook, New York, where we saw the home of President Martin Van Buren, and in Plymouth, Massachusetts, we took pictures of ourselves at Plymouth Rock.
We also visited Lubec, Maine, the eastern-most point in the contiguous 48 states. Having been to the western-most point, in Washington State, it can now be said I have spanned this country from one end to the other.
As for accommodations, we stayed in ten different hotels, and, on the whole, they were fine. I have, however, been able to determine from first-hand experience that the level of one's satisfaction with any hotel depends almost entirely upon whether or not the location of the toilet-paper holder puts it within easy reach.
Yes, I am glad to be home.
Thursday, April 14, 2016
And I don't mean Easter seals
One summer day when I was three years old (that would be 1950), my father’s two unmarried sisters (that would be Aunt Mae and Aunt Blanche) took their nieces and nephews (that would be me and my brother and our two cousins) to Brookfield Zoo. We saw a lot of animals, but there are two particular sights etched in my memory. One was a large elephant in the Pachyderm Building that was shackled by one of its hind legs to the wall. And the other was the place where the seals lived.
There was a footbridge that crossed above what was apparently intended to approximate the seals’ natural habitat. It consisted of a large pool of water surrounded by rock formations which actually looked to me like giant slabs of concrete. (It might not have been that crude, but this was three years before anybody figured out how bad my eyesight was.) Visitors could stand on the bridge and look over its pipe railing to watch the seals at play.
Which is what I was doing – leaning through the railing rather than over it, since I was so small – when I suddenly threw up all over the seals below me.
I remember Aunt Blanche talking on a pay phone to one or the other of my parents about what had happened and what should be done. Probably the zoo visit ended early.
Now, in those days, it was not unusual for me to suddenly throw up for no apparent reason. This had already been diagnosed – it was, of course, tonsillitis. The tonsils would swell, and I would gag, and emesis ensued. Simple as that. Surgery had been deferred because I was so young, but after the zoo incident, my folks decided enough was enough, and a tonsillectomy was performed in September, a couple months shy of my fourth birthday. Once the tonsils were gone, the vomiting stopped.
I was eight or nine years old, however, before I could be convinced that it wasn’t the seals that made me puke.
There was a footbridge that crossed above what was apparently intended to approximate the seals’ natural habitat. It consisted of a large pool of water surrounded by rock formations which actually looked to me like giant slabs of concrete. (It might not have been that crude, but this was three years before anybody figured out how bad my eyesight was.) Visitors could stand on the bridge and look over its pipe railing to watch the seals at play.
Which is what I was doing – leaning through the railing rather than over it, since I was so small – when I suddenly threw up all over the seals below me.
I remember Aunt Blanche talking on a pay phone to one or the other of my parents about what had happened and what should be done. Probably the zoo visit ended early.
Now, in those days, it was not unusual for me to suddenly throw up for no apparent reason. This had already been diagnosed – it was, of course, tonsillitis. The tonsils would swell, and I would gag, and emesis ensued. Simple as that. Surgery had been deferred because I was so young, but after the zoo incident, my folks decided enough was enough, and a tonsillectomy was performed in September, a couple months shy of my fourth birthday. Once the tonsils were gone, the vomiting stopped.
I was eight or nine years old, however, before I could be convinced that it wasn’t the seals that made me puke.
Thursday, March 3, 2016
Collected, and calm
A recently-purchased kitchen utensil had a rather substantial tag attached to it with a ball chain, which I removed, throwing away the tag and adding the chain to my collection. I keep them in a small metal box all hooked together in one long chain. I don’t know how many there are, but the last time I tried to measure it, it was over 24 feet long. I have no idea how or when or why I started keeping every ball chain I come across.
Collecting in my family was limited to the women, as far as I can remember, and they all pretty much limited themselves to one collectible each. My mother collected plates, which she hung on the walls of her kitchen and dining area. Her mother collected small cup-and-saucer sets, which I remember being displayed on shelves with the saucer standing up behind its matching tea cup.
I don’t remember Grandma Knez ever collecting anything, but Aunt Blanche collected salt and pepper shakers numbering in the hundreds, and Aunt Mae collected milk glass.
I, on the other hand, did and/or do collect all kinds of things, although some of my collections, like the ball chains, are more accurately described as accumulations. I don’t seek the items out but do add them whenever they come my way.
Except for the cribbage boards, of which I have a couple dozen, including two or three large ones, all the things I used to or still do collect are small: salt cellars, golf course pencils, bookmarks, shot glasses, squished pennies. Storing and displaying, therefore, does not require a great deal of space.
Then too, as an amateur genealogist, I also collect dead relatives. They take up no room at all.
Collecting in my family was limited to the women, as far as I can remember, and they all pretty much limited themselves to one collectible each. My mother collected plates, which she hung on the walls of her kitchen and dining area. Her mother collected small cup-and-saucer sets, which I remember being displayed on shelves with the saucer standing up behind its matching tea cup.
I don’t remember Grandma Knez ever collecting anything, but Aunt Blanche collected salt and pepper shakers numbering in the hundreds, and Aunt Mae collected milk glass.
I, on the other hand, did and/or do collect all kinds of things, although some of my collections, like the ball chains, are more accurately described as accumulations. I don’t seek the items out but do add them whenever they come my way.
Except for the cribbage boards, of which I have a couple dozen, including two or three large ones, all the things I used to or still do collect are small: salt cellars, golf course pencils, bookmarks, shot glasses, squished pennies. Storing and displaying, therefore, does not require a great deal of space.
Then too, as an amateur genealogist, I also collect dead relatives. They take up no room at all.
Tuesday, March 1, 2016
Salt and pepper, to taste
There was a posting on Facebook yesterday in which someone wanted to share his or her pet peeves regarding recipes. I never found out what they were since the link didn’t open. But, of course, it got me to thinking about the things that irk me when reading recipes. (I bet you think I’m going to list them for you now, don’t you?)
Well, yes, I am. Here are my recipe peeves, in no particular order:
The ingredients are not listed in the order they are used.
An ingredient is listed but we are never told what to do with it.
All the instructions that assume I am a complete idiot, some of my favorites being:
“Remove from oven and serve. ” Seriously? Take it out of the oven?
“Cover with a clean kitchen towel.” Won’t a dirty one do? I mean, really.
“Mix eggs and milk together in a bowl.” Why not in the sink?
“Ladle soup into bowls and serve.” Oh, so that’s how you eat that stuff!
I admit that it’s not just recipes that cause me to bristle when common sense is ignored. I hate being asked a question to which the answer is obvious, mostly because of the effort it takes to restrain from uttering the acerbic retort that bubbles to my lips.
When, for instance, someone asks me what I am doing when it is palpably apparent that I am washing dishes or reading a book or eating a sandwich, I have learned to reply very politely, “I’m sewing buttons on pancakes.”
And that seems to settle it.
Well, yes, I am. Here are my recipe peeves, in no particular order:
The ingredients are not listed in the order they are used.
An ingredient is listed but we are never told what to do with it.
All the instructions that assume I am a complete idiot, some of my favorites being:
“Remove from oven and serve. ” Seriously? Take it out of the oven?
“Cover with a clean kitchen towel.” Won’t a dirty one do? I mean, really.
“Mix eggs and milk together in a bowl.” Why not in the sink?
“Ladle soup into bowls and serve.” Oh, so that’s how you eat that stuff!
I admit that it’s not just recipes that cause me to bristle when common sense is ignored. I hate being asked a question to which the answer is obvious, mostly because of the effort it takes to restrain from uttering the acerbic retort that bubbles to my lips.
When, for instance, someone asks me what I am doing when it is palpably apparent that I am washing dishes or reading a book or eating a sandwich, I have learned to reply very politely, “I’m sewing buttons on pancakes.”
And that seems to settle it.
Monday, February 29, 2016
Leaping Potatoes
At various times in my life I have saved recipes on index cards, in small ring-binder notebooks, and loose pieces of paper, hand-written or cut out of magazines or off packages. But nowadays I keep all my recipes in Word documents in a folder on my hard drive called "Cookbook."
I have tried recipe software for my PC and my iPad, and I don’t like any of them. So, all recipes, old and new, live in my computer. When I want one, I print it out. When I’m done, I throw it away; I can easily print it again. If a new recipe disappoints, I delete it.
There are a couple dozen documents in my “Cookbook” folder, dividing the many recipes into culinary categories such as seafood, biscuits and rolls, soups and stews, casseroles, etc.
The category with the fewest recipes (5) is for condiments and garnishes. The biggest collections are for appetizers and snacks (45), cakes and muffins (34), and meat and poultry (36). By far the largest collection, however, is cookies and candy, which provides recipes for 68 delights.
Another big one is for vegetables, comprising 49 recipes. Or, at least it did until this morning. I have separated it into two: one for potatoes (39) and one for all other vegetables (10).
Okay, I love potatoes. I can’t think of anything you could do to a potato that I wouldn’t like, with the obvious exception of mixing it up with something repulsive.
I would not even be able to say what is my favorite potato preparation. I like them fresh, frozen, and canned, white, red, and yellow, whole, sliced, diced, chunked, grated, and pulverized, boiled, broiled, baked, pan fried, deep fried, grilled, sautéed, steamed and roasted, in soup, in stew, en casserole, and manufactured into chips, crisps, and sticks.
I believe that in another life I starved to death during the Irish potato famine. That’s why I can never get enough potatoes.
It’s Leap Day today, which I think we should celebrate. By eating potatoes.
I have tried recipe software for my PC and my iPad, and I don’t like any of them. So, all recipes, old and new, live in my computer. When I want one, I print it out. When I’m done, I throw it away; I can easily print it again. If a new recipe disappoints, I delete it.
There are a couple dozen documents in my “Cookbook” folder, dividing the many recipes into culinary categories such as seafood, biscuits and rolls, soups and stews, casseroles, etc.
The category with the fewest recipes (5) is for condiments and garnishes. The biggest collections are for appetizers and snacks (45), cakes and muffins (34), and meat and poultry (36). By far the largest collection, however, is cookies and candy, which provides recipes for 68 delights.
Another big one is for vegetables, comprising 49 recipes. Or, at least it did until this morning. I have separated it into two: one for potatoes (39) and one for all other vegetables (10).
Okay, I love potatoes. I can’t think of anything you could do to a potato that I wouldn’t like, with the obvious exception of mixing it up with something repulsive.
I would not even be able to say what is my favorite potato preparation. I like them fresh, frozen, and canned, white, red, and yellow, whole, sliced, diced, chunked, grated, and pulverized, boiled, broiled, baked, pan fried, deep fried, grilled, sautéed, steamed and roasted, in soup, in stew, en casserole, and manufactured into chips, crisps, and sticks.
I believe that in another life I starved to death during the Irish potato famine. That’s why I can never get enough potatoes.
It’s Leap Day today, which I think we should celebrate. By eating potatoes.
Saturday, February 6, 2016
Participation
I got an email last week from a dude who says his name is Christopher Wienberg and that he is a doctoral student at USC who is researching the experiences of people who write about their everyday lives on the web. "Your weblog came to my attention," says he, and he would like me to participate in his research.
He provided all kinds of contact information, including the email address of his adviser, so I figured it was legit and decided to partake. I took a short survey, and Christopher is going to analyze what I write "using natural language processing technology" (the kind companies use to search their employees' emails for dirty words) in an attempt to correlate my survey responses with what I write about in this here blog thing.
I don't quite get what he's after. He wants to see "how the thoughts and experiences written by people like you on weblogs ... can be used to make conclusions about society as a whole." Okay, well, good luck with that.
I suppose this is what sociology majors are doing these days to stay trendy. I don't know if I want to hear what he concludes about me or not.
He provided all kinds of contact information, including the email address of his adviser, so I figured it was legit and decided to partake. I took a short survey, and Christopher is going to analyze what I write "using natural language processing technology" (the kind companies use to search their employees' emails for dirty words) in an attempt to correlate my survey responses with what I write about in this here blog thing.
I suppose this is what sociology majors are doing these days to stay trendy. I don't know if I want to hear what he concludes about me or not.
Thursday, January 28, 2016
What's the name of your chocolate?
I baked brownies yesterday, and they are, as usual, fantastic. Of course, brownies from scratch are always going to be better than brownies out of a box, and it is not any more difficult.
I got the recipe from a box of Baker's Unsweetened Chocolate about 45 years ago. They still print a brownie recipe on the box, but they have changed it over the years. I stick with the original.
Just out of curiosity, I Googled Baker's Chocolate this morning and was surprised to learn that the company began in Massachusetts in the 1760's. It was also very interesting to discover the origin of the company name. I always assumed it was called Baker's Chocolate because it was intended for use by bakers. In fact, the name comes from a co-founder, one James Baker.
Brownie time. A glass of cold milk, please.
I got the recipe from a box of Baker's Unsweetened Chocolate about 45 years ago. They still print a brownie recipe on the box, but they have changed it over the years. I stick with the original.
Just out of curiosity, I Googled Baker's Chocolate this morning and was surprised to learn that the company began in Massachusetts in the 1760's. It was also very interesting to discover the origin of the company name. I always assumed it was called Baker's Chocolate because it was intended for use by bakers. In fact, the name comes from a co-founder, one James Baker.
Brownie time. A glass of cold milk, please.
Monday, January 11, 2016
Class of '39
One day about 35 years ago I was in Litchfield, Illinois, my mother’s home town, doing genealogical research. At the public library there, I got to talking to one of the librarians, and I mentioned that I happened to be in possession of my mother’s high school yearbooks, and I wondered if the library would like to have them.
Without any enthusiasm at all, she said, “Oh, yes, we’ll take them,” which rather put me off, but I was tired of carrying those books around with me every time I moved, so I said I’d mail them to her when I got home. With what sounded like idle curiosity, she asked me what years they were from, and I told her they were from 1936, 1937, 1938, and 1939.
I thought the woman was going to leap over the counter at me, she was so excited. Well, excited for a librarian anyway. It turns out that the library had every yearbook from Litchfield Community High School from 1876 (or whatever it was) to the current day, which at that time was 1979, but they were missing four years – 1936, 1937, 1938, and 1939.
To make sure I would send them, she provided me with shipping materials, a label and the postage.
Thursday, January 7, 2016
Going out with a bang
My father used to like to say that his grandfather blew himself up and that there was so little of him left, "they buried his shirt."
That would have been my great-grandfather, Matej (aka Michael) Knez who was born in 1858 in what is now the Czech Republic. He came to America in 1902, got a job and saved his money so that the next year he could send for his wife and five kids. They settled in Chicago originally, but some of the family went to Wisconsin; some stayed there and some returned to Chicago after a couple years.
My dad said that Michael and family had been living on a farm in or near Phillips, Wisconsin, and that he hated it. One day he was drinking heavily in a local tavern and bragging that the box he had with him was full of some highly dangerous explosives and that he intended to go home and blow up the farmhouse.
The genealogist in me has always wanted to find what truth, if any, there was to this tale, and I've been looking for a death notice or coroner's report or even any proof that the guy ever actually lived in Wisconsin. But I found nothing.
Then one day last month I got a brilliant idea and posted a question to a Facebook group called Wisconsin Genealogy Network. Shortly thereafter one member of the group supplied me with a short article from a Rhinelander (Wis.) newspaper about the incident, and the next day someone posted an image of an article that appeared in the Phillips newspaper, The Bee, on Decebmer 17, 1914. This is the gist of it, which appeared under the headline, "Suicide by Dynamite:"
"The shattered remains of Mike Knez, a resident of the town of Emery, were found in the woods about a half mile from the home of C. F. Glissendorf, on Saturday last, Dec. 12th.... It is evident from all that can be learned that Mr. Knez took his own life, as on Monday, Dec. 7th, he came to town and purchased five pounds of dynamite and from remarks he made to people in the city that day he had made up his mind to commit suicide. The deed was done, it is thought, on Wednesday.... It is supposed that he either sat upon or laid down on the dynamite and lighted the fuse."
It's good to know finally that this outrageous story is actually true, but what is more astonishing is that I chased this for 40 years without success, but once I put it out on Facebook, I had an answer within ten minutes.
That would have been my great-grandfather, Matej (aka Michael) Knez who was born in 1858 in what is now the Czech Republic. He came to America in 1902, got a job and saved his money so that the next year he could send for his wife and five kids. They settled in Chicago originally, but some of the family went to Wisconsin; some stayed there and some returned to Chicago after a couple years.
My dad said that Michael and family had been living on a farm in or near Phillips, Wisconsin, and that he hated it. One day he was drinking heavily in a local tavern and bragging that the box he had with him was full of some highly dangerous explosives and that he intended to go home and blow up the farmhouse.
The genealogist in me has always wanted to find what truth, if any, there was to this tale, and I've been looking for a death notice or coroner's report or even any proof that the guy ever actually lived in Wisconsin. But I found nothing.
Then one day last month I got a brilliant idea and posted a question to a Facebook group called Wisconsin Genealogy Network. Shortly thereafter one member of the group supplied me with a short article from a Rhinelander (Wis.) newspaper about the incident, and the next day someone posted an image of an article that appeared in the Phillips newspaper, The Bee, on Decebmer 17, 1914. This is the gist of it, which appeared under the headline, "Suicide by Dynamite:"
"The shattered remains of Mike Knez, a resident of the town of Emery, were found in the woods about a half mile from the home of C. F. Glissendorf, on Saturday last, Dec. 12th.... It is evident from all that can be learned that Mr. Knez took his own life, as on Monday, Dec. 7th, he came to town and purchased five pounds of dynamite and from remarks he made to people in the city that day he had made up his mind to commit suicide. The deed was done, it is thought, on Wednesday.... It is supposed that he either sat upon or laid down on the dynamite and lighted the fuse."
It's good to know finally that this outrageous story is actually true, but what is more astonishing is that I chased this for 40 years without success, but once I put it out on Facebook, I had an answer within ten minutes.
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