The pointing finger

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.