Fugitive in the extreme

I often think of something I might write about in this here blog thing but then reject it if I know that what I have to say about it will generate only a paragraph or a couple sentences.

I’ll bet you’re way ahead of me, aren’t you? Yes, here are some of those things.

One year we were doing massive Christmas shopping in a huge shopping mall. Before we were anywhere near done, we had too many packages to carry, so we rented a stroller and piled all the bags and boxes into it as we went. Sometimes people stopped and bent down to look at the child, or where the child would be. Reactions varied.

My friend Tony (the guy with the deaf cat) said he used to think that SRO stood for “sold right out.”

Did you ever notice that microfiber cloth catches on your hands the same way an apricot catches on your tongue?

And why does powdered sugar taste cold?

A hundred years ago immigrants Anglicized their first names when they came to America, and they gave their kids good ol' Yankee names too. Not any more.

I object to dressing little children in caps and gowns for “graduation” from kindergarten. Caps and gowns should be saved for high school, at least.

Someone I knew tried to convince me that all baby animals are cute and cuddly. Are you kidding? Have you ever seen a baby hippopotamus?

There was a guy I saw getting out of a car who then made sure every door was locked before he left it. I thought it was very strange since it was a convertible with the top down.

I've never found a way to include one of my favorite quotes in a posting, so I'll just do it now. "A dream without a plan is just a wish." (American track star Willye White)

I used to know a woman named Jim. Not a nickname, not short for something else, just Jim. Her father wanted a boy, didn’t get one, and you know the rest. She was our family doctor’s nurse. She was very nice.

I liked the year 1961 because it is the same upside down.

There’s probably more, but that’ll do. For now.

I was so P.I. in those days

The other day I heard a story on the news about a young man who, after a traumatic head injury, was making good progress in rehabilitation, and the way he spoke – haltingly and with difficulty forming the words – reminded me of someone I once knew who talked just like that. Until that moment, I don't believe I had thought about her in decades.

Her name was Pat Boynton and she was in my gym glass my freshman year in high school. On the first day of classes, the PE teacher led our class out to the track behind the school and ordered us to run around it. That's when I noticed Pat Boynton. When running she looked like an electric mixer that has escaped the bowl.  Her legs did a Crazy-Legs-Hirsch kind of thing, and her arms flailed at her sides. I was behind her and called out, “Boynton – you are totally uncoordinated!”

She turned around and let me catch up, treating me to the most engaging lopsided smile. “Yah … Ah know,” she said.

Some other girls came over to me, pulling me away. “There’s something wrong with her,” one of them said in a harsh whisper. “Don’t make fun of her.”

“I wasn’t making fun of her,” I said, “I was teasing her.”

When we were herded into the infield to perform some calisthenics, Pat managed some toe touches and some deep-knee bends, but she was all over the place trying to do jumping jacks. "Watch out," I said to her, "or you'll fall down and hurt somebody." That made her laugh.

There was something wrong with her, of course – cerebral palsy, I think, or some such disease. We never talked about it, and the only time I ever saw her was in gym class as we had no other classes together. As I recall (or think I do) she didn't last the entire fall term either in gym class or in school.

I'm glad that that young man's voice put me in mind of Pat Boynton. I have no idea whatever became of her, but it makes me happy to remember the girl with the cockeyed grin who liked me because I teased her about having cerebral palsy.

What's the secret password?

Back in the late 1960’s I worked for a small publisher who was in serious financial trouble. The boss, John, planned to save the company by computerizing everything, a very forward-thinking idea at the time.

John owed money everywhere, and creditors called incessantly. Any employee likely to answer the phone was instructed to tell any caller who asked for him that John was out of the office. He told people he was willing to talk to, like his wife and friends and business associates to whom he did not owe money, to identify themselves and they would be put through.

One such caller was a computer programmer named Darwin who was typical of those 101101 guys in those days – absolutely brilliant writing computer programs, absolutely stupid about coming in out of the rain. I answered the phone one day when he called, and it went like this:

"Good afternoon, Unicomp."

“Hi, may I speak to John please?”

“I’m sorry, John’s not in the office this afternoon. May I take a message”

“Oh, this is Darwin. He’ll talk to me.”

“Oh, hello, Darwin. Yes, he would talk to you, but he’s not in right now.”

“I know, he said you would say that, and all I had to do was tell you who I am, and he would talk to me.”

“That’s right, Darwin, but he’s not in this afternoon.”

“I understand you’re supposed to say that, but he said he would always take my call.”

“Yes, Darwin, he would, but John is not in right now.”

“I know, but –”

“DARWIN! JOHN IS NOT HERE!”

“Oh, really? Oh, okay.”

“I’ll tell him you called.”

“You mean, he’s not in?”

“That’s right, Darwin. He’s not in.”

“Oh, okay.”

(Darwin's genius wasn't enough. I stayed with the company until my paycheck bounced.)

Homecoming means coming home, doesn't it?

This is the story of my high school's homecoming in -- well, I think it was 1966 or '67 -- a couple years after I graduated (in 1964).

I met up with an old school chum named Al (Class of 65'), who was home from college for the weekend. For something to do on Saturday night, we decided it would be fun to go to the homecoming dance.

I put on a dress, Al put on a coat and tie, and we got to the school around 9:00. We went in and approached a group of chaperones and teachers who were sitting at a table outside the cafeteria where the dancing was going on. We asked if we needed tickets and, if so, could we please buy them.

And they said -- no, you can’t come to this dance. It’s just for students.

And we said -- but we are alumni. We appealed to a couple teachers who remembered us who gladly verified that we had been students at that very high school

So we said -- see? We used to be students, which makes us alumni, and that is what homecoming is for, isn't it?

But they were adamant. They refused to let two alumni into the homecoming dance.

So we went away, disappointed. What we did that evening, I don’t remember. I wonder if Al remembers this happening.

What made me think of this story is that last night Michigan State University and at least two area high schools cancelled homecoming parades (and possibly football games for the high schools) because of the threat of bad weather.

They were not being alarmist – the storms actually did come, and they were doozies.

Be kind, rewind

People post things on Facebook all the time that are intended to help us improve ourselves. Just now I saw one that my wife shared, although I don’t know who put it out there originally. It was writ large in white letters on a black background so that it stood out, and it said:

You seriously have no idea what people are dealing with in their personal life. So just be nice, it's that simple.

I agree with that, but I also know it presents two inherent difficulties. One is, any person who is generally not nice will not suddenly renounce their nastiness and be kind to everybody from now on just because they read that on Facebook. It is just not going to happen. In fact, I don’t think all the Facebook platitudes that remind us to be nice to each other, which number in the gazillions, have any chance of helping those people who are just plain grouchy and taking it out on everybody else.

The second problem is that while we are being nice because we know people are dealing with things we don’t know about, it will not improve our interactions with such persons.

Take, for instance, that man at work who is mired in a perpetual bad mood. He grunts replies, he is unpleasant in every way, and he makes no effort to slide nicely along with his coworkers. As a result, you consider him a real jerk, and he annoys the hell out of you.

Then you find out that his wife has left him for another man, his twelve-year-old son was just diagnosed with Asberger Syndrome, his mother has colon cancer, his teenaged daughter wrecked the car, and he’s having trouble making ends meet.

Once you understand what a horror his life has become, you understand why he growls and is grumpy and makes no effort to get along.

But understanding will not solve any of the problem. He will still annoy the hell out of you, and he will still act like a real jerk.

But if you’re nice, you’ll find your reward in heaven.

Figure it out, kids

I just remembered this story, and I should probably save it until Christmas, but I'll forget between now and then. So, here's a little Christmas in July. Or August, actually.

It was December, just before Christmas break, when I was in college in Wisconsin long ago. One afternoon I went down to the dormitory lobby to check my mailbox, and I was happy to see what I thought was a letter from my mother. When I opened it, however, I found only a small, oddly-shaped fragment of a Christmas card.

Four of my friends received similar envelopes and, recognizing the sender's return address, came to my room to ask me if I knew what was going on.

Being extremely bright college kids, it didn't take us long to figure it out. My mother had cut a card into five irregular shapes, making a Christmas card jigsaw puzzle. Once we put it together, we were able to see the pretty card and read her hand-written message wishing us all a very merry Christmas.

The girls were delighted and said that my mother was "fun."

Yes, she was.

Herby

Yesterday my wife mentioned, pointedly, that I had not posted anything on this here blog thing for a while (okay, since May), and asked me why. I replied that I had nothing to say.  “All my stories have been told,” I said. The look she gave me was – well, shall we say, skeptical.

Today, however, while thinking about something else altogether, I thought of a story not told, at least not here.

In a posting last fall (“A Name by Any Other Rose,” September 25, 2018) I mentioned that because my wife tends to name everything, I occasionally give names to various inanimate objects of my own.

In 2007, after having experienced what is called a “silent” heart attack (that is, one I knew nothing about because I never felt a thing), the medical types decided to implant a pacemaker/defibrillator in my chest. I like to joke with people that I can’t say "pacemaker/defibrillator," so I call it "Herby."

How I chose the name is simply that after the surgery, while I was lying in my hospital bed thinking about having a device in my chest to regulate my cardiac rhythms, it occurred to me that if you took the word HEARTBEAT and started leaving some of the letters out here and there, you would end up with:  HE R BE.

And that’s how my ICD Herby got his name. I suppose it's possible that my natural creativity was enhanced to some degree by the very enjoyable effects of a cocktail of morphine, Valium, and Versed I had been given, but I like to think I have a flair for whimsy.

It also helps me understand how people become addicted to drugs.

If only it were so

This is the story about my Aunt Mae and the Jewish turd.

For the record, she was my father's oldest sibling and my favorite aunt. She was smart and well-read and  interesting and funny.

Aunt Mae couldn't stand snobbish, pretentious people and whenever she found herself in the company of someone of that ilk, she could not resist the temptation to strike a blow.

To that end, she would ask such a person, "Have you heard about the man and the Jewish turd?"

She would get, as she expected, a negative response and a somewhat shocked countenance, whereupon she would continue, "Well, there was a man who had a Jewish turd ..."

At this point she'd stop, pretending she just noticed the listener's discomfiture. "Oh, I'm sorry," she'd say pleasantly. "Do you know what a Jewish turd is?"

Said listener would say, "No, I don't," and be visibly relieved, expecting her to explain that "turd" is a Yiddish word for some inoffensive thing, but she would reply, "It's a piece of shit about this long," holding her hands about six inches apart.

And then she would move on. Mission accomplished.

Did I mention Aunt Mae was my favorite?

Pepper candy, bumpy skin, and little O's

There must be some sort of marketing wisdom that suggests that if people like what you have to sell, you should make more of it, only in different sizes or colors or flavors or applications.

Take, for instance, Gold Bond. A nice lotion, but why do we need so many? They have specific ones labeled for a specific body part, a specific malady, or created with some special ingredient. Whenever I see one of their commercials on television, I begin thinking of varieties they have missed -- Back of the Left Knee Lotion, or Earlobe Protection Cream maybe.

At some friends' house for a party last week, I happened to see a bag of Caramel M&M's, which prompted me to ask aloud, "Who do you think has more varieties -- Gold Bond or M&M's?"  Everyone chuckled, but nobody guessed.

Yesterday after seeing an ad for Cheerios, I threw them into the mix too. You would think a tiny round bit of oat would be enough to satisfy everyone, but General Mills has gone above and beyond.

As usual, the Internet provided the answer.  Gold Bond wins with 24 lotions and creams. Cheereios is next with 18, and M&M's brings up the rear with 15 little candies in bags. There are, however,  5 M&M's Candy Bars which I didn't include in their total. I leave it to others to add it or not.

And so you don't rack your brain, here they all are:

Gold Bond Overnight Deep Moisturizing Body Lotion, Cracked Skin Relief Fill & Protect  Cream, Radiance Renewal Body Lotion, Men’s 5-in-1 Face Lotion Face Lotion, Healing with Aloe Body Lotion, Healing Fragrance Free with Aloe Body Lotion, Softening with Shea Butter Body Lotion, Restoring with CoQ10 Body Lotion, Diabetics’ Dry Skin Relief Body Lotion, Eczema Relief Body Lotion, Multi-Symptom Psoriasis Relief Body Cream, Strength & Resilience Body Lotion, Rough & Bumpy Skin Body Cream, Neck & Chest Firming Body Cream, Dark Spot Minimizing Body Cream, Men’s Everyday Moisture Body Lotion, Men’s Intensive Therapy Body Lotion, Daily Moisturizing with Vitamin E Body Lotion, Healing with Aloe Hand Cream, Diabetics’ Dry Skin Relief Hand Cream, Eczema Relief Hand Cream, Pedi Smooth Foot Cream, Healing with Aloe Foot Cream, Softening with Shea Butter Foot Cream.

Original Cheerios, Maple Cheerios, Cheerios Oat Crunch, Peach Cheerios, Honey Nut Cheerios, Multi Grain Cheerios, Apple Cinnamon Cheerios, Chocolate Cheerios, Fruity Cheerios, Frosted Cheerios, Banana Nut Cheerios, Cheerios + Ancient Grains, Cheerios Protein Cinnamon Almond Cheerios Protein Oats & Honey, Chocolate Peanut Butter Cheerios, Honey Nut Cheerios Medley Crunch, Pumpkin Spice Cheerios, Very Berry Cheerios.

M&M's Hazelnut Spread, Peanut Chocolate, Peanut Butter Chocolate, Dark Chocolate, Dark Chocolate Peanut , Pretzel Chocolate, Crispy Chocolate, Caramel Chocolate, Coffee Nut Chocolate, Dark Chocolate Mint , Almond Chocolate , Mexican Jalapeño Peanut , Thai Coconut Peanut , English Toffee Peanut , Caramel.

I was told the Caramel M&M's are good.

Walk this way

My first job was with an insurance company in Chicago which had offices in the Bankers Building downtown. I rode the commuter train every day, then hoofed it from the North Western Station, crossing the river on Washington. It was another six or seven blocks from there to the Bankers Building at Clark and Adams.

When the weather started turning colder, I bought myself a new winter coat. It was black-and-red tweed, and it had a big black mouton lamb collar that could lay flat or could be hooked in front and made to stand up, encircling my neck. It was plenty sharp, that coat.

The first morning I wore it to work – collar up, of course, for maximum effect – I strutted along with an extra spring in my step because I knew everybody was looking at me in my new coat with the black mouton lamb collar.

I was flouncing down LaSalle Street in my black plumps with the three-inch heels when I suddenly put my right foot down on something very cold. I looked down and saw that my shoe was missing. I looked behind me, and there was my shoe, standing upright in the middle of the sidewalk as if it was on display. Just how I walked right out of it, I didn't know, but I wasn't thinking about that because what I was thinking was, "Oh, God! Now everybody is looking at me!"

So, I turned back, slipped my foot into the shoe, and kept on walking, almost without breaking stride.

Sometimes couture can get a little too haute.

Spill and Spell

My last name is difficult for people. Asked to give my last name, I will sometimes just spell it: K N E Z. And the person asking will sit, waiting, pen poised, and when they finally look up, I have to add, "That's all."

I do that to avoid the spelling problem that occurs after they've heard it. Once they hear "Kuh-NEZ," they are apt to write down Kanez or Kenez or Kenz no matter how slowly and distinctly I spell it for them.

Pronunciation is another matter. Sometimes people make the K silent and the E long, as a number of teachers did when we were in school which is why my brother was called Knees and I was called Little Knees. The pronunciation we normally get, of course, is Nez.  Second most popular is Kenz.

There was one guy who outdid himself, though. I was being inducted into some honorary thing and had to parade across a stage with a dozen or more other inductees. Beforehand, we were all herded into a room off stage where the man calling our names went over the list so as not to mispronounce anybody's name, which I thought was a very nice thing to do. He was going through the list alphabetically, so when he said, "Jan Krenz," I assumed that was me.

"Kuh-NEZ," I said politely. He looked at me and then back at his list, and said, "What was that again?" I said it again. "Kuh-NEZ." He studied the sheet, then asked for a pencil. He wrote something, then said, "Kruu-nez?" I said it correctly again. He shook his head in confusion.

Is this guy retarded? "Kuh-NEZ!" I said again, and he made another note on the paper and said it right. All right, fella. Now you got it.

As the event unfolded, we all walked across the stage to accept our certificates and pins, and when it was my turn, the dude said, "Jan --" then shut his eyes and, from memory, I guess, repeated, "Kuh-NEZ."

Whew. You got it! Good work!

I return to my seat and looked down at my certificate on which my name was very clearly printed in a fancy font: JAN KRENZ.

Sorry, buddy. I didn't know.

Drink to me only with thine I's

I’ve been having some extremely minor yet thoroughly annoying health issues which have combined to keep me from eating some of my favorite foods. Things I couldn’t have became cravings that  blossomed into obsessions. I would have traded my youngest nephew for a bag of popcorn.

Also forbidden were spirits, as a result of which I have decided that there is absolutely nothing in the world that is more essential to my continued health, happiness, prosperity, and willingness to abide by the laws of our country than a vodka martini.

I’m not sure where I get my taste for cocktails as my family were not big drinkers. Somebody would give my father a fifth of whiskey at Christmas time with which he would occasionally make high balls when friends or relatives visited. That bottle would usually last until the next Christmas. And my mother always had a pint of gin in a cupboard in case the women at a neighborhood baby shower decided the punch needed a spike.

My mother did, however, school me in proper etiquette related to this general topic. She had three simple rules which I was to memorize. (Which, obviously, I did.)

A. Ladies do not go into a tavern, bar, or cocktail lounge alone.

B. Lades may sit at the bar only if escorted, but a table is always a better choice.

C. Ladies may order a Bacardi, a Pink Lady, or a Whiskey Sour.

Well, my wait is over -- tonight's the night, but none of those foo-foo drinks for me. Get out the vodka and vermouth, and keep the olives coming.

Are you kidding?

Among the emails I was reading through this morning was one that appeared to be from Netflix, but when I opened it, I got suspicious.  It told me there was a problem with my account and that I needed to update my payment information. Click this link, it said.

Yeah, right. I’m not falling for that scam. I deleted it and moved on.

After lunch I was wearing out the TV remote trying to find something to watch -- daytime television is the worst. I gave that up and flipped over to Netflix. Instead of all the little squares showing the shows and movies available, there was a black screen that told me my account was suspended and I needed to straighten out my payment information.

Well, there was no safer way to determine if the email was legitimate, was there?

Lewis Cass, 1782 – 1866

The oldest state office building in Lansing, Michigan, is the Lewis Cass Building. It stands on Walnut Street between Kalamazoo and Washtenaw, about three blocks from the Capitol and two blocks from the office where I worked for 25 years.

I knew Lewis Cass had been Secretary of State, but I assumed he must have been important to Michigan. Being from Illinois and, therefore, not schooled in Michigan history, I asked some of my coworkers what they knew about Lewis Cass. Every person told me they’d never heard of him.

They don’t name buildings with larger-than-life statues on the lawn for just anybody, so one day I walked down to the library on my lunch hour and checked the card catalogue (1985 version of Googling), and there was plenty of material to indicate Lewis Cass was a pretty important guy.

He was born in New Hampshire in 1782, studied law and moved to Ohio to open a practice. He fought in the War of 1812, rising from colonel to brigadier general, was appointed Territorial Governor of Michigan, served as Andrew Jackson’s Secretary of War, was Ambassador to France, and was the U.S. Senator from Michigan until Buchanan tapped him for Secretary of State in 1857.

It’s too bad more people don’t celebrate his contribution to Michigan and the country, but I guess as long as that building stands –

Oh – that reminds me. I was only half right about the tribute paid to Lewis Cass. I actually took a good look at the inscription on the pedestal of that big statue one day as I was driving by. It’s George Washington.

I'm Gonna Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter

I heard in a television commercial the other day that Americans move a lot, and, on average, we will live in 11 homes in our lifetimes.

I got to wondering how many places I’ve lived and was on the verge of starting to make a list when it occurred to me that I already had one in my Personal Book of Lists. It is not a book at all, of course, but a Word document wherein I list all kinds of things about myself, like all the schools I went to, all the jobs I’ve had, and so on. (I’ve mentioned it before – see “No Phone” of January 4, 2015.)

The list entitled “Addresses I Have Had” includes every address that I have used in order to allow the U.S. Postal Service to deliver mail to me. The entries there total 18, which is way above the average of 11, but not all of them should count.

If a home is a more or less permanent(ish) dwelling where you plan to live and in which you are surrounded by all your stuff, then the three dormitories on the list have to go.

From the remaining 15, I really should take off my brother’s address since I lived with him and his family only occasionally when I was in between other places, and also the address of the friend I lived with in New Orleans for three months.

Now, that’s 13, but one of the addresses in the list is my post office box which can’t count either because I have never lived in it, with or without all my stuff.

So, that leaves me with having lived in 12 homes in my lifetime, which is still over the average. I am sure, however, that there is one person out there somewhere who has lived in only 10 places, and that will balance out the numbers just right.

Dear Sir or Madam

I lived in Kalamazoo, Michigan, for not quite a year, during which time I was mostly broke and unemployed. It was 1980, the economy was in the toilet, jobs were scarce, and there wasn’t a big demand for someone with a master’s degree in music theory.

One day it occurred to me that Kalamazoo had a symphony orchestra. I typed them a letter that was – well, let’s say – whimsical. Serious inquiries hadn’t done me any good with other local employers, so I thought maybe something bright and engaging and humorous might pique their interest.

I signed it and sealed it and put a stamp on it. I intended to mail it the next day when I went out for the morning newspaper.

I woke up the next day with a sore throat, so I didn’t go out, and the more I thought about it, the more I thought that it was a good thing I hadn’t mailed that letter. I was about to drop it in the trash, but I thought I’d try to save the stamp. I had never tried it, but I had heard you could loosen the glue by freezing it, so I put the letter in the freezer.

As the day went on, I got sicker – runny nose, headache. I had heard about some flu that was going around, the Bangkok flu they called it, and people were dying from it.

I lay in bed half asleep, thinking, What if that’s what I have? And what if I die from it? And what will my family think when they come to deal with my things and find a letter to the Kalamazoo Symphony in my freezer?

Kind of like the man with no feet

A number of years ago I came home early from work one day before our house cleaner had finished. On the kitchen table next to her purse and cell phone, I saw a small stack of socks that looked like the kind I wear.

"Are those mine?" I asked her.

"Yes," she said. "I happened to see them in the waste basket in your bedroom."

"What do you use them for," I asked, "dusting?"

She gave me an indulgent smile. "No, I'm going to take them to the homeless shelter where I volunteer."

"But all of those socks all have holes in the toes," I protested, "that's why I threw them away."

"The people at the shelter who have no socks at all won't care about the holes."

Thoroughly shamefaced? Yes. Have I changed my ways? No. I still throw away things that have a little wear or use still in them, but now I feel guilty when I do it.

Happy Black History Month

When I was very young – somewhere between three and five – I heard my parents talking one evening when they thought I was asleep. They were discussing the two baby dolls I had which were alike in most ways, except that one was a white baby and the other one was black. They had noticed that I played with the white doll more than the other one.

I understood that this troubled them, but I didn’t understand why. As far as I can remember, that was the last I heard of it, and it was years later that I was able to understand their concern.

If they had asked me why I preferred the white doll, I would have explained that the body of the black baby doll was made of some hard material, possibly hard plastic, whereas the white baby had a cloth body stuffed with something soft, and a head of soft plastic, and was infinitely nicer to cuddle.

I give my parents credit for keeping an eye out for signs of incipient racism, but they needn’t have worried. I grew up to be an equal opportunity cuddler.

How do you solve a problem like a blogger?

I have neglected this here blog thing again lately for no good reason. I've had plenty of fugitive thoughts but it reminds me of that song from "The Sound of Music" that asks "How do you catch a cloud and pin it down?" I don't seem to be able to pin one down long enough to write about it. 

So, since that's one of my favorite shows, how about I throw a knife at it and see if I can stick it to the wall.

We actually saw that movie recently. Our New Year’s Eve habit of many years is to while away the hours until midnight with champagne, a delicacy we call California Bread, and a long movie. For a lot of years we watched “Gone With the Wind,” but we wanted something different this year and chose “The Sound of Music."

I got my wife an Echo Dot for Christmas. She has been testing it regularly, and the other evening she asked it to play the music from "The Sound of Music."  Interestingly enough, it played the soundtrack not from the movie but from the live television version of 2013 in which Carrie Underwood pretends to be Julie Andrews.

I watched that broadcast, and while the young lady was a decent Maria von Trapp, I thought the production as a whole had the character of community theater. It was, however, completely worth sitting through to hear Audra McDonald sing “Climb Every Mountain." Of course, almost any boring thing would be worth sitting through to hear Audra McDonald sing anything.

"The Sound of Music" and I go way back. I saw the Broadway touring company when it played at the Michael Todd Theater in Chicago in 1961, although none of the original cast (Mary Martin, Theodore Bikel) came to town with it. When the 1965 movie with Julie Andrews came out, it was a big deal requiring dressing up and buying advance-sale tickets for reserved seats. It came to Chicago’s fabulous old McVicker's Theater, and I attended with some friends from work.

There's probably more. Like my high school choir singing songs from the show, and my experience with recordings (vinyl, cassette, CD, VHS, DVD), and my inability to watch the movie or hear the songs without singing, often at the top of my lungs. But enough is enough.

So, whether or not I caught a cloud, at least I took a stab at it.