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.