Bears games are not on television in mid-Michigan very often, unless it's a Sunday- or Monday-night telecast or they are playing Detroit. Yesterday they did play the Lions in Chicago, so I got to see that one. It was a good game, which da Bears won handily (37-13) and in which Devin Hester set an all-time NFL record for the most punts returned for touchdowns (12).
My mother had a good friend named Ruth who was a big Bears fan. Football teams can black out telecasts of home games in the local market if they aren't sold out, and back in the 1960's and 70's that happened quite a bit to the Bears. But that didn't stop Ruth. On those Sundays, she and her husband and mother and brother Hank and his wife would all pile into the car and drive northwest toward Rockford to a motel that was the required 75 miles from Chicago. They rented a room for the afternoon and watched the game on the TV there.
When I can't see the Bears on television, I listen to the games on WBBM radio from Chicago, which I can stream on my computer. It's not the same, of course, but at least I know what's going on when it's going on.
A fringe benefit of the radio show from Chicago is the homey little ads they read. My favorite is the one for a liquor store called Binny's Beverage Depot, which always ends with, "If you can't find it at Binny's Beverage Depot, it's probably not worth drinkin'."
A-men, brother.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Friday, November 11, 2011
11-11-11
Nobody could expect me to let today's date go by without comment. I have been noticing and pointing out to others such funky dates ever since 5-5-55.
But today's date has a unique double-digit-ness that makes it way cooler than 10-10-10 was or 12-12-12 is going to be.
It is not only in dates that I've always appreciated ones and/or elevens. For many years -- probably ever since I owned my first digital clock -- whenever I notice the time is 11:11, I always say out loud, "One one one one." I'm not sure why I do that. Possibly I just like ones. Maybe because I was born on 11-1. Or maybe because I myself am so singular.
So, this morning -- at eleven minutes after eleven o'clock, I should say, "One one one one one one one one one one." I don't think I will, actually, but I will try to mark the time by pausing at that hour to remember all who have served our country in war and in peace, especially all those men and women who are still in harm's way today and whom I would like to see come home in one piece very soon.
But today's date has a unique double-digit-ness that makes it way cooler than 10-10-10 was or 12-12-12 is going to be.
It is not only in dates that I've always appreciated ones and/or elevens. For many years -- probably ever since I owned my first digital clock -- whenever I notice the time is 11:11, I always say out loud, "One one one one." I'm not sure why I do that. Possibly I just like ones. Maybe because I was born on 11-1. Or maybe because I myself am so singular.
So, this morning -- at eleven minutes after eleven o'clock, I should say, "One one one one one one one one one one." I don't think I will, actually, but I will try to mark the time by pausing at that hour to remember all who have served our country in war and in peace, especially all those men and women who are still in harm's way today and whom I would like to see come home in one piece very soon.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
How about Frosty Chicken?
Remember Cold Duck? Maybe not, if you're under 40. It was all the rage in the early 1970's. The best-known brand was Andre, made by Gallo, and I have just discovered, by calling my favorite wine merchant, that it is still available at $5.89 a bottle. This stuff is right up there with Mad Dog 20/20.
The story is that in Bavaria long ago they mixed red wine with left-over champagne, so as not to waste it, and called this concoction Kaltes Ende (German for "cold end"), which somebody later punned into Kaltes Ente, which means "cold duck." Some dude in Detroit started marketing the stuff in America in 1939. Apparently it is still made by mixing sparkling wine with red wine. As far as I can remember, it tastes rather like carbonated cough medicine.
I got to thinking about this yesterday when I saw a Paula Deen show on which she roasted a duck. It reminded me of the time my mother was in the hospital, long about 1971 it would have been. One evening when I went to visit her, she told me she had overheard the strangest conversation between two nurses who were standing in the hallway just outside her room. They were talking about some get-together they were going to that night, and one of them said, "I'm going to bring Cold Duck." The second nurse said, "Oh, that's great! I love Cold Duck!"
My mother wrinkled up her nose and said, "Why would they want to have cold duck? I don't even like duck hot."
The story is that in Bavaria long ago they mixed red wine with left-over champagne, so as not to waste it, and called this concoction Kaltes Ende (German for "cold end"), which somebody later punned into Kaltes Ente, which means "cold duck." Some dude in Detroit started marketing the stuff in America in 1939. Apparently it is still made by mixing sparkling wine with red wine. As far as I can remember, it tastes rather like carbonated cough medicine.
I got to thinking about this yesterday when I saw a Paula Deen show on which she roasted a duck. It reminded me of the time my mother was in the hospital, long about 1971 it would have been. One evening when I went to visit her, she told me she had overheard the strangest conversation between two nurses who were standing in the hallway just outside her room. They were talking about some get-together they were going to that night, and one of them said, "I'm going to bring Cold Duck." The second nurse said, "Oh, that's great! I love Cold Duck!"
My mother wrinkled up her nose and said, "Why would they want to have cold duck? I don't even like duck hot."
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Miller's Wedding
I was planning to attend the wedding of a college friend named Sue Miller, whom we never called anything but Miller. It was February of 1970, I believe, in the small town of Columbus, Wisconsin. It was about a three-hour drive from where I lived near Chicago, and I decided to drive up the day of the wedding, a Saturday. Miller's parents had generously invited me, among a number of other out-of-town guests, to spend Saturday night at their house.
I was dressed for the occasion in my powder-blue imported Italian knit suit. I wore black pumps with three-inch heels and carried a black satin envelope bag that was barely big enough to hold my wallet and a pack of cigarettes. Having nothing elegant enough of my own to go with this outfit, I borrowed my mother's champagne-colored Borgana coat with the shawl-collar-wrap-around front. Its wide, rolled-up sleeves were three-quarter length, so long, cream-colored gloves finished me off.
The wedding was at 2:00, and I got to Columbus about noon. I drove around the little town a while, not finding the church, and finally pulled into the parking lot of a little cafe along the main highway. I think it might actually have had a sign that said "EAT."
I went in and took a booth. Two booths away was a quartet of teenagers, the only other patrons in the place. A phlegmatic young woman took my order for a grilled cheese sandwich, and while it was being prepared, I availed myself of the restroom. When my lunch arrived, I asked the young waitress if she could direct me to St. Jerome's Church.
"That's a Catholic church," she said, eyeing me suspiciously. I replied that I knew that, and then she said, "There's a wedding there today," as if warning me to stay away. I wanted to ask her where the hell she thought I was going in my powder-blue imported Italian knit suit and my mother's champagne-colored Borgana coat, and long, cream-colored gloves with my black envelope bag. But I resisted and simply asked her again if she knew where the church was. She replied, "I know where it is, but I can't tell you how to get there."
Just then one of the young people in the other booth called out, "Do you want to go to St. Jerome's?" Why the hell do you think I was asking about it? I wanted to say, but I resisted, and I was given the following directions. "Go that way," he said, pointing out the window, "and turn right at the first street. Then go to the four corners, turn left, and keep going until you get to the big white house where Smith's used to live, then turn right. You'll see it."
Of course, I wanted to say, How the hell am I supposed to know where the Smith's used to live? but I didn't. I thanked him, finished my sandwich, and left. I found the church, and the rest went off without any hitches that I remember, at least until the next day.
After the reception I had followed several cars to the Millers' house. It was dark, and I had absolutely no idea where I was going. In the morning, I found my way down to the kitchen where Mrs. Miller was making a huge, wonderful breakfast for everyone. She asked me what I'd like to drink, and I said, "Do you have milk?"
"Do I have milk?" she repeated, as if she'd never heard anything so stupid. "Honey, you're on a dairy farm."
Obviously I have fond memories of that trip, especially the moment when I bid farewell to the Millers and their guests. I had taken a change of clothes, of course, but I had forgotten to bring a jacket, so I walked out to my car with as much dignity as I could muster wearing jeans, sweatshirt, sneakers, and my mother's champagne-colored Borgana coat.
I was dressed for the occasion in my powder-blue imported Italian knit suit. I wore black pumps with three-inch heels and carried a black satin envelope bag that was barely big enough to hold my wallet and a pack of cigarettes. Having nothing elegant enough of my own to go with this outfit, I borrowed my mother's champagne-colored Borgana coat with the shawl-collar-wrap-around front. Its wide, rolled-up sleeves were three-quarter length, so long, cream-colored gloves finished me off.
The wedding was at 2:00, and I got to Columbus about noon. I drove around the little town a while, not finding the church, and finally pulled into the parking lot of a little cafe along the main highway. I think it might actually have had a sign that said "EAT."
I went in and took a booth. Two booths away was a quartet of teenagers, the only other patrons in the place. A phlegmatic young woman took my order for a grilled cheese sandwich, and while it was being prepared, I availed myself of the restroom. When my lunch arrived, I asked the young waitress if she could direct me to St. Jerome's Church.
"That's a Catholic church," she said, eyeing me suspiciously. I replied that I knew that, and then she said, "There's a wedding there today," as if warning me to stay away. I wanted to ask her where the hell she thought I was going in my powder-blue imported Italian knit suit and my mother's champagne-colored Borgana coat, and long, cream-colored gloves with my black envelope bag. But I resisted and simply asked her again if she knew where the church was. She replied, "I know where it is, but I can't tell you how to get there."
Just then one of the young people in the other booth called out, "Do you want to go to St. Jerome's?" Why the hell do you think I was asking about it? I wanted to say, but I resisted, and I was given the following directions. "Go that way," he said, pointing out the window, "and turn right at the first street. Then go to the four corners, turn left, and keep going until you get to the big white house where Smith's used to live, then turn right. You'll see it."
Of course, I wanted to say, How the hell am I supposed to know where the Smith's used to live? but I didn't. I thanked him, finished my sandwich, and left. I found the church, and the rest went off without any hitches that I remember, at least until the next day.
After the reception I had followed several cars to the Millers' house. It was dark, and I had absolutely no idea where I was going. In the morning, I found my way down to the kitchen where Mrs. Miller was making a huge, wonderful breakfast for everyone. She asked me what I'd like to drink, and I said, "Do you have milk?"
"Do I have milk?" she repeated, as if she'd never heard anything so stupid. "Honey, you're on a dairy farm."
Obviously I have fond memories of that trip, especially the moment when I bid farewell to the Millers and their guests. I had taken a change of clothes, of course, but I had forgotten to bring a jacket, so I walked out to my car with as much dignity as I could muster wearing jeans, sweatshirt, sneakers, and my mother's champagne-colored Borgana coat.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Pulchritude in November
It is a dreary day. It is dark and rainy and windy and cold and, well, November.
There is a poem by Robert Frost called "My November Guest" that keeps coming to me. In it he personifies sorrow (specifically, in fact, his own, for he calls her "my sorrow") as a woman who sees remarkable beauty in "these dark days of autumn rain." She thinks he doesn't appreciate what she sees, but he confides in us that he has long known "The love of bare November days / Before the coming of the snow" but hasn't admitted it to her because he likes to hear her praise "The desolate, deserted trees, / The faded earth, the heavy sky."
I have always liked that poem very much, but when I look outside today I am having a hard time seeing anything as beautiful as he claims to have seen. Of course, he had his sorrow with him, so perhaps I am just not sad enough today. A couple more days of this kind of weather, however, and I should be so depressed that the view out my window will appear to be the single most gorgeous thing I've ever seen in my life.
There is a poem by Robert Frost called "My November Guest" that keeps coming to me. In it he personifies sorrow (specifically, in fact, his own, for he calls her "my sorrow") as a woman who sees remarkable beauty in "these dark days of autumn rain." She thinks he doesn't appreciate what she sees, but he confides in us that he has long known "The love of bare November days / Before the coming of the snow" but hasn't admitted it to her because he likes to hear her praise "The desolate, deserted trees, / The faded earth, the heavy sky."
I have always liked that poem very much, but when I look outside today I am having a hard time seeing anything as beautiful as he claims to have seen. Of course, he had his sorrow with him, so perhaps I am just not sad enough today. A couple more days of this kind of weather, however, and I should be so depressed that the view out my window will appear to be the single most gorgeous thing I've ever seen in my life.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Tony's Cat
I used to know a guy named Tony. An actor, was Tony, when he could get parts in local theater; a community arts coordinator the rest of the time.
Tony had a gorgeous cat, a big, long-haired Persian or Angora or similar breed, with very long, luxurious white fur, smallish ears, and blue eyes. Like many white-haired, blue-eyed cats, it was deaf. The first time I saw this cat, I was stunned at how regal and elegant it looked. I asked what its name was, and Tony told me the cat was called Larry.
I said that was a horrible name for such a spectacular cat. Tony said he hadn't named the cat, the people he got the cat from had. I suggested he change its name to something mysterious and Oriental, but Tony said no, he was sure it was too late -- the cat was used to its name.
To which I replied, "He's DEAF!! He's never heard his name."
Tony remained unconvinced. Larry didn't seem to notice we were talking about him.
Tony had a gorgeous cat, a big, long-haired Persian or Angora or similar breed, with very long, luxurious white fur, smallish ears, and blue eyes. Like many white-haired, blue-eyed cats, it was deaf. The first time I saw this cat, I was stunned at how regal and elegant it looked. I asked what its name was, and Tony told me the cat was called Larry.
I said that was a horrible name for such a spectacular cat. Tony said he hadn't named the cat, the people he got the cat from had. I suggested he change its name to something mysterious and Oriental, but Tony said no, he was sure it was too late -- the cat was used to its name.
To which I replied, "He's DEAF!! He's never heard his name."
Tony remained unconvinced. Larry didn't seem to notice we were talking about him.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
That's just wrong, and on my birthday too
Just as I predicted, today is my birthday. I was born on Friday, November 1, 1946, at West Suburban Hospital in Oak Park, Illinois. I arrived at 11:45 a.m., just in time for lunch.
The hospital bill, which has been kept all these years in The Box (see October 20 posting), lists all charges for the delivery as well as care for mother and baby for six and a half days, and it shows the total amount due of $88.30.
Have healthcare costs gone completely insane? Yes. There is something real wrong here. Okay, it was 65 years ago, so to put it in perspective, I ran it through an inflation calculator available online from the Bureau of Labor Statistics. That hospital stay would cost $1,027 today.
Is there today a hospital where you can have a baby for which the bill will be just over a thousand dollars? I don't think so. Besides that, where can you even find a hospital that will let mother and baby stay a week?
It makes that 88 bucks seem like quite a bargain. I'd like to think I was worth every cent.
The hospital bill, which has been kept all these years in The Box (see October 20 posting), lists all charges for the delivery as well as care for mother and baby for six and a half days, and it shows the total amount due of $88.30.
Have healthcare costs gone completely insane? Yes. There is something real wrong here. Okay, it was 65 years ago, so to put it in perspective, I ran it through an inflation calculator available online from the Bureau of Labor Statistics. That hospital stay would cost $1,027 today.
Is there today a hospital where you can have a baby for which the bill will be just over a thousand dollars? I don't think so. Besides that, where can you even find a hospital that will let mother and baby stay a week?
It makes that 88 bucks seem like quite a bargain. I'd like to think I was worth every cent.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)