Month: February 2020

Spring Has Sprung (Maybe?)

Spring is here, spring is here
Life is skittles and life is beer
I think the loveliest time of the year
Is the spring, I do, don’t you? Course you do…

                                                            –Tom Lehrer, in Poisoning Pigeons in the Park

River Falls experienced a small dose of spring fever last weekend. When we woke up on Thursday morning, the local temperature was 15 below zero; on Saturday, it rose to nearly 40 degrees; by Sunday afternoon, it topped out at 46—that’s a change of over sixty degrees in a couple of days. Pretty cool.

The warm weather and sunshine melted snow that had fallen since November. More than that, the sunny warmth seemed to affect the attitudes of everyone in town. I went for a run that took me downtown, but it was so nice, I extended it and walked all through the UWRF campus before returning home. Everywhere I went, I saw people walking, jogging, riding bicycles, hauling out their barbeques, and otherwise enjoying the fresh air. On my long street (Golf View Drive, 1.3 miles long), I saw two young parents on lawn chairs on their driveway, watching their kids play. A few doors down, I saw a little girl, about 5, splashing through the melting snow in a Minnie Mouse outfit that included patent leather shoes, a red and white, polka-dot skirt, and a black, sleeveless shirt. At the time, mind you, it wasn’t as if we were on a beach in Florida—the temperatures were still in the thirties. Compared to the weather we had been having all winter, though, it was positively balmy. Everywhere I looked, I saw faces that reminded me of those people just released from the quarantined cruise ship in Japan: they were relieved to be freed from a lengthy captivity.

To hell with the groundhog, for me the first harbinger of spring has always been hearing the words, “pitchers and catchers report” to spring training. This year was no exception, and spring training is underway in Arizona and Florida. Living in Chicago for many years, there might have been snow on the ground and sub-zero temperatures, but as long as baseball was being played somewhere, I knew that spring could not be too far away. I remember being a little kid and throwing a rubber ball against my front porch as soon as the snow started melting. I still smile when I think of my dad inside, swearing every time the ball took an errant bounce and clanged harshly against our aluminum front door.

In more recent years, the unofficial start of spring for me came on the Thursday in March when the NCAA basketball tournament began. March Madness has always been special for us. When Ben was still a little kid, we told him he had his choice of which day he wanted to take off from school: opening day of baseball season or the start of the NCAA Tourney. He invariably chose basketball because, that way, he had sports on TV from morning until midnight.

In Nashville, our NCAA-basketball watching broadened to include friends and family in a local bar. In the days when only one game at a time was broadcast on TV, we could see all four games at the Cross Corner Pub. Kathleen ran a pool at her place of employment, and her friend, Joy, recruited people to enter the pool and join us on Friday afternoon for food, beer, and basketball at the pub. It usually fell during my spring break from school, so I could attend without guilt. Daughter Kristin and her husband Kevin drove up from Huntsville to join us (although they were usually late), and many people from Kathleen’s workplace or mine joined us for lunch or dinner in the course of the day.

The best day of the year for me always fell on that Wednesday before the NCAA games began. At that magical moment in time, the weather had already warmed up in Nashville, and my newly seeded lawn was gloriously thick and green, surrounded by multi-colored tulips and golden daffodils. The Cubs had not yet started their season, so, officially, they were still tied for first place. Finally, my NCAA basketball bracket was pristine, without a single angry, red “X” drawn through one of my picks. All was right with the world. Of course, within a short period of time, my bracket sheet would have more red on it than was seen after the Battle of Gettysburg, the Cubs would disappoint me yet again (except in 2016), and the hot, summer weather would burn my lawn to a brownish yellow. Still, for one day each year, my life crackled with potential.

This year, we have had to alter our long-established traditions following our move to River Falls. Next week we leave for an extended road trip to Illinois, Alabama, and Florida, culminating in a visit to Huntsville to watch the first two days of the tournament with Kristin and Kevin. I’m sure we will enjoy the warm weather, but watching games with them promises to be the highlight of the trip.

We will return north in late March, by which time, winter should be almost behind us. It will officially be spring by that time, and the weather should be warming up, even in Wisconsin. That being said, granddaughter Abigail has repeatedly reminded us that her school had to declare a snow day last year on her birthday, April 11th. I think she now expects it to snow every year on her birthday. I know that snow and cold into April is a realistic possibility up here, and that we are not out of the woods yet in terms of inclement weather. But I’m convinced that every day will be sunny and warm from now on. That optimism stems from a line that always reminds me of spring and baseball. It’s one that Ernest Lawrence Thayer borrowed from Alexander Pope for his famous poem, Casey at the Bat: “The hope which springs eternal within the human breast.”

Of course, that poem also reminds me of the Cubs, because, in the end, Casey strikes out and disappoints once again.

Conan the Librarian

“It’s a small world—but I wouldn’t want to paint it.”

                                                –Steven Wright

I have always loved hanging out in libraries. When I was young, they offered a refuge from the chaos at home. Growing up in a Chicago home with 914 square feet of room, 5 children (We moved to a larger house when numbers six and seven were born), and two adults, the library was the place I went to get away. Reading at home was a risky proposition. My mom always expected the older kids to take care of the younger ones, so if I was reading, I was neglecting my duties. Many times, she would smack me and yell, “The house could burn down around your ears, and you’d still have your nose stuck in a book!” My dad also frowned on reading, regarding it as a feckless pursuit and any time spent not doing manual labor as “loafing.” If he caught me reading, he handed me a shovel and pointed to the back yard; there was always something that seemed to need digging out there. At the library, however, no one bothered me, and I could read to my heart’s content.

In high school, I was painfully shy. (No one believes me when I tell them that I was voted “Most Reserved” in my graduating class of 600 students.) Therefore, I often hid out in the school library, where I could avoid awkward social interactions. In college, I discovered girls and beer, but some of my favorite times were still spent sitting on the floor in the stacks working on a research paper. I also put in many hours behind the reference desk in the university library as part of my work-study program. I became a much more serious student in grad school, and I practically lived in the libraries at Southern Illinois and then the University of Florida. During most holiday breaks, when other students went home, I used the time do extra work in the library. When students headed for the beach during Spring Break, I stayed in town and worked on the pale complexion I called my “Library Tan.” My friends once joked that, over Thanksgiving Break, there was no one in the library “except Jack and the Asian students who couldn’t go home.” At UF, I had my own tiny room, called a study carrel, in the library. It was a little metal cage with a lock that was reserved just for me. To many, it looked like a jail cell in a prison, but, to me, it represented a sort of freedom. I kept books, school supplies, and extra clothes in there. I even decorated the place. When a fellow Ph.D. student, a budding communist, put up pictures of Karl Marx, Vladimir Lenin, and Leon Trotsky, I adorned my carrel with photos of Groucho Marx, John Lennon, and a baseball player from the 1930s called Hal Trosky. (I was too clever for words.)

Thus, as soon as the bulk of my painting and other work in our new home was completed, I headed to our River Falls library. On a day which was a relatively balmy 12 degrees, I walked the two miles to get a library card. This library is a warm, welcoming place that seems much larger than a town of this size would warrant. Also, I was quickly reminded of what a small town this is: the first person I saw was my grand-daughter, Abigail, checking out books at the counter. I guess her fourth-grade class walks next door from her Catholic School every week for “library time,” and I just happened to be there at that time. As I turned in my application for a card, the check-out person, who had seen me talking to Abigail, asked, “So, are you Ben or Amber’s parent?” When Kathleen went to the library a week or two later, the same woman recognized the name and said, “I met your husband earlier.”

As the world has moved into the digital age in recent years, libraries have had to re-invent themselves somewhat. The River Falls Public Library offers computer services, DVDs, video games, books on CD or Kindle, the ability to borrow books from dozens of other libraries, and an array of programs for all ages. There are classes, lectures, discussion groups, poetry readings, and story-times. For children, they also have programs for crafts, lego-building, a “Big Fun Lab,” and even mini golf in the winter (which, let’s face it, is most of the year). My step-son, Ben, believes that his family has paid for most of these programs with their numerous late fees over the past few years.

In a town such as River Falls, the library also serves as a sort of nerve center for many civic activities. Community meetings, displays of local art and history, and other events are all held in the library. So, when it came time for us to vote for the first time in Wisconsin, we knew where we had to go. This was just a small primary for a state judge—three candidates, and this election would eliminate one—but we wanted to vote against a candidate we found abhorrent. (I rarely vote “for” a candidate; instead, I usually find myself voting “against” someone.) There were four people working in the voting room when we walked in, and only one other person voting. Thus, the voting process was quick and easy.

That brings me to the Steven Wright quote at the top of this entry. When we were leaving, we ran into two friends from our Wednesday-night-happy-hour group, Larry and Jane. While chatting with them outside the library, our daughter-in-law, Amber, stopped to say hello on her way in to vote. Right there, it was more people than I ever ran into on a chance encounter in 22 years in Nashville.

And now, in order to ruin your day completely, I want to call to mind the “It’s a Small World” ride at Disney. I guarantee that that insipid song, “It’s a Small World, After All” will be implanted in your brain for the rest of the day.

You’re welcome.

Cupid’s Arrow

Ah, Valentine’s Day. The day that many women anticipate eagerly as the most romantic day of the year. . . and many men approach with great trepidation or dismiss out of hand as a corporate scam. The day actually began as a pagan festival in ancient Rome, and activities included animal sacrifices and the whipping of women with animal skins until they bled, a ritual designed to represent their fertility. That’s a far cry from candle-lit dinners and a box of chocolates. In the middle ages, the Catholic Church co-opted the holiday and called it “St. Valentine’s Day” for the first time, although no one knows with any degree of certainty who the actual St. Valentine was (There are several theories). In the 1300s, the day became associated with love somehow. Many believe that it was because February 14 was generally seen as the start of the mating season of certain types of birds. Like most holidays, the tradition took off in the 1800s with the advent of advertising. By 1900, the idea was ingrained in America that all suitors should express their love in some manner that included jewelry, candy, flowers, or other symbols purchased from a large business concern. The most popular method of expressing such sentiments, of course, is the greeting card. Today, 145 million valentine cards are sent each year, with 85% of them being purchased by women. Still, I remember my grade-school days and handing out those little cards that were about 25 for a buck. I would spend hours with that pack of cheap cards, selecting just the right one for each kid in my class. I especially agonized over which one would send the proper subliminal vibes of my love to some special girl who had caught my eye.

Today . . . not so much. Kathleen and I have been married for 28 years now, so Valentine’s Day is not that big of a deal.  During our “courting” period, of course, it was more important to us. Even in the early years of our marriage, we would try to do something special. Our ultra-practical natures, though, meant that we usually celebrated on a day other than the 14th in order to avoid the crowds at local restaurants. Often, we just rolled Valentine’s Day up with other holidays (birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas) and took a summer trip, saying it was our gift to one another. I do recall one particular VD when I forgot all about it. I was immersed in the school year and the start of track practice, and the holiday completely slipped my mind, despite the fact that I was surrounded at school by teen-aged girls who were all atwitter about the day. I came home and saw a gift (probably a bottle of liquor) and a card in a bright envelope sitting on the kitchen table. My immediate reaction was, “Oh shit.” The next day, after practice, I found myself at the store with a long line of men, all holding candy or flowers. The guy in front of me turned around and said, “So you’re in trouble, too, huh?” I just nodded sadly, my demeanor dripping with repentance.

This year, in the midst of austerity month, I opted for a small gesture. On Tuesday the 11th, our final piece of furniture—a table and chairs for the sunroom—arrived. I thought that the room needed a little accent piece, so, with Valentine’s Day approaching, I decided to pick up some flowers and kill two birds with one stone. (Yes, I know; I’m a romantic bastard.) I drove downtown and parked near city hall. Then I went for some exercise along the river. With temperatures around 20 degrees and nearly a foot of new snow on the trails, running was impossible. But I trudged through the snow for four miles, winding back to a grocery store. There, I purchased a lovely bouquet of flowers that would look wonderful on our new table.

You know the old adage that you’re never too old to learn something new? By the time I walked the two blocks back to my car, I had learned a new lesson about flowers, sub-freezing temperatures, and good intentions. When I reached home, I handed Kathleen a bunch of dead and wilted flowers. She looked ruefully at the fading blossoms and said, “Well, it was a good thought.” She also shrugged and told me that she had looked at some greeting cards. “Good grief!” she said, (She’s the only person in the world, aside from Charlie Brown, who says “good grief.”) “They want eight bucks for those damn things, so you’re not getting one this year.”

You can imagine my disappointment.

In Roman mythology, Cupid, the son of Venus, the goddess of love, shoots people with magic arrows to make them fall passionately in love. Today, Cupid is the image most often associated with Valentine’s Day. I’m not saying I wasn’t stung by those arrows at one point, but today, Valentine’s Day is more of an excuse to buy still more candy for our grandchildren.

Excess and Austerity (Not a Jane Austin Novel)

Last week, Kathleen and I took a trip to warmer climes as part of a gambling junket to Laughlin, Nevada. We used to play at a Harrah’s property in Metropolis, Illinois on occasion, so we were on their mailing list. They offered a free charter flight from Minneapolis to Harrah’s in Laughlin (about 100 miles south of Las Vegas on the Arizona and California borders), free shuttle service to and from the airport, a free hotel room for four days and nights, free drinks, and almost all of our food ended up being comped as well. I had been on a winning streak in which I had come out ahead on my last five gambling trips, but this venture broke that streak. We lost money but still had a great time.

As you might expect for a mid-week trip, almost everyone on the flight was retired and older than us. When boarding, they first asked those needing assistance to come forward. What followed looked like something from an old Saturday Night Live skit called “World at War: The Walker Brigade.” In that 1979 parody of WWII documentaries, General Eisenhower organized a secret unit of men using walkers to spearhead the D-Day invasion. His reasoning was simple: the Geneva Conventions forbade the shooting of handicapped persons. About a third of the people on our flight seemed to be members of the “Walker Brigade,” using rolling walkers, wheel-chairs, or crutches of some sort as they headed into battle. When we found our seats and were preparing for our early evening takeoff, I closed my eyes and leaned back, hoping to catch a quick nap during the laborious boarding process. With my eyes closed, the sounds around me were magnified, and I could hear a never-ending chorus of people exhibiting smoker’s cough. Then, as if everyone was given a 6:00 pm cue, I heard dozens of plastic pill bottles rattling; I guess those taking twice-a-day medications had to take their second dose at six. It was all I could do to keep from rolling my eyes and saying sarcastically, “Okay, Greatest Generation.” But just when I was thinking that I had somehow stumbled into some bizarre universe in which I was decades younger than everyone else, I remembered. Oh yeah, I’m 66 years old; I belong here. I was reminded of a classic Walt Kelly cartoon strip called “Pogo” in which a character says, “We have met the enemy and he is us.” It was an epiphany.

After four days of too little sleep, too much drinking, and losing money, we decided it was time to implement what we call, “Austerity Month.” Each year, we select a month in which we don’t drink, we eat better, and we exercise more in an attempt to lose weight and get into better shape. A few years ago, “Austerity Month” was the start of a period of several months in which I lost 35 pounds and Kathleen lost a similar amount. Another part of this designated month is that we try not to spend any unnecessary money. After the “anything-goes” holiday period, we see it as a chance to stop the financial bleeding and save a little money. This will be difficult this year, as we are still in the process of purchasing furniture and doing move-in repairs, but we’ll give it a shot.

Although “Austerity Month” can occur at any time, we invariable choose February for obvious reasons: it’s the shortest month of the year. Even in 2020, a leap year, February is shorter than any other month, so we should be able to survive the travails of a month of deprivation. It is never easy, but it is a nice challenge that we give ourselves each year, and it helps us get healthier on several levels.

Without it, we might end up as part of the “Walker Brigade” for next year’s winter trip south.