Category: Memory

There Was A Time

It’s autumn and in the western plains of New York State, along the shores of the Great Lake Ontario, Mother Nature is trying to decide to be warm or cold. The calendar will tell us what it’s supposed to do, but She will be the final arbiter.

September is done. October and November are beautiful months. Family birthdays to be celebrated and holidays to enjoy. Homage paid to soldier heroes and quiet remembrances of loved ones who are gone.

Leaves are falling. The front yard sugar maple, full one day, bares itself, the next.

The Japanese maple sheds its leaves leaving a stunning necklace of magentas and reds under its drip line.

If I’m lucky, the air will stay dry and the leaves will be light, easy to gather. If I’m very lucky, the wind will blow them away and shift the burden to a neighbor’s yard.

It’s a routine that repeats itself annually.

I remember a time when falling leaves meant afternoons of exhaustive running, jumping and disappearing into leaves that had been raked into tall piles along sidewalk curbs of our ‘three decker’ houses in central Massachusetts. Childhood was the time for play.

I remember when residents burned the leaves in the streets to get rid of them. Smoke from the fires would fill the neighborhood, wrapping itself around houses, leaving a smelly calling card in its path. I would fall asleep in sheets saturated with the odor of burnt maples and oaks if those sheets happened to be hung outside to dry on leaf burning day.

Not anymore, mind you. The leaf pile jumping has been replaced by tablets and video games. And the leaf burning has gone the route of recycling for compost.

Life changes, we grow older, become serious. Nowadays, I see the piles of leaves and am reminded of those fun filled innocent childhood days and contemplate jumping. However, I come to my senses and leave it for the dog to enjoy.

Do you remember your leaf jumping days?

Steve (112423)

Whistling: A Three Women ‘Melodrama’

Do you whistle?

The back room storage area of the downtown haberdashery was dimly lit and the old floor squeaked as I danced the long handle broom across the narrow hardwood boards, sweeping away the light dust to the rhythm of my high pitched whistling.

A ‘clean-up’ boy in a men’s clothier shop, owned and operated by a ‘quirky’ old couple who rode home in separate busses to assure the survival of at least one partner in the unlikely event of a fatal accident. You never forget your first job and the people who hired you.

It was a men’s speciality store. With neatly arranged merchandise under glass counters or on shelving behind those counters, to be presented by a salesperson, not self served, expertly dressed mannequins in window displays, and crank out awnings to protect those windows from harsh sunlight, this was an iconic men’s wear store in downtown Worcester, before the exodus of retailers to suburban shopping malls.

Not surprisingly, whistling while working was frowned upon, it detracted from the aura, the ambiance, the atmosphere of a high quality clothier.

I should have known better. I should have been more respectful. However, I was 16 and only working because my ‘old school’ father suggested that I was old enough to get a job, albeit a part time job.

More often than not, the best lessons learned are the harshest. Being dressed down by the owner wife, one half of the probable survivors, was a deserved embarrassment. It was the first time, but not the last, that I would be on the receiving end of a woman’s wrath.

I’ve enjoyed whistling since boyhood. I find it fun, relaxing and wildly entertaining. Wildly might be an exaggeration, but the elderly lady on the front porch swing of a house I passed on my daily route to high school found it so. “Young man, your whistling lifts my spirits”, she shouted from her post. I think she waited for my passing each day and I happily obliged her with a harmonious whistle.

My singing is terrible, so I’ve been told. And my whistling is shrill, as I’ve been reminded by the third woman in this story, the one I whistled at more than fifty years ago. She must have liked it then, because we’re still together. However, now I limit my singing and whistling to when I’m alone and can belt it out without contrarian commentary.

Yes, I find myself wildly entertaining during those times.

Let’s hear your best whistle.

Steve (102023)

“Your Fly Is Open…”: Misplaced Priorities

I have reached an age where my train of thought often leaves the station without me. (Clear Thoughts)

She alerted me with an edgy, disgusting sort of admonition, “you can’t leave the house like that, your fly is open“. I looked down and, yes, she was right, again.

“Just be thankful I remembered to put on pants”, I wanted to say. Instead, I just grumbled something incomprehensible and corrected the little faux-pas.

What happens to a person after a certain point in life? Does forgetting to do routine stuff become the new norm? It seems to be,

“You did it again, you left the toilet seat up”, she called from one of our ‘too many’ bathrooms. .

I grew up in a large family, five boys and two girls, with one bathroom, just 1. If we closed the toilet seat cover every time it got used, my father would have spent several paychecks a year replacing it because the hinges would have become unhinged ( I feel that way, myself, at times).

But this isn’t a commentary on habits, good or bad. It’s about forgetfulness creeping in as I age. I don’t even want to call it ‘forgetfulness’, the things I forget just aren’t a high priority. A down zipper? Open toilet? No big deal.

My high priority stuff is more like eating, finding my keys, whether to hit or hold 14 in a blackjack hand and scheduling a beer night with other seniors.

At my local health club, I find myself looking in the mirror to make sure I’m properly attired before going to the pool. It’s one article of clothing and I have to check to make sure I’m wearing it? Maybe that should be a higher priority.

I’m the guy in the grocery store parking lot looking for his car with a cart full of dairy products souring and ice cream melting under a summer sun. I’ve often come close to calling security to report a stolen car but how many times can a guy do that before getting labeled a public nuisance?

I’m thinking about realigning my priorities closer to what she’d like (yes, her, the better half). After 54 years of marriage, it’s the least I can do, don’t you agree? If this works, I’ll be reprimanded fewer times for forgetfulness and feel better about myself.

Whoops, I spoke too soon…

“You didn’t set the house alarm last night!”, she reminded me at breakfast

“Wow, we’re lucky we made it to morning alive”, I muttered into my coffee cup, having just gotten over the shock of noticing that I put my socks on the wrong feet (yes, it matters).

I’ve a grand memory for forgetting (Robert Louis Stevenson)*

Steve Bottcher (070923)

*Brainy Quotes

Listen My Children…

I first wrote this last year but today is a good time to repost it.

Listen my children and you shall hear of The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere

Twas the 18th of April, ‘75, hardly a man is now alive who remembers that famous day and year

As he said to his friend, “If the British march by land or sea from the town tonight, hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch of the North Church tower as a signal light.

One if by land, and two if by sea, and I on the opposite sure shall be ready to ride and to spread the alarm through every Middlesex village and farm for the country folk to be up and to arm” (Longfellow)

Miss Meehan, my 5th Grade teacher at Woodland Street School in Worcester, MA wrote this on the chalkboard and had the students memorize and recite it. I’ve never forgotten it. Of course, there’s lots more to the poem.

About 1981, on April 18th, I was driving along the New York State Thruway, Rte 90, at an excessive speed. Why so fast? Because I was reciting this poem out loud, caught up in a bit of patriotism. At least that was my story to the state trooper who commented, “I bet Paul wasn’t going this fast”, as he handed me the speeding citation.

I will never forget the poem, the officer, the patriotic deed by Paul and friends, nor Miss Meehan.

Steve

Happy Patriots Day to all Bay Staters today, as well as Boston Marathoners.

Today, I Bid Farewell To An Old Friend…

It’s difficult saying goodbye to an old friend, a lifetime friend. I did that today, somberly and with complete sobriety.

We enjoyed decades of each other’s company: long walks over green fields, side treks into brush and woods, sidestepping water, back and forth into sandy patches. But today was a time to say goodbye.

Early on, I carried my friend on my back, slightly bent from the weight and mumbling, sometimes cursing, as we went along, not in anger but in frustration As I aged and carrying was too challenging, I pushed my friend in a cart. We were inseparable in sun, rain and wind.

We always seemed to end our walks on a good note, motivating us to return for more.

—————————

My dad gave me my first set of golf clubs, MacGregor Tourney irons and woods. I was 16. It was 1962.

We became inseparable: together on family golf outings, airplane rides to sales meetings and always in the car on business calls. This was the friend that I bid adieu in a rather unceremoniously way when I made a donation to second hand shop

I’m beginning a different stage of Life, the declutter stage, the new catchphrase for seniors of a certain ilk. Looking around the house, I realize there’s a potpourri of ‘stuff’ that I no longer use, will never use. Time to declutter.

But it’s hard to declutter an old friend.

One thing I won’t declutter is all the memories I have that center around golf and those special clubs. It’s not hard to close my eyes and enjoy a tsunami of good times golfing with friends, brothers and especially my dad.

I hope someone will spy these clubs at the second hand store, buy them at a give away price and start making their own memories.

As more decluttering continues, somebody is really going to love the button down dress shirts and brown wingtip shoes I’m donating. I’ll just never use them again.

What about you? Is decluttering in your plans?

Steve (021723)

Quotes on golf and decluttering

“Golf… is the infallible test. The man who can go into a patch of rough alone, with the knowledge that only God is watching him, and play his ball where it lies, is the man who will serve you faithfully and well.” – P.G. Wodehouse

“Golf is a good walk spoiled” – Mark Twain

“Out Of Clutter, Find Simplicity” – Albert Einstein

“Your Home Is Living Space – NOT Storage Space” – Unknown

4549…Broccoli, It’s Just A Number

I could see he was fumbling for it, so I blurted out, “4549”!

“You know this stuff, eh”, he acknowledged with a grin.

“I should, I get broccoli every week. Yams, 4817, cauliflower 4079. Every week, they’re on her list. Grapes, 4023. Every week, same thing. And I don’t deviate. It’s one of the benefits of coming here, brain training”.

With a smile of approval and freshly printed price sticker, he steered his small cart to bananas, 4011, but not before professing his status as a neophyte in this grocery shopping game. Professing wasn’t necessary, not knowing the broccoli code was a dead giveaway.

It’s true, though, grocery shopping is a game, a numbers game and a theatre game: codes, weights and measurements, BOGOs, coupons, increases and decreases, mostly the former as inflation becomes an even bigger number. Know the numbers and you’ll save time.

A theatre game, too, almost a contact sport, with participants panning out around the partitioned layout like pawns on a puzzle board. Step back, yourself, and watch.

Some shoppers attack the store with, seemingly, no semblance of order, helter-skelter, snaring items off the shelf and into the cart, sometimes without even looking. Always in a hurry.

“Out of my way, where’s the Guiness”, I imagine them saying.

At $10.99/6 pack, 72 ounces, that’s a much higher number than gas at $4.07/g, 128 ounces. Oddly, no one complains. It’s beer!

Others shoppers, like me, take their time. I’m deliberate because I’m a gabber, I’ll talk to anyone who might slow down or be idling nearby. The speeders detest my type, we interfere with their plan, ‘get in, grab it and get out’. My MO is ‘stroll in, search for stuff and socialize’. That’s why I save frozen to the end.

Then, there’s the checkout. I have favorite cashiers, they know my act.

“Paper, please, and every space is a new bag”, as I empty my cart.

The smart cashiers like my system, it’s one less thing they have to think about, the bags weigh less, and I can transfer items into the fridge and cabinets faster at home because I organized it on the belt. I might pay a couple of extra nickels for bags, but that, too, is part of the numbers game, time management.

Shoppers behind me often change lines. Probably the speeders.

Last stop, the Service Desk to pick the winning numbers.

“Two lottery tickets, please. looks like a big number for tonight’s drawing”,

“Sure is, but you know the odds for winning don’t favor you”.

I didn’t have to be reminded, of course I know the odds, I’m a numbers guy. But you don’t win if you don’t play. And, if I do win, well…..

…that’ll be the biggest number.

Steve

April 2022

To fellow shoppers who enjoy the game and know your numbers. If you see me at Wegmans, stop and chat.

WordPress: srbottch.com

Instagram: @srbottch

Listen My Children…1775

‘Listen my children and you shall hear…of the midnight ride of Paul Revere…T’was the 18th of April, ’75…’ (H. W. Longfellow)

A little bit of US history as memorialized in Longfellow’ long poem, The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere.

My 5th grade teacher, Miss Meehan, wrote several stanzas on the blackboard (remember those?) and had each student write them, ourselves, then memorize them.

I’ve never forgotten those stanzas and am reminded of the history and Miss Meehan every April 18th, today. It’s important to remember our history and important people in our lives. Miss Meehan was a good teacher and that period in US history was, well, what can I say.

It’s also important to understand our past, as a country and an individual, so we can learn and make in-course corrections as we continue to grow.

Paul Revere wasn’t the only rider that night and the British grabbed him before he got carried away with his warnings to the public. However, HWL chose to use him in his narrative and now his name is synonymous with revolution and liberty.

I hope you find the poem to read, yourself. And, as I like to do, read it aloud. It seems to resonate better with me when I do.

Remember history, and the teachers who made it come alive for you.

Steve

The Crossing Guard Chronicles: The Facts, Just the Facts… ‘Did You Know Abe Lincoln Had A Sense of Humor’?

‘We miss your facts’, a student at my school crossing post offered. ‘Well, here’s something, did you know that President Abraham Lincoln had a great sense of humor?’ No, she didn’t and neither did other students. I didn’t, either, until I recently read* more about Lincoln.

‘His pictures always show him looking sad or serious’, another commented. ‘Well, he was often sad and serious. He had much to be both sad and serious about in his life’.

One can get a potpourri of facts by reading.

This is the stuff we talk about at the Curbside Classroom. Facts. But there’s more. And the kids love the ‘more’.

He changed the world for the better. Dr. Jonas Salk did that. I was working on March 26th and reminded the kids about Dr. Salk and his successful research into developing a polio vaccine on this date in 1953. We discussed what we could in the very brief time before crossing.

Tying the polio epidemic and the successful vaccine then, when I was a kid, to the Covid-19 pandemic, I thought, was interesting for the kids, as well as a couple of teachers or adults who happened to benefit from crossing at the Curbside Classroom, that day. Understanding that events in history often repeat themselves was a good lesson. And to have an eye witness, me, who experienced the anxieties of both, tell them about it, was a plus.

Some of these kids are graduating this year and it’s exciting to see them planning their future. It’s been a challenging year because of the pandemic but kids are resilient and they seem to have handled it fine, for the most part.

I like to think that the Curbside Classroom helped them kick start their days. I hope it will be a fond memory, as they continue along a successful Life journey and maybe, just maybe, change the world for the better.

Congratulations, Class if 2021!

Steve

* Team of Rivals’ by historian Doris Kearns Goodwin

Today, I Shoveled Snow

Here’s another story that I first wrote several years ago. I thought it was worth reposting in view of this winter’s weather. Enjoy!

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow…” RW Emerson

Today, I shoveled snow. Yesterday, I shoveled snow. And the day before that, I shoveled snow. It’s winter in western New York and we live with a steady diet of snow

Along the winter shores of Lake Ontario, steady snowfalls are the norm and removing it is more than a daily ritual. It’s a right of passage for youngsters and an absolute necessity for adults who get up, get out and get to work. Commerce doesn’t stop for weather, here.

Growing up in central Massachusetts, where measureable snowfalls also were a common occurrence, kids there learned to shovel at an early age, too. It was not an option in a blue collar neighborhood where dads had to be at work early and on-time.

All able bodied males in the house, young or old, manned shovels, clearing driveways and walks to help get workers on their way. Plow service and snow blowers were an unaffordable luxury for most families.

All that was heard on eerily quiet, ‘three decker’ lined streets the morning after a nor’easter, was the scraping of metal shovels over frozen pavement, and dry, fluffy snow squeaking underfoot with each twist of our black buckled boots. The task of finishing a job fell to the young school boys with nothing but time on their hands. Time and energy.

Snow shoveling is a low skill task, even the tools are simple and aptly named, ‘shovels’.  Bend, scoop, lift, toss, use your legs not your back. But those weren’t instructions my dad gave. He was more direct, knowing that I could figure out the mechanics, myself.

“I expect this driveway and sidewalk shoveled by the time I come home from work”, he announced, without mentioning my name or even looking at me. It was understood whom he was addressing, the skinny kid and the only one left home after he and big brothers went to work.

My dad’s directives were always clear and concise. The fewer the words, the stronger the message. Besides, mother always made sure the work got done, as prescribed.

And when the jobs were done, the neighborhood became a bevy of street hustlers, as I and other like-minded junior entrepreneurs with shovels slung over our shoulders, eagerly slipped and slid through heavy snowdrifts, knocking on doors with wet mittens, competing for whatever snow removal opportunities were left at neighboring houses.

We had no business plan or even understood the value of our labor. Regardless, we would shovel walks clean to the pavement, keeping tempo to imaginary cash registers ringing in our collective heads, totally dependent on the client’s generosity. Sometimes it was good and other times, not so good. But the greater lesson of work and reward was invaluable.

Now, I still find myself taking on the task of snow removal. It rekindles frigid memories of finger and face freezing days under the watchful eyes of my father and the lessons he ‘taught’ me.

One thing is certain…I can’t wait for the return of summer in western New York!

srbottch