Different Slants

Robert M. Katzman’s Amazing Story:  http://www.differentslants.com/?p=355

© Halloween, 2011

Every so often, as present civilization seems to be crashing down around us, and civility with it, good happens.

Why this is always a surprise mystifies me, but just as there’s more darkness in the Universe than light, perhaps that out-of-whack ratio is mirrored here on Earth with evil overwhelming good.  I don’t want to believe that is true.  I have evidence to the contrary that spontaneous good both exists in the most modest of people, and that it is either an inherited trait, or a mutation.

Though my story was written on Halloween, it is more goodhearted than all the witches and goblins who surface that day, and is much more of a Thanksgiving Day story, at least to me.  Let me introduce the cast of this absolutely true little drama, which begins in frigid winter, 1967 and ends in sunny June 2011, forty-four years later.

Bill Reynolds, Ellen Teplitz, Larry Mallette, III (who was not yet born when this story begins), Bob Katzman, Hugh Iglarsh, Jan Muzzarelli, and Brian Hieggelke.

I just noticed that there are eight sets of double letters scattered among the seven of us, and four of the uncommon letter “Z”.  But that has nothing to do with my story…or does it?

Come back in time with me and see how all these seven strangers gradually met, and then what happened.

In December 1967, in Hyde Park, a neighborhood about six miles south of Downtown Chicago, I was seventeen and operating a wooden newsstand on the corner of 51^st Street and Lake Park.  That distinctive community was also home to the University of Chicago, and I was in my last year as a senior in the University’s high school, known embarrassingly as The Laboratory School, but mostly called Lab School or U-High.  I was a writer on the school newspaper.

It was expensive and the only way I could keep going there was paying the tuition by running the primitive and so-very-cold-in-wintertime newsstand, seven days a week.   No parties, no dances, no irresponsible adolescence. It was a glamorous school with many pampered children of famous people, wealthy people.  As you might imagine, while standing on a corner in sleet and enduring icy winds blowing off Lake Michigan, I did not see myself as one of them. The small school population was an impenetrable clique. A sexy new girl student always found a way in. A guy hawking newspapers with black headlines screaming about Viet Nam?  Sorry.  Full up.

There was a kerosene heater inside my shack, and it kept the dark and worn wooden interior reasonably warm.  The problem was my endless running back and forth between cars lined up impatiently waiting for their Chicago Daily News Final Markets Red Streak, prevented me from being able to sit down long enough to thaw the chill in my teenaged bones.  The shack had a double window on a track so I could open it by sliding it back and forth.  When it wasn’t rush hour, I stayed inside and stared at the empty street, thinking about my chances.

Movies frequently made a corner newsstand look like a colorful or romantic sort of place with the old guy working there dispensing ancient wisdom, smiling and beaming at the passing parade.  Norman Rockwell.

I was failing algebra and mastering curb service. I resented the impatient customers who never tipped and rarely said ‘thank you,’ and wasn’t able to find some nice warm girl, a pretty girl, to be my girlfriend.  Real life.

So, on one of those grim winter days, this short girl wanders down to me from the corner. She was older than me, a little chubby, wearing big fluffy ear muffs and a warm black winter coat with a furry hood.  She wore practical glasses, had a shy smile and mittens on her hands. She was wearing warm-looking boots.  She looked to be about five feet tall. An escaped Santa’s elf.

I was standing there on a rectangular piece of construction-quality plywood to keep a barrier between the cold cement sidewalk and my frozen feet.  Huddling behind a two foot wide vertical wall attached to the newsstand that served, badly, as a wind screen, I waited for her to tell me what newspaper she wanted.  And I waited some more.

The girl looked at me for another moment; she seemed to be struggling to get up the nerve to speak. Shy?

(Read on …)

Robert M. Katzman’s Amazing Story: http://www.differentslants.com/?p=355

© April 4, 2011 by Robert M. Katzman

This is an introduction, because one thing leads to another, usually.

Helen died.

92 years old, Helen Bishop had lived with us for five years.

“Us” means Joy, her daughter, one of eight children, and me, the husband.  Our daughter, Sarah, got the call at 1 am on Sunday morning, March 13th 2011, when I was dead to the world.  Eighth graders can stay up all night, but not their 61-year-old Dads.

It may actually have been midnight on March 12th, because everyone’s supposed to push their clock ahead one hour in the spring at 2 am, and that night was the night.  So, if they did it early in the nursing home, it might’ve still been Saturday night.  This isn’t essential to know, and in fifty years who will care?

But I did wonder for a few moments, lying there in the dark with my beagle, Betsy, who continued to snore all through the brief conversation in the darkness.  I let her death wash over me, like a tide.

Her kids came to Chicago from across the United States, and from every kind of job:

Billy: (1941) 69, retired U.S. Air Force—–Florida

Gail: (1945) 65, real estate—–Illinois and Wisconsin (aka “Susie”)

Carolyn: (1947) 63, secretary in a Lutheran church—–Oklahoma  (aka “Keeko”)

Joy: (1950) 60, controller at a surgical center, retired—–Illinois

Jim: (1951) 59, engineer—–Illinois

Elaine: (1953) 57, registered nurse—–Arkansas  (aka as “E”)

Russell: (1955) 55, carpenter, lumberjack—–Wisconsin  (aka “Buster”)

Charlie: (1959) 51, retired U.S. Air Force; now Aurora, Colorado cop (aka “Chickie”)

Some came with wives, husbands and/or children. An army of descendents.

Bill Bishop, the man she married in Chicago on Christmas Eve 1939, died March 9, 1999, after nearly sixty years of marriage.  He was a railroad man his entire career, The Rock Island Line.

Her one surviving brother, whom we call Uncle Donnie, 82, came from Pelican Rapids, Minnesota along with his two sons, David and Paul.

Helen herself, originally from a Norwegian/Danish farming family named Ness and Petersen, and who lived in Wolverton, Minnesota was born in 1919.  But I also heard she came from Comstock, Minnesota, about five miles south. I think this is an unresolved issue.

But what do I know?  I’m just the husband. I don’t even have blue eyes, so I keep out of any Scandinavian controversy.  I hear they all still carry big axes.  Better silent than axed.

Both these obscure hamlets, hard by the North Dakotan border are just south of the Red River-traversing metropolis of Fargo-Moorhead which includes both states.  You go out there, don’t miss it.  Nice people, a stunning museum and an incredible number of snowplows.  Really.

I, ah, wouldn’t chance it in winter, which in this part of the North-Central USA runs from October to April.

Is this a eulogy?

Well, not exactly. Some of her kids and grandkids already did that in the Lutheran church service, including my wife who pleaded with all of her siblings to stay in touch and not drift apart.  I watched her and was very moved.  Will there ever be anything important enough to get them all together again?  Was Helen the one great bond?  Do they individually realize this?

Nope, this is a more permanent remembrance of her and about something remarkable that happened just after she was buried. Spoken words, however heartfelt and loving, drift away into the ether.  You write it down, there’s a chance they’ll linger.  Maybe even still be here when the great grandkids want to know about their nice Grandma and all the rest of us are no longer available.

I read my stories in public sometimes, except the ones I can’t read because they are too loaded with emotion.  This is one of those stories, so read it, people.  Helen deserves it.

(Read on …)

Robert M. Katzman’s Amazing Story:  http://www.differentslants.com/?p=355

by Robert M. Katzman © February 25, 2011

Hot

Hot

Day

Poor Man

Living in a

Rich Man’s town

Cars stretched out

Like a

Highway to Hell

Gotta get home

I whip around the Mob

Sail around the shoulder

Running for that

Last Green Light

(Read on …)

Robert M. Katzman’s Amazing Story:  http://www.differentslants.com/?p=355

So, now thoroughly enlightened as to how fast I could legitimately motor along Wale’s skinny streets, I drove on toward romantic Hay-On-Wye.  This was the high point of my trip and I eagerly looked forward to exploring endless used bookstores.

Going through guidebooks and a packet of information from The Wales Tourist Board, I learned a long list of intriguing bookstore names.  Chicago had a fair share of used bookstores in an area called Printer’s row, as well as another area just north of the famed landmark cinema, The Biograph Theater, where notorious bank robber John Dillinger was shot dead, after being fingered by the Lady-in-Red, by a fusillade of bullets from many FBI pistols, led by the famous (and as yet unknown cross-dresser) J. Edgar Hoover.

But reading the list of names, and anticipating visiting the actual stores, was like trying to eat just one piece of chocolate.  Here’s a probably incomplete list of the names.  Any errors are mine:

Castle Hay Books…Murder 4 Mayhem…Outcast…Rose’s Books…Richard Booth’s Bookstore…Marijana Dworski Books…Pemberton’s…Westwood Books…The Wye Gallery…Poetry Bookstore…Children’s Bookstore…Boz Books…Book Ends…Hay Cinema Bookshop…Antique Gifts and Books…Hancock and Monk…Lion Street Bookshop…Rare Comics and Cards and The New Strand.  (Whew!)

For me, being caught someplace without a newspaper or book while in an airplane, doctor’s office, or any situation where I’m waiting, is inconceivable.  I don’t know about the next generation, but for me, reading is as necessary as food.

I was going through this very busy and somewhat larger town, Talgarth, where there seemed to be some kind of street fair or celebration of some kind, and there were people and cars everywhere, whizzing around me.  I wanted to pull over and check it out, but there wasn’t enough time.  While thinking this over on a quieter side street, an annoyed person in a car waiting behind me honked loudly.

Surprised, I looked into the rear-view mirror, but before I could see who was honking, the dark vehicle suddenly whipped around my fragile rental car and smacked my left side mirror with a shuddering CRACK!!  At the same time, I saw their side mirror go flying off into the sky.  I guess it was a draw, in terms of unexpected damage.  But nevertheless, I was shaken by one more assault on my little car’s thin metal shell, again in someone else’s country.  This was a disconcerting moment.

What do I do now?

(Read on …)

© October, 2008

(# 3 of 4 chapters)  

My last day in Wales had a very full agenda, so I was up at 6 am, ready for double-barreled tourism.

I filled my gas tank, loaded in some road food and set out for adventure.  My first objective was Caerphilly Castle, about twelve kilometers west of Cardiff.  I had read about it, imagined it, and even seen some pictures of it. But it turned out to be cooler than any other castle I’d ever been in before. 

Before includes Denmark, Sweden, Germany, France and William Randolph Hearst’s (stolen from Europe) vast San Simeon Castle in California.  Since seeing Caerphilly, I can add The Czech Republic’s Prague Castle to that list, too.  With the herds of beautiful women floating all around Prague like gazelles, I’m amazed I even noticed the somber castle. But, I did. And Wales still trumps them all.

No, I haven’t seen every castle in those countries, and the ones I did see were big and impressive, especially sailing north up the Rhine River.  But after a while, you can get “castled” out.  A kind of sensory overkill, with yet another vast pile of chiseled stone and hand carved everything inside of it.

After a while, I was able to accurately follow the many twists and turns on my intense Welsh road map, which eventually led me to the drab little town of Caerphilly.  The town seemed to me to be a post-industrial kind of place where the local coal mines finally ran out of extractable coal and the local economy reflected the hard times that followed after that.  I was initially disappointed, as I slowly drove through the grey and empty streets trying to find some sign that would tell me where the castle was.

But that didn’t take long, and I quickly understood why the town would do nothing to slow down travelers seeking their claim to fame.  A couple turns here and there, and…Damn!

I was inside of a Disney movie!

The castle stands alone, surrounded by a moat.  It has a drawbridge and four massive, round, tower-like structures at each corner.  It’s not the largest of its kind I’ve ever seen, but there is a kind of majesty to it that the others just didn’t have.  They were all very nice museums of former royalty, but this was a CASTLE.

As a kid, I played with my little plastic armies of mounted knights in shining armor, as well as cowboys, Indians and World War II soldiers, sometimes all taking part in the same battle.  In my imagination, all the wars I waged on my South Side of Chicago basement floor were equal opportunity conflicts, and neither time nor technology were barriers to my assorted armies from different centuries.  

(Read on …)

 Mwy o `straeon gan yr Ymwelydd Americanaidd dryslyd

    (More stories from the confused American tourist)

  (# 2 of 4 chapters)

After a difficult night, the little of it I had left after leaving that surreal fish n’ chips place in Cardiff, I lay there for a while in the big bed with its creaking wooden frame in someone else’s house, just staring up at the ceiling.

I was recovering from that 2 am fried fish meal, which was an early indicator that I was becoming unable to digest various oils, increasingly, and which would soon include olive oil and shaved Parmesan Cheese in Italian restaurants (to use on good crusty bread instead of butter) and house salads and eventually even popcorn in movie theaters, too.  Peanut butter was already taboo, after thousands of sandwiches I devoured as a little kid in Chicago.  .

One thing I didn’t want, was to discover a new surprise food allergy while alone on a foreign island.  This was new and I would have to mentally add it to my banned shopping list, now too long to easily remember.  I would adapt—I’ve always adapted—but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t morn some wonderful flavors that were now permanently off limits to me.  Peter Pan Peanut Butter, Welch’s Concord Grape Jelly and Silvercup White bread.  Good bye old friends, from the Fifties.

That other worldly-blond?  Ahhhh, I don’t want to think about her at all. Ever. Terror in the night, man.

But, I was ok enough to get up and out of my lonely room.  Long married and used to snuggling a very warm and attractive wife, for decades by then, sleeping alone was always cold when I traveled.  I missed the dogs that slept with us too.  Traveling alone can be a mixed blessing: I could do whatever I wanted with no negotiations, but I could also shiver at night. A very mixed blessing.

I suppose replacements could be rented, but not by me.  Perhaps a dog, but that would be as far as I would go.

So, slightly nauseous, lonely and with much to explore and no clue how to get there, I dressed and left my three-day home.  At least it was warm in Cardiff, and the natives were friendly.

I consulted my detailed road map covered with little pictures of big castles to lure the average tourist, and I decided to aim toward Swansea and see the southern coast of Wales.  Swansea was the next sizable town southwest of the capitol and fairly close, too.  I’d read about a place called Three Cliffs which was supposed to be especially beautiful and that was the kind of experience I wanted.  Castles would be later on.

I went back to the same small grocery and gathered up some supplies for breakfast.  Besides grapes, a crusty loaf of bread and cheese (that looks so romantic as I type those words on this page…) plump red tomatoes plus a little shaker of salt to sprinkle on them are very good road food, too.  Tomatoes are like juicy apples: both food and drink together.  Very practical and you can’t spill an apple or a tomato while driving.  European dark or bittersweet chocolate was always welcome, of course, as long as it wasn’t too hot outside and a small enough bar for me to knock off in a short time.  Dark chocolate always made me a little happier. 

Also, I always kept a plastic water bottle, with me wherever I went.

Always.

There is a big difference between having water and not having drinkable water, as I learned in 1969 when my van broke down twenty miles east of El Paso, Texas, about an hour before noon and the shimmering universe of heat was something, at nineteen years old, I had never encountered before.

                                                                                                                                                                 (Read on …)