We hear a lot about homelessness these days. Well, just three score and fifteen years ago, to put it gravely, the second world war had ended and I became a barefoot homeless refugee. That is because our house had gone up in flames and my shoes with it. Eventually things quieted down. Centers were set up where left-over German army clothing was collected for needy civilians. I went to see if I could get some shoes. There were piles of shoes, but only singles. I had been shot at alright, but I was lucky to still have both legs. So I did need a pair. I found a left boot that fit. But I could not find the mate. I came away looking like a clown: one black left boot and one brown right shoe. I walked around that way for quite a while. Moral of the story? When there is a famine the Devil will eat flies.
Author: Herb Hoffman
On Longevity
For a people whose country was formed by defying a king, we Americans show an amazingly lively interest in things royal. What fascinates many, including me, is the British monarchs’ longevity. It is a topic that is often in my mind, given the fact that the present Queen and I are the same age. That may be the reason for this strange dream I had. It involved an old lady with whom I somehow came to share a cup of British tea. She looked somehow familiar. “Are you not the Queen’s Mom?” I asked her. She confirmed that and it caused me some embarrassment because I did not know how to address someone of that rank in the third person. I settled for “madam” and asked her: “Would Madam like a piece of cake with her tea?” To my astonishment she unwrapped a parcel she had brought along. It contained a huge cake in the form of a ball, something British and spongy. She had baked it herself, she confided, but “it did not pop although I baked it and baked it.”
Now if that is not a first class metaphor I don’t know what is. Here is to all seniors, then: Keep baking. No hurry to pop!
They Cleaned Up
When discussing America’s entrepreneurial aristocracy we often use the term “nouveaux riches” and contrast it with the concept of “old money.” The old money families are the really rich folks. I am familiar with only a few names in that category such as the Duponts, the Vanderbilts, the Astors, the Winchesters, and a few others. They all have one thing in common: they cleaned up.
The Winchesters did it with the “rifle that conquered the West.” God knows how many people were killed by that infernal weapon. The Duponts supplied the gun powder. The Astors got rich by cruelly slaughtering innocent little animals. But there is a path to the brighter side of the story. As a proud Californian I am happy to report that it leads nowhere else but to Pasadena. There is one family, the Gambles who, while they also cleaned up, at least used soap to get rich. And nobody ever died of being washed.
I never found out what the Proctors had to do with it. I must visit the Gamble House again one day. (4, Westmoreland Place, Pasadena, CA 911o3) I hope the curators will not tell me anything shocking.
Pardon My French
I often wondered how it is that the French can talk French so fast. The language breaks my tongue even at my slow pace. Here is the answer, maybe: they skip unessential consonants and nouns and call that elision.
Instead of haricots verts, emphasizing the cots and the verts, a Frenchman says arico ver. The former Parisian central market was called Les Halles. When spoken, the name sounds like Laeh All. The pronoun Je is often shortened to J’ and the negative ne becomes n’ and esses are chopped off. The phrase Je ne sais pas becomes jnsaipa. Commdabitudilsnetaitpasouvenudelaffair diersoir. No Frenchman in his right mind would want to spell this out: comme d’habitude il ne s’etait souvenu de l’affaire de hier soire. Takes too long.
The miracle is that they understand each other. I will now set up my metronome and practice a few French phrases at increasing speeds. My French friends will understand me. All others will be impressed by my fluency. I hope they will not ask me what I said because at that speed I cannot even understand myself.
Dolce Far Niente
“Today we should really take a walk around the island. The weather is nice. We used to do this more often.” Thus she spoke. And right she was. But in those days we were still working, we still had extra time to spend.
Now we are retired. A paradox, you say? Keep reading. “We can’t today.” I answered. “I have an 11:30 with Dr. Goodman, and you have therapy at 4:15. And I still need to buy the fish for dinner. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow” was the day the neighbor slipped in the kitchen. She was able to grab the phone and call 911. We went over to her house to comfort her. The ambulance arrived to take her to the ER. We followed, to look after her. She lived alone and had no family. It was way past noon when she was finally admitted and given a bed. We drove home, hungry and exhausted. No walk that day.
The next day was a Saturday. We had booked seats for a matinee performance and decided to clean up and go for lunch. Again no walk. Sunday was out because we had arranged for a little garden party in the afternoon. But first the patio furniture needed a scrubbing, which took up the time before lunch..
And so it goes, week after week – internist, dentist, urologist, cardiologist, hematologist, shopping, party, house cleaning and so forth. Round and round we go. I have now come up with a new maxim, a truly fundamental principle for seniors: Nothing, I say, takes more time than the effort to find time to do nothing.
Humor, but not Fun
A short distance from where I live a tent city has sprung up where many so-called “homeless people” live.
In the fifty years that I have lived in my fairly affluent neighborhood I have observed one house on our street that apparently is unoccupied. The gardener comes regularly to trim the trees and clean up the front yard. But as far as I can determine nobody lives there.
I have also heard of other such cases nearby. Have I stumbled upon a new phenomenon, “peopleless homes”?
Bos placidus
Oxen and men have much in common. Both come in many flavors: some are belligerent in temperament, others are peaceful. Both are gregarious and like to rally around their own.
In Hong Kong the people, or at least some of them, allow, when it comes to cattle, the peaceful variety to rally. At least that is what the newspaper headline said last Monday, “Hong Kong’s ‘valiant’ fighters let the ‘peaceful’ steer rally.”
Ah, punctuation! Who said it wasn’t important?
Now I hope they will soon pass a law that says, “Soldier’s weapons must be left at home to enter Hong Kong.” That will confuse everybody and leave the peaceful steer alone to do their rally.
But will the peaceful be left alone? That might be a mooh’d question. Sorry about that.
Pushing It
Have you driven one of the new ess-you-vees yet? They are called “keyless entry”. That is a euphemism. It is not true. It may be “hands free entry” but you still need a key. You cannot open the door unless you have your key in your pocket or handbag. Once in the car you can put it away. You start the engine by pushing on the big button in front of you. It is about the size of a silver dollar. To go forward or backward you move a small lever just behind the starting button. Which is reverse and which is forward you learn by bumping into the refrigerator in the garage. Steering, accelerating, and braking are the same as in your old car.
On my first trip to the grocery store I did alright except that I had forgotten how to shut off the motor. I could not find the parking brake, either. Afraid to let the monster idle while shopping I decided to forget the milk and the bananas and turned around again. Thank God I hit the reverse at the first try. The rearview camera saved several pedestrians’ lives as I rocked the big vehicle out of a much too narrow parking slot without scratching either neighbor’s Mercedes. Ever so glad that I had no mishap I made it, as they say, to port and rewarded myself with a glass of the Ruby kind. Ouff.
The Park You See and the One You Do
We first learned about Parisian city parks when we saw the German poet Kurt Tucholsky’s little rhyme about Park Monceau, located in the 8th arrondissement. It is pretty here, he wrote, and there are no signs posted to tell you what is “verboten.” (A German would notice that). On our next visit to the city of light we went to see. We found a bench at the western end of the park facing the statue of the rogue poet and composer Henri de Musset, a bench, incidentally, located in a hot spot for internet connections which was convenient. All Paris parks, we found out, offer free hot spots but hearing about and finding one is only half the story. Unless he comes on foot or by bus the sight seer or internet surfer must first figure out where to park in this park, and that is not just a matter of nouns and verbs. Cars are verboten!
Tucholsky would not have liked that. But then he didn’t even have a car. Absurd as that sounds, not having a thing sometimes makes things easier.
Bull Almost “Kilt” Him
It is rather typical for old people to have many medical issues. I am no exception. I find myself discussing ailments with friends. As a solution for one of my problems some one suggested that I wear a kilt. It was meant as a joke but it brought up a good question, namely what Scotsmen wear under the kilt. None of my friends had an answer which gave me a chance to show off because I knew.
It was the feast of San Fermin in Pamplona, celebrated with with vino tinto and some bull fighting. The day began with the encierro, the driving of the bulls from their pens to the rink. It was the custom to allow people into the rink and try to tease the young bulls. One of those brave would-be toreros was a Scotsman wearing a kilt. The fellow obviously thought that he could out-wrestle a bull.
He had only one try. Unceremoniously, the animal tossed him way up in the air. The man landed head first in the the sand with the kilt draped over his ears. No more speculation after that. This, friends, was the authentic way to get at the facts. And what was there to see? Nothing. Just more Scotsman.