Toledo Blade Blogs - Roberta de Boer

Tuesday was an especially good day, as far as Veterans Days go, for Joe, nearly 85 years old and one of my retired pals at the mall food court.
Again, as he does for one or two days a year, usually on Memorial Day and Veterans Day, Joe Horvath was wearing his ball cap with the big letters spelling out PURPLE HEART on the crown. The actual medal, earned in World War II combat in Italy, is kept in a safe place at his home. I have written at length before about Joe, and this blog is not about him, rather it is about a few folks who are unashamed to let these brave military veterans know how much their service was appreciated. Oh, I don’t mean in big, extravagant ways like parades and public proclamations, but in smaller ways that are often unexpected, yet show the veterans a measure of someone’s regard for them. In this case, I don’t even have the names of the two seniors I am writing about. Neither does Joe. You see, on the evening of Veterans Day, Joe was dining alone at the Elbo Room on Alexis Road. He goes there occasionally and is usually by himself since his wife died a couple of years ago. It was one of her favorite eateries. Seated at a table nearby were two seniors, engaged in conversation. Joe didn’t know who they were, nor was there any communication between Joe and the couple. Joe, however, was certainly noticed by the pair. When he finished his small pizza, he went to the cashier to pay for his meal and pulled out his wallet. He was informed that the unknown couple, who had already departed, had taken care of his dinner tab and that he needn’t pay a penny. He asked why the two strangers had done that. The cashier pointed out that they had seen Joe’s hat. Joe, still flabbergasted, shared this experience over lunch at the mall the next day. He genuinely appreciated the couple’s gesture, but was sorely disappointed that he didn’t know who they were or what they were doing at the time so he could thank them. With a few words to pass on to Joe, my wife reminded me of the true spirit of Veterans Day so I could enlighten him the next day: He didn’t have to thank them. They were thanking him. Earlier that day, the Chik-Fil-A in the mall food court was doing its part to let the veterans know how much they are appreciated. With no fanfare but just a sign posted above the counter, Chik-Fil-A invited military veterans to step up and receive a free chicken sandwich on Veterans Day. Joe hadn’t even noticed the sign when he got to the counter to buy a soft drink. One of the employees, noticing the ball cap, asked him if he wanted his sandwich. Joe nodded. He later said that sandwich tasted particularly good. Mike, who runs the Chik-Fil-A there, reported a total of 61 sandwiches given away Tuesday to military veterans. By the way, no proof of military service was required to get a sandwich, just a statement by the recipient that he had been in the service. Like the couple’s actions at the Elbo Room, it was a gracious gesture by folks who also know how to say “Thank You.”

There appears to be a mushrooming amount of nostalgia being marketed to retirees.
Of course, that growing volume is partly because seniors have an increasingly broader time frame to be nostalgic about. Or perhaps it’s because the memories of the past appeal so intently to seniors, especially the more elderly among them, because they sound better than any memories they feel they are likely to make in the future. The retirees I know have plenty of time at their disposal to return again and again to the fond memories of their youth and share them with fellow seniors. Sometimes it’s a form of competition, with each person trying to outdo the others by describing the depths of the individual joys of his own special moments. Most of the time, however, it’s a true sharing of the types of events experienced by almost everyone in the group. The heads nod in unison when common memories are mentioned. I’ve also become more aware that the things they talk about and wax almost misty eyed over are the simplest pleasures they enjoyed years ago. For example, a favorite topic is the golden age of movies, or motion pictures as some seniors still call them. Cable television channels that specialize in those glorious, old black-and-white films are the most popular among the white-haired set. The Turner Classic Movies station, Channel 107 on Buckeye Cablevision in Toledo, seems to be the one most favored. And, if you think seniors are technically challenged or are road kill on the information highway, think again. That classic-movie channel and others like it were the reasons many old-timers bought their first VHS tape recorders. They are graduating to digital video recorders for use with new LCD, wide-screen televisions to get the most bang possible out of those classic oldies. Many insist that watching an old B&W western on a large-screen television is almost as good as when they watched it in a dingy movie theater in the 1930s, 1940s and 1950s. Now, however, in the sanctity of their family room, they don’t have to dodge flying, empty popcorn boxes. That’s a bit of nostalgia they don’t miss. They still speak fondly of those days of 10-cent movie admission for a double feature. The cheap films were often a pair of B westerns or horror movies, and many of them were not much longer than an hour. Why, a kid who really wanted to get his money’s worth would sit through a double feature twice on a Saturday afternoon. Popcorn usually came in a box, and it was a dime too. There were dozens of candy choices for a nickel. Discussions about movie theater candy now can take up most of the afternoon for some groups of seniors. Nostalgia then usually includes memories of a full set of natural teeth. Additionally, more and more contemporary seniors are turning to the Internet where they keep up with the latest trends in video equipment and enhanced enjoyment of their nostalgia. For example, there are a burgeoning number of Web sites where seniors can buy their own box sets of DVD movies of B westerns, old war films, horror flicks, Hollywood classics and others. There are even elaborate DVD sets of silent films, which a few retirees recall fondly. Several astute seniors know where to find the best bargains of these sets of nostalgia. That’s partly why some of them remain active on personal computers, shopping for the best buys and emailing their pals with the details. When a particularly good deal on a DVD boxed set of old movies is found at a local store, word spreads quickly. You can find a movie pack of 50 B westerns or horror films on 12 two-sided DVS for as little as $15 or so. That’s a whopping 30 cents apiece.
Considering that several people can see them at no increase in price, that’s not much more than it cost to see them 60 to 70 years ago. \ It’s quite a deal, I think, especially since you don’t have to wait till Saturday to sit through a double feature twice. Several years ago I was immersed in a Roy Rogers western from the mid-1940s when a couple of youngsters walked into the room and asked: “How can you watch a broken TV set?” I asked what made them think that. “Because something’s wrong with the color.” Dave Simmons commented on Election 2008: Retiree smackdown
Not all seniors are locked into the Republican/Democrat or conservative/liberal paradigms. So some of us are voting against the two-party system for a third-party candidate that best exemplifies the character, integrity and values that we want to see in charge of our representative republic. Sure, we know that it would be nearly impossible for the third-party candidate to actually win the presidential election at this time, but the more votes that these third-party candidates get help elevate these parties to a better position for the next election at every level, from local to national. No more voting for the lesser of two evils for me. Anne Speth commented on Another drama with dementia
I hope I will be able to remember all the good stuff in my life and forget the bad stuff. I try to focus on the good stuff -- it makes me feel better than the bad stuff -- but I probably won't have a choice. I can't find my phone till it rings, but according to my child I never could. Of course, she makes stuff up.

Rarely have I seen retirees argue so heatedly as in the days preceding the 2008 presidential election.
A few of these discussions in the mall food court sounded dangerously close to ending in physical confrontation. The table of retirees where I spend a few hours each day is a true microcosm of Toledo-area seniors. They come from all walks of life. Among the group of regulars are a retired engineer, a former professional baseball player, a housewife or two, an ex-waitress, a retired high school teacher/coach, a former pharmaceutical salesman, a former bank president, and several retirees from assorted industrial firms. These seniors live in Ohio or Michigan. Most of the differences between them in religion, political party of choice, family backgrounds, ethnicity, level of education and job experiences are negligible when usual, mostly mundane topics attract their interest on a particular day. These typically include restaurants, movies, sports, travel, hobbies, store sales, television shows, health issues and the economy, among others. But when it comes to politics, especially the 2008 presidential race, all bets are off. And so are the gloves. In the past few months, especially in the week preceding the election, I have seen numerous glances meant to show ridicule, heard voices raised almost to the full-out shouting mode, and witnessed insults traded between friends who wouldn’t hesitate to help each other in need without question. And despite all the posturing, arguments, presentations of news articles and carefully documented explanations, I don’t think I have seen one person’s mind changed. One thing has become apparent to me through most of this presidential campaign that seems to have started about the time we retirees were in grade school. It is like the old physics theorem we learned in high school: A body in motion tends to stay in motion, and a body at rest tends to stay at rest. Translated: A Republican tends to stay a Republican, and a Democrat tends to stay a Democrat. Much like the basic laws of physics, it remains a constant. Those among us who identify themselves as independents offer concise, well-thought-out arguments on both sides, usually showing clear abilities as independent thinkers. These retirees are few and far between, however. The Democrats among my group laud Barack Obama as the potential savior of our great nation, while the Republicans I know insist he is the devil incarnate or, at the least, a completely unqualified unknown. The arguments I have heard so far are much like the political ads running every five seconds on television for the past year. The ads touting John McCain’s presidential bids mention Obama more than they actually mention McCain. They hammer away at what they perceive to be wrong with Obama, but rarely mention what they find right in McCain’s plans. So it is with my retired pals. While the Democrats among us talk at length about Obama’s much-publicized plans for taxes, the economy, the health crisis and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, the Republicans only want to talk about Obama’s ethnic background, church affiliation or a comment by Obama taken out of context on the campaign trail. The GOP backers continually bring up the socialism word, spewing venom about its evils that have probably been heard since Juliet left Romeo hanging on that balcony. The Democrats go on and on about the selfishness of the haves who won’t help the have-nots. In a nutshell, then, they are all falling back completely on one party’s perception of the other party’s beliefs and platforms, totally oblivious to what each candidate is actually saying. Their political beliefs are, for the most part, etched in stone. Once in a while a complete idiot stops by our group to raise a non-issue which is presented as a fact, even after it was shown long ago to be a lie. We are occasionally visited by someone who insists that Obama is a Muslim, that he is not a genuine U.S. citizen, and that Michelle Obama spent hundreds of dollars on lobster at a New York hotel. Despite being shown actual proof that these are fallacies, some of these folks insist they are factual and the truth is being buried by the left-leaning mainstream media. My reply to them is to not vote for a candidate because you don’t like him, dislike his politics, his party’s platform, question his voting record in Congress, or simply find his ears unattractive. But don’t say you won’t vote for him because of a lie. That insults your own intelligence, which is certainly stretching the definition of that word.

Rarely have I seen retirees argue so heatedly as in the days preceding the 2008 presidential election.
A few of these discussions in the mall food court sounded dangerously close to ending in physical confrontation. The table of retirees where I spend a few hours each day is a true microcosm of Toledo-area seniors. They come from all walks of life. Among the group of regulars are a retired engineer, a former professional baseball player, a housewife or two, an ex-waitress, a retired high school teacher/coach, a former pharmaceutical salesman, a former bank president, and several retirees from assorted industrial firms. These seniors live in Ohio or Michigan. Most of the differences between them in religion, political party of choice, family backgrounds, ethnicity, level of education and job experiences are negligible when usual, mostly mundane topics attract their interest on a particular day. These typically include restaurants, movies, sports, travel, hobbies, store sales, television shows, health issues and the economy, among others. But when it comes to politics, especially the 2008 presidential race, all bets are off. And so are the gloves. In the past few months, especially in the week preceding the election, I have seen numerous glances meant to show ridicule, heard voices raised almost to the full-out shouting mode, and witnessed insults traded between friends who wouldnÂ’t hesitate to help each other in need without question. And despite all the posturing, arguments, presentations of news articles and carefully documented explanations, I donÂ’t think I have seen one personÂ’s mind changed. One thing has become apparent to me through most of this presidential campaign that seems to have started about the time we retirees were in grade school. It is like the old physics theorem we learned in high school: A body in motion tends to stay in motion, and a body at rest tends to stay at rest. Translated: A Republican tends to stay a Republican, and a Democrat tends to stay a Democrat. Much like the basic laws of physics, it remains a constant. Those among us who identify themselves as independents offer concise, well-thought-out arguments on both sides, usually showing clear abilities as independent thinkers. These retirees are few and far between, however. The Democrats among my group laud Barack Obama as the potential savior of our great nation, while the Republicans I know insist he is the devil incarnate or, at the least, a completely unqualified unknown. The arguments I have heard so far are much like the political ads running every five seconds on television for the past year. The ads touting John McCainÂ’s presidential bids mention Obama more than they actually mention McCain. They hammer away at what they perceive to be wrong with Obama, but rarely mention what they find right in McCainÂ’s plans. So it is with my retired pals. While the Democrats among us talk at length about ObamaÂ’s much-publicized plans for taxes, the economy, the health crisis and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, the Republicans only want to talk about ObamaÂ’s ethnic background, church affiliation or a comment by Obama taken out of context on the campaign trail. The GOP backers continually bring up the socialism word, spewing venom about its evils that have probably been heard since Juliet left Romeo hanging on that balcony. The Democrats go on and on about the selfishness of the haves who wonÂ’t help the have-nots. In a nutshell, then, they are all falling back completely on one partyÂ’s perception of the other partyÂ’s beliefs and platforms, totally oblivious to what each candidate is actually saying. Their political beliefs are, for the most part, etched in stone. Once in a while a complete idiot stops by our group to raise a non-issue which is presented as a fact, even after it was shown long ago to be a lie. We are occasionally visited by someone who insists that Obama is a Muslim, that he is not a genuine U.S. citizen, and that Michelle Obama spent hundreds of dollars on lobster at a New York hotel. Despite being shown actual proof that these are fallacies, some of these folks insist they are factual and the truth is being buried by the left-leaning mainstream media. My reply to them is to not vote for a candidate because you donÂ’t like him, dislike his politics, his partyÂ’s platform, question his voting record in Congress, or simply find his ears unattractive. But donÂ’t say you wonÂ’t vote for him because of a lie. That insults your own intelligence, which is certainly stretching the definition of that word.

For the second time in about six months, I am watching a drama unfold in the mall food court where AlzheimerÂ’s appears to be a central character.
This drama, however, is still in the writing stage. The last act may be a long, expensive way off. Also, I say “appears to be” regarding Alzheimer’s, because physicians in my experiences preferred to tread lightly in directly using that name. Having dealt with many doctors and nurses as the minds of my dear stepfather and mother were slowly but steadily ravaged before their deaths, I heard the phrase “dementia, probably associated with Alzheimer’s” more than once. I have been told that an autopsy must show the tangles of Alzheimer’s in the brain before the illness can be laid directly to that dreaded disease. In cases that I have witnessed, families forego such a step after death and simply accept Alzheimer’s as the likely culprit. For purposes of accuracy, I shall use dementia in further descriptions because, so far as I know, the ultimate diagnosis in the most recent saga in the mall is not yet Alzheimer’s. Nor was Alzheimer’s specifically named in the first instance I wrote about. Several months ago, with Drama in the Mall Food Court, I told of a woman’s last moments before her family moved her into a facility for seniors with advanced dementia. Her husband visits her daily and advises friends that she has settled into a comfortable routine. But the dementia continues without cure. She has good days and bad days, sometimes much worse days, her husband notes. Her slide into dementia was relatively steady and rapid, according to the family. While the wife has settled into a routine, so too has the husband. He makes a daily stop at the mall for walking and a bit of occasional conversation before visiting his wife. There are days when he looks heartbroken and forlorn as he sits alone at one of the tables they used to share. Friends join him with their coffee, and his spirits seem to lift a bit. Just as often, his expression is motionless and he listens but doesn’t join the chatter. He rarely smiles the toothsome grin he used to flash. Sometimes, he finds a seat away from the regular group, where he can remain for a while undisturbed and awash in his painfully obvious loneliness. Meanwhile, back at the mall, another of our group of seniors is ensnared and struggling in the throes of dementia. Watching this octogenarian slide inexorably into the abyss of dementia is breaking the hearts of all who surround her and have gotten to know her well. We first realized she was in serious trouble after a car accident a few months ago. Nobody was hurt, and she blamed the other driver, insisting he was traveling at impossible speeds on Monroe Street. But she was cited. A few months later, her car jumped the curb and slammed into a pole as she left the mall. Again, there were no injuries. She was reluctant to tell her adult children of her misadventures. Once they found out, they convinced her to stop all driving, a sensible thing to do. Now, she is driven regularly to the mall to continue visiting with her friends, who encourage her in conversation, good-natured ribbing, and friendly debates. Increasingly, however, she sits unresponsive and alone with her thoughts, lapsing into solitude as she dozes off continually. She also does what I have seen other seniors do as they develop dementia. She asks a question, hears the answer, then asks it again moments later. Sometimes, she asks the same question six or more times in less than a half hour. This week, I showed her a Blade article and photos about Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin. Seniors around the food court table had been discussing this GOP candidate in often heated conversations for several weeks. We were talking animatedly about Gov. Palin minutes earlier. When shown the Blade piece, our friend asked who the woman was. When told Gov. Palin’s status, she said she had never heard of her. The other retirees at the table agree that this would not have happened even a month or two ago. Our friend is getting worse. Her children have become pro-active in dealing with her deteriorating situation. They are looking for an assisted-living facility for her, but first must arrange placement of a mentally disabled sibling who lives with his mother. Fortunately for our friend, she has close family members who are dealing with the nitty-gritty of the illness and her growing needs. She is taking a drug that is aimed at preserving memory, but we haven’t noticed any slowing of her mental slide. The seniors in the group are concerned for her well-being, of course, and now more often than ever the topic of dementia comes up regarding ourselves. It is an illness growing in direct proportion to the aging of the general population. We take a hard look back at our own family members who acted strangely in their final years and try to calculate the probability that we have inherited the dementia gene. Every time one of us forgets a name or an insignificant fact, we wonder aloud whether it’s a simple part of aging or if the memory lapse heralds something dreadful. Disturbingly, few resources seem to be in place to find a cure or to provide affordable alternatives for sufferers and their families. Finances of even comfortable, middle-class families can be stretched to the breaking point and beyond by the high costs of caring for seniors with advanced dementia. There appear to be very few user-friendly resources that these seniors know about. If help is out there, the ones who need it most are unable to find it. If they don’t have family ready to pitch in, they are lost and helpless. The eventual outcome of our friend’s bout with dementia is more predictable than unknown. Her symptoms will surely be different than others who have gone before, as will the speed with which each page in this new drama turns. Still, it would be nice to imagine an alternative ending.

Last weekend I enjoyed an immensely popular, once-a-year event which, I’m embarrassed to admit, I had not done in a quarter century of living and working in Toledo.
I haven’t seen so many smiling faces in one place since the last Ohio State victory over Michigan in Columbus. I’m talking about the annual Applebutter Fest in picturesque Grand Rapids, Ohio, along the banks of the Maumee River in Wood County. I have since taken an oath not to let another 25 years pass before visiting that quaint location again. In fact, I’m not going to let even one week pass. I intend to make a return visit this week, and I don’t need the allure of a major fall event. Let me try to describe some of the joys of the day.
It may have been the nicest day weather-wise that we have had all year. Temperatures were in the 70s, for the most part, with sparkling sunshine and a hint of breeze. I’m not one to lightly toss off words like heavenly, but surely it came close. My wife and I traveled southwest out of the Toledo area on Rt. 24, known along the way as Toledo Waterville Road, Anthony Wayne Trail, Toledo Napoleon Road and South River Road. I suppose planners couldn’t agree on one name. Trees along the route were just starting to show off brilliant colors of orange, yellow and red, making the easy, winding drive more pleasant than expected. I had passed Side Cut Park years ago, but had never driven as far as the gorgeous, long expanse of Farnsworth Park between Waterville and Grand Rapids. The festival was billed as starting at 10 a.m., yet my wife wanted to get there at 9 a.m. I reminded her of the scheduled starting time, but compromised on a 9:30 arrival. It seems that she knows something about crowds at festivals; the place was already quite busy as we drove in. Despite the growing throng, traffic across the river into Grand Rapid moved quickly, and we were directed to a huge parking area north of town. From there, shuttle buses carried visitors to the festival every five minutes or so. Thank goodness for that. It was a healthy walk into town from the parking area, but there was still plenty of walking ahead. Craft vendors and displays were spread out through the few blocks that make up the town.
Along the banks of the Maumee were U.S. military displays and Civil War encampments of folks in authentic costumes and uniforms. Despite all the walking involved, crowds of seniors were enjoying the day and getting some exercise as they slowly strolled and shopped. Several used canes; a few navigated with walkers. One enterprising vendor made it a bit easier to get around for seniors and others whose aching backs or legs made walking difficult. He sold heavy-duty, finely crafted walking sticks. Chats with several of the seniors revealed that this festival has been on some must-do lists for years. No surprise there. Have I mentioned the food? There were vendors with buffalo burgers, plain hamburgers, bratwurst, roasted sweet corn, pastries, and just about anything else that puts on the pounds just by walking past. More than a few people were eating as they walked. Unoccupied places to sit were few and far between. There were several places for live music and other entertainment. A dulcimer band played at one location along the main drag, and a bluegrass group was at another. In the middle was a stage with seating area for families, where a juggler with a comedy routine kept everyone’s attention. We walked, ate and took in the sights for a couple of hours. Naturally, we bought a large jar of apple butter, fresh from the fire and the iron kettle. Until we left about noon, I didn’t realize just how big a deal this festival is. Instead of returning the same way, we headed northeast out of town on Rt. 65, until it joined up with Rt. 64 near Waterville and crossed the river back to Rt. 24. As we headed home, I was awed by the humongous lines of traffic waiting to get into Grand Rapids on Rt. 65. I believe it is a road much less traveled than Rt. 24 on the other side of the river. The line of cars, SUVs and motorcycles heading into town was at least a few miles long. I’d bet the traffic on Rt. 24 was much heavier at that time of day, probably from both directions. I expect this week the lines will be shorter if there are any lines at all. What brings me back so soon? It’s Farnsworth Park, which I had seen for the first time. Now that fall colors are nearing their peak, I plan to grab one of my favorite cameras, mix a little walking with some photography, and enjoy my hobby if weather permits. If the fall colors are only near their peak and need another week to ripen, I may even make a third visit to the area before October is over.

I haven’t been on too many trains in the past 60 years, but the one I rode last weekend in Blissfield, Mich., has had the biggest effect on me.
My earliest memories of train travel go back to the mid-1940s, when my mother, younger brother and I rode from Grand Central Station in New York to Elyria, Ohio, where we would make our home with my new stepfather. I remember getting on the train sometime in the early evening, then speeding a while into the New Jersey countryside before the porter prepared our berth for the night. My mom, brother and I shared a top berth to save some money. To say it was crowded is like saying a bicycle built for two can also carry three or four. Mom slept in one direction; my brother and I were pointed the opposite way. The train’s gentle rocking and clickety-clack of the wheels put us to sleep quickly. When we awoke, we were heading into Elyria and ready to get off. The small city had a large, very well-kept depot. After all, trains were the mode of travel for millions back then, and depots got a lot of regular use. As an aside, I remember watching Harry Truman speak there from the elevated platform to the crowd below on his 1948 whistle-stop campaign tour. Four years later, I watched Adlai Stevenson do the same. A few years after that, the main depot in Elyria was allowed to fall into disrepair and was used for other, non-train purposes as many rail fans turned to planes. Car drivers from Ohio to New York enjoyed the new Ohio Turnpike. The passenger trains in the 1940s had dining cars, Pullman/sleeping cars and regular cars with seats but no sleeping facilities. Family finances were tight, and I don’t recall the luxury of eating in a dining car back then, although I walked through a few out of curiosity. Before planes were affordable for us, we traveled from Elyria to New York and back on trains several times in the mid- and late-1940s to visit family. A single berth, usually an upper, was what we could afford. Returning to 2008, the Blissfield train last Saturday was not the fanciest, or the fastest, or the most comfortable. But I’ll certainly never forget it. It was the excursion special, which left the tiny, old-fashioned station at 1 p.m. Destination was somewhere in the countryside near Adrian, Mich. There the engine was unhooked, driven on adjacent rails to the back of the train, then reconnected to return us to Blissfield. There’s a very popular dinner/mystery train on Saturday evenings aboard the same rail cars and tracks we rode, but my wife and I elected to enjoy a glorious, sunny, early fall day for a leisurely ride. We took advantage of the senior discount of a dollar, making the tickets nine bucks apiece. The train and the entire station looked like weather-beaten antiques, certainly enhancing their charm. A couple of cars on the train we rode were in various stages of repair, but the three dining cars that excursion passengers filled were clean and neat. The thick windows were kept as clear as possible for photography. A conductor, smartly dressed in an official railroad uniform, sang out his summons to board in a robust voice, just like I recalled from my first trip 60 years ago and in most movies with trains since then. Passengers filled the last three cars, all dining cars. There were tables for four on each side of a car, with room to comfortably walk between them. We sat on ordinary, sturdy kitchen chairs. The conductor walked through the cars, collecting tickets. That part hasn’t changed. He even used a hole punch on each ticket, returning the stub to the ticket holder, just like days gone by. My wife and I sat at one table, while the table opposite was filled by another couple of no particular interest to me. But what grabbed my thoughts and what I can’t get out of my mind were the seven people sitting in the two tables ahead of us and what I learned. There were two sets of seniors, each a husband and wife, along with a young woman in her twenties, and two energetic children. The kids couldn’t have been less interested in the train ride and its snail’s pace. They enjoyed the attention of the two older couples who tried in vain to keep the kids’ restlessness in check and amuse them a bit for the trip’s two hours. I am not bothered in the least by a bit of noise from wee ones who can’t sit still like adults for a couple of hours that are boring them silly. Note that I say a couple of hours and a bit of noise. Long periods of screaming are another matter. The two children were coping nicely with the situation, however, as it appeared to be a family outing. There was room for them to get up and move around. My wife, who never fails to establish instant rapport with little children and animals, struck up a conversation with the girl, who identified herself as Jasmine, age 4. As I have seen children do many times, Jasmine quickly warmed to my wife. The two of them shared a bond and long conversations on the ride back to Blissfield after we assured the adults that the kids were being no bother at all. My wife also made an appropriate fuss over Jasmine’s doll, Abby, which she brought over to our table. That endeared her even more to the girl. Jasmine introduced her brother, Nick, who she said was 2 years old. He was restrained, for the most part unsuccessfully, by one of his grandparents. Once the ice was broken between my wife and Jasmine, it was natural for us to evolve into conversation with the adults at those two tables. I couldn’t take my eyes off the two children. They were, to use an overused word, adorable. Their energy was infectious; their enthusiasm at meeting someone new showed absolute innocence. Then one of the kids’ grandfathers casually mentioned that the children’s father was in Iraq. He was in the Army, an enlisted man serving his second tour of duty over many months in Kirkuk. An odd feeling swept over me. It was a mixture of concern, sadness and appreciation. In the years since the war in Iraq began, I have not personally known a single soldier who has served or have I been an acquaintance of a family who has sent a son or daughter to battle there. Hard to believe, isn’t it? Sure, I see the soldiers on television, going to war or coming back, but with no real connection to me, it’s a sort of detached feeling. Up close and personal, however, is a different matter. Now, on the train, the first thing that sprang to my mind was the welfare of the soldier. In very casual conversation, with no blatant prying on my part, I learned that he is due back around Halloween and should be stationed shortly thereafter in New York, where he hopes to make the Army a career. Next through my mind was an overwhelming sadness for these two children and their mother. He is doing his duty as he sees it, and they are doing theirs. The indescribable joys of watching a child in its earliest years are being missed by the father, while the children and their mother must do without a father and husband for lengthy periods. I was very careful to keep my mouth shut about any feelings I am usually eager to share over the war in Iraq and our reasons for being there. This was not the time or the place for my opinions. The one thing I wanted these families to know was the appreciation I had for their soldier’s sacrifices. And for theirs. Robert Denman commented on Doing nothing is not a bad thing I enjoyed your article. Here in Valley City, Ohio, I have a natural window on wildlife and frequently see and sometimes even handle my critters. We have everything from fawns to milk snakes, and I even admire my "pet" bats which reside inverted under my barn roof. In our creek we have heron and snappers. The woodchucks raid the veggie garden, but you learn to grow enough for them and the rabbits and us. We have a shy coyote too.

Despite what some seniors say, retirement isn’t always about keeping up a hectic pace, filling the day with activity to try to avoid simple leisure.
Sometimes the helter-skelter commotion of a busy life cuts too deeply into what can be the best times of all. Many seniors I know are reluctant to merely kick back and do nothing, perhaps fearing that it reflects on their advancing age and is something to be avoided. They express concern that enjoying some down time might stoke the flames of senility or somehow hasten their demise. What I’m talking about can be enjoyed on a regular basis without threatening the physical or mental well-being of any senior who eats a healthy diet and exercises regularly. Doing nothing more than soaking up some serious, heavy-duty relaxation can be cathartic all by itself. Certainly it can be intensely pleasurable. I feel I have found a couple of the best places in Toledo to do just that, even mixing in as much exercise as desired while pursuing this version of nothingness. These are the Toledo Metroparks, where I admit I rarely ventured during my working career. Now, as a certified, retired senior, I am more fully discovering these crown jewels of Lucas County. Several times in the past couple of weeks I found myself in Wildwood Preserve on Central Avenue in the city and in Secor Metropark, also on Central Avenue but about 6 miles farther west.
Good weather beckoned me for some light exercise and a heavier dose of solitude, where I could bask in the scenery, commune a bit with nature, and enjoy my hobby of photography. I didn’t have to talk with anybody, leaving my pals at the mall to finish our heated discussions in the morning over politics and the economy. For the most part, I was alone with my thoughts, enjoying my own company. After a brief walk in the Wildwood park, I discovered a fun place where I could continue to enjoy the facility and my hobby while comfortably seated I found the Window on Wildlife just a stone’s throw from the parking lot at the R.R. Metz Visitor Center. There, seated on one of the chairs facing a large, picture window, I watched and photographed squirrels, groundhogs, numerous birds and dragonflies. Inside, there is a long table running most of the length of the window, which is kept clean for the benefit of viewers and photographers. Outside, the side facing the wildlife is dark so the animals and birds aren’t spooked. I watched and took pictures as a groundhog ate spilled seeds from beneath a bird feeder while a squirrel did the same a couple feet away. They eyed each other, but neither showed any concern or wariness. On a follow-up visit this week, I left my camera at home and stopped in just to see if there was much activity when the temperature dipped to the mid-50s. I walked in about the middle of the afternoon. I was surprised to run into David Link, a recent retiree from GM and a casual friend from the mall food court. I didn’t know that the park is one of his haunts. He was enjoying a cup of coffee and reading his Blade. The park has become a routine visiting place for David, who often brings his lunch and newspaper, walks the hiking trails, and enjoys the simple solitude. He sometimes comes early in the morning, then returns later the same day. He filled me in on some of the sights I can expect in future visits to the Window on Wildlife. He said deer are regular visitors to the pond a few feet from the window, adding that he has seen them stand on their hind legs to lick the bird seed from the trays of the feeders. He has also seen hawks choose mourning doves dining at the bird feeders as their own lunch, and he described in great detail how the attacks took place. Besides opossum and raccoons that he has seen, he is awaiting his first sighting of a fox. While he enjoys some solitude, David said it is also a good place to meet other seniors or strike up a conversation with amenable strangers who are sharing the facility. Retirees often bring their grandchildren to the park, where they spend time at the Window on Wildlife. Besides being a good place for an up-close look at some creatures, it offers a couple of learning tools too. At one end of the room is a working bee hive that opens outside where the bees go about their business. The hive is actually inside the room, in a wooden enclosure with a door that can be opened. Behind that door, the bees can be observed through glass from mere inches away. Across from the hive is an interactive device about 4- by 5-feet, mounted on the wall with a console at the bottom. On that device are photos of the most common 22 species of birds that visit the park. There are also 22 buttons on the console. When pressed, each button lights up the photo of the corresponding bird, and a recording of its song is clearly heard. I probably have as much fun with that device as do any kids who stop by.

Medical concerns have slipped significantly in the past week as the No. 1 topic among my senior pals at the mall.
Health issues have fallen into second place, well behind the current state of the economy. Very noticeable in the conversations about the nation’s financial well-being is one thing usually and perhaps surprisingly missing in talk about health. Unbridled fear. Of course, there is some fear expressed when one of the group gets a frightening medical report. That fear is usually met by concern, good wishes and offers of help from the others. And medical professionals are ready with advice and solutions. In such cases there is also a degree of resignation and the rationalization that with age often come health problems that are a part of life. With gritty determination, these seniors usually face that sort of fear with optimism, bolstered by family and friends. Now, however, it is a different sort of fear. This fear permeates the entire group like a black cloud of pessimism that can’t be tossed off by anyone who is affected. This fear has many of the seniors shaking. It seems that our prosperous nation is on the brink of economic disaster. That’s what some of our leaders are telling us. The grim economic situation awaits actions from Washington, D.C., where politicians hold these senior retirees’ fate in their hands. Politicians from both major parties, plus a gaggle of economic advisers, are struggling to figure out what should be done. Regardless, the fear of the retirees at the mall is palpable. From table to table, group to group, the topic is almost always the same. These are folks on a fixed income, often a small pension and meager Social Security payments. In some of those cases, a significant part of monthly living expenses comes from bank savings accounts. Or money market funds. Or IRAs in stocks, bonds and other typical investments. And in a goodly number of those instances, we’re not talking about large amounts. What we are talking about is absolute necessity. Investments that plummet in value leave less income for some of these retirees, several of whom are already forced to cut their medications in half or do without them a few days each month because they can’t afford a full measure. Then there are fears, real or just political hogwash, that even the money in banks might not be safe. Some of these folks lived through unimaginably tough times in the Great Depression. They know what it’s like to stand on bread lines or wait for some sort of nourishment at a soup kitchen. And they are scared stiff. They are very unlike the younger folks and Baby Boomers who may still be working and have time to bolster their portfolios and wait out a recession, even a prolonged one. The youngsters would have years to start saving anew. The seniors’ time is now. They can’t return to work and add to the savings that must help support them. Even the retirees who accumulated substantial assets by being fiscally prudent during their working years are afraid that they might not survive an economic meltdown. As you’d expect, the fear finds its way into very heated arguments, not always friendly discussions, about politics and who would be the better choice for president, John McCain or Barack Obama. Before the current financial crisis, political disagreements usually revolved around the war in Iraq. Sometimes it was the high price of gasoline. Or which vice presidential candidate looks better in high heels Then the steadfast Republicans or staunch Democrats in our midst would present logical reasons why their candidate of choice was right for the job. Now, however, it’s hard to separate bipartisan support for economic solutions into specific reasons for backing one presidential candidate over the other. These seniors are having a hard time figuring where each candidate stands. Or even where his party stands. Several of the retirees have suggested taking out all investments and moving them to savings banks, where the deposits are insured. But even that idea is fraught with peril, because doomsayers insist the local banks can fail. Then the children of the Depression bring up what their parents said they wished they had done about 50 years ago: Withdraw their savings while they could and put the cash under the mattress. These seniors at the mall aren’t smiling when they say it. Norman Demby commented on The worm has turned for this apple lover Now I know why the local fruit stand on Avenue M (or was it Avenue J?) went out of business. It was young whippersnappers like you who killed off the old couple who owned the business by giving them heart attacks while chasing the likes of you. Of course I would never do anything like that! I didn't dare because my mother bought enough there that the owners had become friends. Since I often accompanied my mother in order to carry packages, they knew who I belonged to.

I did something this week that I first did about 60 years ago, and I don’t recall it ever being so easy. Certainly there was less risk this time.
I’m talking about the simple chore of picking apples. I must make the distinction between picking apples from a tree and the way I first learned to pick them. You see, in my pre-pubescent years I lived in Brooklyn, New York, where I was born. I never saw an apple tree until I moved to Elyria, Ohio, at age 5. However, I continued to spend summers with relatives in the Big Apple. That nickname has special meaning for me. Let me explain how Brooklyn youngsters picked apples in the late 1940s. On every block there was a grocer, who had flat, wooden frames in front of his store filled with fresh fruits and vegetables. When the urge for a juicy, red apple struck us, one of the gang would distract the grocer and another would simply pick an apple. Or two. Without paying. And then we’d run as fast as we could. Eventually the grocers would just chase us off if we came anywhere near their stores. It made the apple-picking business more challenging, even if less filling. It was sort of a game and a lot more fun than the way a retiree must do it now. Oh, sure, you can always go to a grocery store and ante up the asking price for a bag of apples. And I doubt that seniors like me would get very far if they did it the snatch-and-run way we did many years ago. Still in my youth in Elyria, I remember climbing a neighbor’s apple tree to grab the fruit before it had a chance to ripen. I knew I was risking a belly ache, as we were warned about the dangers of green apples. I was careful not to overdo the eating part, so the only pangs I suffered were likely a bit of guilt. Looking back, it probably wasn’t much different than swiping the Brooklyn grocers' apples. I was lucky because this neighbor knew me and apparently didn’t mind my transgressions. What I remember most was climbing the apple tree. It was not terribly tall, but I still had to hoist myself into the lower branches and carefully work my way up to where the apples were growing. Now I discovered there is another way to get apples that has become easier too. Pick-your-own apple orchards are fairly common in this part of the country, but from my early encounters with apple trees, I envisioned the necessity of ladders or such. However, I have an unreasonable fear of heights and ladders, and have become rather fond of terra firma. The more firma, the better. My apple of preference, the crunchy, tart winesap, isn’t available at the sales counter at any orchard I called in or very near Toledo. Neither is it available at any of several groceries or markets I contacted. My search for the elusive winesap led me to the Erie Orchards north of Toledo on a lovely, sunny day this week. They have several winesap trees, but don’t pick them for their store. I was told that they still grow winesaps because the owner likes them, and I was welcome to pick some at standard prices. Still thinking of my tree-climbing childhood, I did what every height-fearing apple lover would do. I asked my wife to come along. Just in case there was any climbing to be done. Imagine my surprise when I saw 6- to 8-foot trees, puny in comparison to the ones in my memories, dripping with fully developed apples. The choicest apples were picked quickly and with ease. Several, in fact, had to be picked from a bending position. I don’t recall winesap apples ever tasting as good. And running wasn’t part of the picking process.

Few people seem more adept at poking fun at themselves than senior citizens.
They do so with a wink, a chuckle and the surefire knowledge that there is more than a grain of truth in their gibes at themselves and each other. Many of these morsels of mockery would be considered age discrimination if passed around by anyone outside of senior citizenship. But the seniors claim immunity against all such charges as long as the teasing is their own creation or they are spreading the fun themselves. They revel in jokes or cartoons that question seniors’ virility, driving capability, dexterity, eyesight, and other skills that are slowly eroded by age. Stories of such shortcomings are warmly embraced by retirees of my acquaintance. These tales are often embellished to drive home a point or milk more laughter from someone’s predicament. Each day the seniors are quick to pass on the latest retiree joke, if they can remember them. Now that’s a statement that serves as an example of humor that borders, but doesn’t quite cross, the line between morbid and ordinary age-based levity. Memory failure is one of the things some seniors find funny until it starts happening to them or someone in their circle of friends and cannot be laughed off as a humorous foible. Then the memory issue becomes off-limits as a perverse subject, and other topics take their turn in the barrel. Almost always out of bounds as subjects for humor are serious illnesses, especially the terminal ones. I sometimes wonder why the embracing of often morose humor gives some seniors such delight. There’s no meanness in the telling of the stories, and there appears to be no sinister agenda when specific people become the targets. In fact, more often than not, those targets are sitting at the same table. And they can laugh just as heartily as the others over jokes at their own expense. Certainly, the laughter is good for these folks. Scientific studies over the years insist that laughing is physically beneficial at any age. I suspect that in retirement and later years, most seniors have come to grips to some degree with their own mortality and inevitable conclusion. With that reasoning, they might be replacing uncertainty and perhaps fear with the easy, non-hurtful acceptance of age-based humor. Kind of like laughing in the face of darkness. Take, for example, the cartoon at the top of this blog. It is used by at least one group of Toledo retirees to herald a monthly luncheon meeting. Note the old man with a cane in the background, mirroring the image on the traffic sign. Then, for emphasis, the sign proclaims “Geezer crossing.” Seniors who get this cartoon likely find it amusing. I certainly do. But I wonder if I’d feel otherwise if the cartoon was distributed by younger souls at the peak of their physical prowess. Obviously, the intent here is light humor. And it succeeds. The context is important too, considering the targeted audience. So this humor serves a purpose. A quick Google search for “senior humor” turns up 5,850 Web sites that concentrate on the topic. I checked a few dozen of the sites and found an incredible array of jokes, stories, photos, cartoons, phony classified ads, bumper stickers and even clothing that pokes fun at senior citizens and retirees. I’ll bet seniors are the biggest fans and customers of these sites. Now I see where so many hysterical emails forwarded to me from my retired friends had their beginnings. I won’t bother repeating some of the funnier stuff here. I’ll save it for future blogs.

One of the joys of retirement is having the time to discover and enjoy some of the fun things in life, especially the frills that don’t break the bank.
I’m going to share with my fellow seniors one of those affordable, recent discoveries. To me. a frill is something that I have always gotten along nicely without and could continue to do so quite easily in the future. It’s usually economically prudent for some retirees to do just that, especially on a fixed income. But something that costs less than a couple of specialty coffee drinks a month is unlikely to break the bank for many seniors. I should pass up those high-caffeine, high-calorie drinks every time, anyway. I am continually amused how a coffee shop can occasionally add a word, like soy or skim or whipped, etc., and add 50 cents per extra word to the cost of its basic product. But I digress. Still, it’s hard to rationalize some things, no matter how inexpensive, when they are also available free. I’m talking about music, especially the stuff disguised as music that is broadcast free of charge over the airwaves. I am an unabashed music lover. My extensive collection of vinyl albums, cassette tapes and compact discs numbers in the thousands. The music I choose to hear depends on my mood at a given moment, whether I’m spending serious time in my car, sitting at my computer, or doing nothing but listening. I have been a regular music reviewer for The Blade for more than 20 years, regularly critiquing country, blues, New Age and world music. That gives me a solid base of good music for my enjoyment. The vast majority of my music, however, was bought at local stores. I have large numbers of classical, big band, Forties and Fifties pop, early rock ‘n’ roll, early jazz, Dixieland and folk music. I also am fond of contemporary Latin, reggae, electronic, house and dance music, which helps me shed my codger status when any teens are with me in my car. Unfortunately, my overwhelming choices in music mean that I must tote a large compact disc case when I travel so I can play what appeals to me at the time. The free radio on AM or FM is limited by the narrow playlists at each station, and that doesn’t turn me on at all. Or I could pay several hundred dollars for an iPod or similar music device and put in several hundred hours loading large segments of my music collection for listening on the go. Now, however, and here’s where I share my discovery with you, I turn on the satellite radio in my car. If satellite radio sounds like a complicated way to pay for something that you can get at no cost, read on. If you spend $12.95 a month or more, about the price of a single compact disc, then the satellite radio is a genuine bargain. How did I discover this? It came standard in the late-model used car I recently acquired. As a bonus, the satellite radio network gave me six months of free service to see if I liked the product. Well, the jury is in, and the verdict is unanimous. I cannot imagine ever having another vehicle without the satellite radio. So far as I know, satellite radio comes in two flavors: Sirius and XM. The brand of satellite radio you get in your car depends on which car maker is in cahoots with which brand. For example, Cadillac and many General Motors cars, plus an assortment of foreign autos, come equipped with XM radio. Chrysler and Ford, plus the other foreign autos, come Sirius-equipped. Each satellite radio brand offers more than 160 stations of crystal-clear digital sound, with a menu of stations devoted to a single genre, such as Forties, country, New Age, classical, etc., 24 hours a day, seven days a week. It’s all basically commercial-free too. There are also stations devoted to news, comedy, kids, weather and sports. The best part for seniors is that the music they love most but can rarely find on commercial radio stations is readily available by way of satellite. The sports choices may help determine which satellite radio you prefer, since XM radio offers live broadcasts of every major league baseball game, and Sirius delivers pro football and basketball. It remains unclear, as far as I know, whether the recent merger of XM and Sirius will affect that difference. If your current wheels don’t come with the satellite radio option already installed, it can be added on. And you can pick up a portable radio to take that wide range of music with you when not in your vehicle. When I travel with retirees in my age group or older, the stations most often requested play stuff from the Forties or Fifties. If I drop them off and load up with teen-agers, I don’t have to fumble with a case of discs, but just change the channel. Otherwise, the refrain turns to “Yuck! What is that music?” As a bonus, because I subscribe to one of the satellite radio services, I can fire up my Internet browser as I work on the computer and listen to the same stations I get in my car. At no additional cost. The discretionary money I don’t spend anymore on compact discs now is available for use elsewhere. Like at the gas pump. Jim Pettican commented on Even the losers win among these seniors Gambling fans here (Florida) do not get to cross an international border, but for years many of them have gone to the Mississippi Gulf Coast. Your column is a public service to the elderly citizens of Toledo who might be contemplating a day at a casino and will now know what to expect.

Meet Mary Smith, the queen of the food court.
Queen is not a title lightly bestowed, but Mary has earned the crown. For nearly 35 years, since the Franklin Park mall opened for business, Mary has been a mainstay of its food court. During most of that three and a half decades, she has “held court” there for six days a week. She usually arrives about 10 a.m. and often stays until after dinner at 5 p.m. Once or twice a week her son, John, joins her after his day at work and they both patronize one of the food vendors for their evening meal. On occasion she visits a daughter in Indiana or Michigan, or has appointments that call her elsewhere, but it is the rare day that does not find her now in her usual seat in the elevated central part of the food court facing the Subway eatery. When the mall expanded and built a new food court a few years back, officials should have engraved one of the tables with Mary’s name. She routinely attracts other regulars, mostly retired seniors, to her preferred table. There, they spend several hours in her presence, much like royal subjects. Mary’s location is their destination whenever they arrive. If she is sitting elsewhere because tables were moved to accommodate a fashion show or such, they will search for her and not sit down until she is found and they can join her. There’s nothing regal about the back-and-forth banter or good-natured ribbing that goes on, but it’s likely that none of this would have happened without Mary as a catalyst. And, just as likely, many of these seniors who are now friends might never have known each other without her. In succeeding blogs, you’ll meet some of these seniors, who are a quintessential cross-section of Toledo-area retirees. They include housewives, a waitress, an Owens-Illinois engineer, a Toledo high school teacher/coach, a pharmaceutical salesman, a Lucas County employee, a star pitcher for the Mud Hens who played with the Detroit Tigers, a Dana retiree, an accountant for a car dealer, a jewelry store manager, a big-rig truck driver, a top bank executive, a psychologist and others. This core group, with a supporting cast of visitors that changes almost daily, is made up of friendly folks with little in common other than their retiree status and advanced years. This is more than enough for them to share personal stories, concerns, and occasional bakery treats on a non-partisan basis. A couple of youngsters in their 40s or 50s also sit in once in a while. Mary, however, is the one factor that hasn’t changed. If she isn’t there, a seat is reserved for her by one of the others. If a second day passes without her attendance, phone calls are made to check on her status and put everyone at ease. She had been a regular patron for years in the food court when it was at the mall’s center, joined on her daily visits by her husband, Herbert. At first he came on weekends or vacations when he was off work. On retiring, he joined his wife daily. As you might expect, he was known simply as Smitty. Smitty died several years ago, before the food court got its present location. Mary, now 80 years old, continues as a regular. She is such a fixture at the mall that many employees know her by name. Her arrival each day seems to have a touch of flair. It rarely varies, almost as though it was scripted. The automatic doors to the covered parking lot slide open, then Mary makes her entrance with a large paper bag in one hand and her cloth purse slung over the opposite shoulder. Slowly and with deliberate, small steps, she strides to her table. She places the bag on the top and, if nobody from her group is there yet, she removes a small, well-worn, hand-printed sign from her purse. It reads, “THIS TABLE IS TAKEN.” She places the sign on the tabletop, next to the bag, and goes to one of the food counters for a large, diet soda. Then, with precision gained from years of repetition, she opens the bag and arranges her meal. Usually, it consists of vegetable soup from Bob Evans, where she had made a quick stop before getting to the mall; a half-dozen crackers fashioned into sandwiches with slices of cheese and lunchmeat cut neatly to fit them; one large orange; several cookies, and a small assortment of dietetic, no-sugar chocolates. As Mary begins her routine of assembling the meal, she is joined by some of the others as they come in. At various times, she is accompanied by one or two tablemates, or as many as 18 companions. They spend a good part of the day joined in camaraderie, sharing lively chatter, mall food and, most importantly to some, a reason to get out of their house and do something in retirement other than watching television. Companionship in the mall helps them fight their war with loneliness. Sometimes, one or two toddle off to the mall stores for a bit of shopping. Then, on returning, they proudly show off what they just found and explain what a great bargain they got. The makeup of the group evolves during the day as some folks leave, others arrive, and a few disappear for a couple of hours to see a movie. It also varies on certain days of the week, as a few regulars only stop by on a Wednesday or a Sunday. The one constant is Mary -- smiling, friendly, non-judgmental, and always willing to share conversation, a hearty laugh or a bit of lunch. The next time you walk past her sitting at her table in the food court, look up and say, “Hi, Mary.” She might not know you, but I bet you get a smile in return. Claude Beck commented on Even the losers win among these seniors The next time you go up there, things will be different. Those folks aren't stupid. They let you win one and then -- bang! You've had it and they got it. But, I s'pose you knew that. Name withheld by request commented on Extra whipped cream on mine, please I love it, especially the part about the banana split. My husband and I frequent the Chardon (Ohio) Dairy Queen, but one day last June I told him I wanted an old-fashioned vanilla, chocolate and strawberry ice cream banana split. DQ only does it in vanilla and/or chocolate. So off we go to the Chardon Baskin-Robbins. Now here’s the unbelievable part ----- no bananas! What’s going on -- an ice cream store that has banana splits on their menu and no bananas? What a letdown! Actually I think that was God’s way of saying, “You really don’t need that banana split. Remember how much you weigh.” Ahhhh, the good old days were really great. And what was the best thing ever? My dress size!

Early one day this week, 54 people climbed aboard a chartered bus in a Secor Road parking lot and headed north.
Visions of Canadian currency were dancing in their heads as the llively group, mostly retired seniors, hit the highway about 8 a.m. My friend Dave and I were among the cheerful bunch on this monthly bus trip to one of the gambling spots in Detroit or Windsor, Canada. The destination this time was Caesars Windsor. Three casinos in Detroit will get their turns in months to come. Before climbing aboard, each person was greeted by smiling George, who arranges these trips, takes reservations, deals with border officials and generally acts as a jovial host. The driver, a portly, good-natured fellow named Mark, assisted the seniors who needed some support or a boost up the stairs into the bus. Waiting in the first seat of the bus was George’s wife, Mary, who collected $17 from each passenger and checked that each name was on the reservation list she held. The bus appeared fairly new, with comfortable seats and good air conditioning. Everybody quickly settled into a seat near someone they knew or into one saved for them by a buddy who got there earlier. Initially, the trip was to begin at 8:30 a.m., but George had called his passengers a day or two in advance and asked them to gather earlier so he could depart by 8. That extra half hour, everyone reasoned, meant more times at the slot machine, table games or incredible buffet. Before departing, Mary used the bus public address system to remind everyone that they needed to have with them a driver’s license or photo identification, plus a birth certificate or voter registration card if they had any plans to get back into the United States later that day. Our government is very picky about that. A passport would suffice on all counts. As we sped north on the interstate highway, the chatter intensified between seatmates, across the aisle and even among riders several rows apart. The bus ran silently enough for normal conversations to be heard easily. We weren’t yet out of the Toledo city limits before packages of crackers and other goodies were brought forth by some passengers to be shared with others, even riders they had just met. After all, seniors certainly require some sort of sustenance in a trip that would take all of about 75 minutes. Shortly after 9 a.m. we passed through the tunnel into Canada, George dealt with the border officials on the other side, and soon we pulled up in front of the Caesars Windsor casino. A friendly representative from the casino, calling everyone “sweetie” or “honey,” boarded the bus to give us each a voucher for the buffet or to cash in for gambling money. The voucher, probably not coincidentally, was worth what we paid for the bus trip. It was a point not lost on more than a few astute seniors, who found it necessary to point out that the bus trip was essentially free. As we prepared to keep Canada green with our money, Mary announced that we should all regroup at the bus dock at 3 p.m. so we could head home no later than 3:15 p.m. Figuring an hour for lunch and counting our morning winnings, about five hours remained for some serious gambling. That should be enough for one day, most of us felt. With a bit of grumbling about the terrible inconvenience, the seniors headed for the cashier cages in the casino to change their American dollars into Canadian funds. My $101 got me back $105 in Canadian money. I won’t go into great detail here, but about 40 minutes later, I was down about $60 at a poker slot machine. That $101 was my gambling budget for the day. Thinking that my chances were better at a poker machine, where the player is actually involved to some degree, I was reminded quickly why I am not a big gambling fan. Then, I thought I should try my luck at a table game I had never played but one that my pal Leo swears is a good one. I had 40 bucks left to blow, and so what if I blew it all in the first hour. I could always watch my friends or some of the other seniors. I also figured I could get even with the casino at the buffet. Boy, I’d show them some serious eating and cut into their food budget for the month. It’s a game called three-card poker. The minimum bet is $10, but a player usually places $10 on each of the first two squares. I expected that it was played the same as every other table game I ever tried. It usually goes like this: I put down my chips. The dealer makes some motions with the cards. The dealer takes my chips. So, at the three-card poker table, I put down my first $20 in chips. The dealer dealt me three cards, then three to himself. There were no other players at the table. I asked what I should do with my cards. If I had a pair, he said, I could put my cards on the third square with another $10 on top of them. He’s getting greedy for all my money in one hand, I thought. But I had a pair, so I put down the cards along with another $10 in chips. I don’t know what happened next, but suddenly I had a nice little stack of $5 chips. So I tried it again. The result was the same. A few hands later, he flipped me several $25 chips. Next, he slid over several $100 chips. It seemed I was getting a pair each time, or a three-card straight, or a three-card flush. Those are good things to get, I learned. The dealer mumbled, “You’re the luckiest beginner I have ever seen.” I thought then that if I was getting $100 chips occasionally with $20 bets, then a $75 bet would make me rich. I was ahead about $500. A couple minutes later I was ahead $350. I rose, thanked the dealer for his patience, and joined my friend who was keeping the casino coffers full at a nearby slot machine. We took time for lunch, where I didn’t have to overeat to get even with anyone. It was a buffet fit for a king, and I was wearing my crown as a winner. After a leisurely lunch, I wasn’t keen on giving all my largesse back to the casino at the tables, so I went off in search of a fun slot machine. I didn’t know 2-cent machines were available, but I found one. Lots of noise, bells, flashing lights, etc. It was a good way to pass some time without spending wildly. Then I learned that you had to play the maximum to win much. That meant 100 times the initial 2 cents, which cost $2 a spin. Suddenly, I won $160 on that 2-cent machine. My luck apparently hadn’t run out. I spent the rest of the afternoon contentedly betting small amounts at that cheapo machine, winning some, losing some, and finishing in the black. The 3 p.m. appointment with the bus came too quickly, it seemed, and soon we were all aboard again. Comparisons were being made of losses, winnings, and how many desserts were consumed at the buffet. Another friendly casino representative boarded the bus to pass out a chocolate coin to each passenger. It was the only coin a few of the gamblers would be taking home. About 3:15 the bus departed. We were cheerfully waved through by officials on the Canadian side who probably expect a return trip some day by gamblers who want to visit their money. At the American side, everyone pulled out their documentation when a border official came aboard. He walked swiftly up and down the aisle, checking the papers. He was satisfied and then waved us on our way. On the trip home, George passed around a sign-up sheet for the September gambling jaunt. Most of the passengers put down their names. Not surprisingly, with great expectations a thing of the past, the return ride was a little less boisterous than the morning’s journey. Spirits, however, were still high despite the fact that there were more losers than winners. These seniors are not careless with their money and usually budget for gambling no more than they can comfortably afford to lose. When they lose, they smile and chalk it off as a delightful ride, great meal, camaraderie and fun entertainment at a good price. A little more than an hour later, we were back at our cars at the Secor Road lot. A few of us were planning where to spend our winnings on something we don’t need.

The five retirees were gathered tightly around the table in the mall food court.
They seemed to be intently playing some sort of game, acting much like men around a poker table. It was lunch time. The quintet of seniors had finished sandwiches, salads, oriental food and tacos. Still on the table within easy reach were their drinks of choice – coffee and diet pop. They were deep into their after-meal topic du jour when the “game” broke out among four of them. The day’s discussion so far had centered on illness and medications, specifically how many pills they took and how often they were taken. It is a popular subject among senior citizens. At first glance, what they were doing appeared strangely reminiscent of the children’s card game of “Fish.” You may remember how it goes: One player says to another, for example, “Gimme all your twos.” If the second player has a deuce, he must surrender it to the questioner who gets another turn. If the player asked is not holding a deuce, however, he responds, “Go fish.” Then he gets to call out a card from an opponent of his choosing. The game goes on until one player has all the cards. Well, there were no playing cards in front of these guys. There were four little pill boxes for their necessary daily medications. The “game” went something like this: The first man, about 67 years old, held up a tiny pink pill. It was a diuretic to help him cope with high blood pressure and diabetes. “Anyone else have one of these?” he asked. Two of the other men, one in his early 70s and the second in his mid-80s, were also diabetics. They each proudly presented their own diuretics from their respective pill boxes. The fourth retiree, also in his early 70s, had such a pill, too, but his was solely for high blood pressure. They paused to compare the strength of their pills. Next they discussed the effects the diuretics have on them, especially if they take them too close to bedtime. The number of nocturnal trips to the bathroom ranged from two to a half dozen. No surprises there. Then another man took a turn. “Anyone have one of these?” he inquired. He was holding a blood thinner. Two others said they did. At this point, purists of the game of “Fish” might have claimed a second turn for him. His pill, you see, was the brand name version, called Coumadin. The others were holding up generic versions of that prescription, called warfarin sodium. Not exactly the same, it was pointed out. The “game” was interrupted for a while as the relative merits of a brand name blood thinner vs. a generic blood thinner were hotly debated. Several of the men took a few moments to compare their heart surgeries and reasons for taking the medication, but it’s a topic that comes up often and usually requires extensive discussions. The number of pills in the little containers ranged from five to eight. These were the ones to be taken at intervals through the day. Other tablets remained at home on a table or sink to be taken at bedtime or after the evening meal. I looked closely into each pill box and felt compelled to ask, “Anybody have a Viagra tablet? Any Cialis? How about Levitra?” The replies were, as I expected, mostly a wave of the hands and some loud guffaws dismissing the need for performance enhancements. Good humor isn’t lost on these seniors. A few more rounds went by, but after the first couple of comparisons, it was down to more unusual pills prescribed for an ailment that was not common around the table. I should add here that, unlike playing cards, no pills changed hands. A couple of times, one man admitted that he had forgotten the exact purpose of a pill he had just pulled out, but was required to take daily at a certain time. Here’s where these four guys had a clear advantage over similar discussions occasionally popping up at other tables in the food court. One of the “players” was a retired pharmaceutical salesman, who could identify most of the drugs and tell the user why it was most likely prescribed. I felt a bit left out as the fifth retiree at the table who wasn’t “playing,” but merely observing. My pill box has five tablets for each day of the week, but they’re all taken after dinner. I don’t have to carry it around with me all day so I couldn’t get in the “game.” Jim Wilson, Sr. commented on Extra whipped cream on mine, please
I can smell the coffee and the popcorn now. What a great time in my life -- when everything was simple. We would load up our cars or even take the bus to downtown Toledo, where we would see our friends, take in a movie, eat at Don's Drive-In or Woolworth’s, and ride the lions at the Lion Store. Who could forget Tiedtke’s? The smells would tickle your nose whenever you got near. Wow, the simple times! If we could only bring them back. Thanks for the memories, Ken. Marian Cheesman Lockwood commented on Extra whipped cream on mine, please I remember doing my Christmas shopping at the Elyria Woolworth’s when I was barely tall enough to see the displays. And I was absolutely fascinated by the pneumatic device that 'transported" your check or large bills or whatever business had to go upstairs for final transaction (much better than watching a hamster on an exercise wheel). Oh, how I miss Woolworth's and its "five and dime" treasures! Thanks for helping me relive a few golden moments from my childhood. Dave Simmons commented on Extra whipped cream on mine, please I worked at a Woolworth's in North Ridgeville, Ohio, from October 1959 to June 1960 as stock boy, dishwasher, clown-costumed cookie seller, etc. What a great experience for a high school kid! I think I made 85 cents an hour. I remember those menus. I spent lots of time on Saturdays mopping behind the counter, clearing dirty dishes and running dishes through the dishwashing machine behind the counter. Thanks for the blog about this.

Just the other day, a retired pal sent a computer image that poked me in the gut and wallet simultaneously.
It’s a simple, one-page Woolworth’s menu from some time in the mid-1950s, as near as I can guess. This buddy, now enjoying his senior years too, is a classmate who graduated with me from Elyria High School in 1960. The menu is exactly like the ones we ordered from during our high school years. Our memories of lunch counters of that era have to be similar because we went to many of the same places and probably ordered the same items. The five-and-dime stores, including the ones in the Toledo area, I’ll bet, all had lunch counters that were basically clones of each other. Occasionally my pal enjoys jogging my memory with reminders of that innocent time. Some of his reminiscences, like this one, are pleasant because they rekindle memories of things we enjoyed so much long ago. They are also bittersweet. They stir a touch of sadness for me as I wonder if teenagers today, who seem to enjoy limitless choices in almost everything, know what we seniors are talking about when we mention “the simple pleasures.” Sounds like a geezer talking, right? Well, then mark me down as a certified geezer, because I think kids today are being shortchanged by the complexity of the times. But I’ll save that for the next time I’m on my soapbox. Back to the Woolworth’s menu. What struck me immediately is the gastronomic simplicity of the food choices. The food was plain, yet reasonably tasty, and served in the sort of austere surroundings that would likely be unimaginable by most contemporary high school students. We wouldn’t have known what ambiance was unless it came with a side of fries. Or our English teacher made us look it up in the dictionary. I must note here that this was at the dawn of the era of the Golden Arches, long before there was a McDonald’s every few blocks or even in every city. The first McDonald’s in Elyria replaced another tiny joint where 15-cent burgers attracted crowds every day. The early McDonald’s eateries that my crowd frequented in Elyria and Lorain were still touting their burgers with “a billion sold” in the 1950s, long before they got to double-digit billions and then lost count. The earliest McDonald’s had no tables and chairs for diners, just carry-out windows to order, pay and move over to make way for the next customer. They had not yet become teen hangouts. The popular 30-cent sandwiches at places like Woolworth’s were mainly ham salad, egg salad, cheese and occasionally something a bit pricier with sliced ham or bacon. Menus in most places were rarely more than a single page, sometimes two. But it wasn’t the sandwiches that attracted the teenagers. The standard fare brought in their parents who shopped downtown and took a break for lunch. Remember, this was also before the advent of shopping malls. It was the “Fountain Features” section of the menu, where milk shakes, malteds and banana splits were the attraction. Ice cream fountains manned by “soda jerks” were also a popular teenager destination at most drug stores, where you could get a cherry Coke made with real Coke syrup, or even a chocolate Coke, or maybe a lemon phosphate. After school was out every day, a conga line of students made its way to those fountains. Some kids had their boyfriend or girlfriend in tow, while others were part of a clique that stopped for socializing before walking home. On Saturdays when the 10-cent, double bill, B-westerns or horror flicks and cheesy serial chapter of the week ended at the movie house, the fountain stools and booths filled again. Now for the part that makes my wallet quiver, click on the menu above for a readable enlargement and look at the prices. A milk shake, malted, sundae or regular banana split is a quarter. Pie or cake is a tasty 15 cents. But the special deal is the Super Jumbo Banana Split. In those days, it was for the big spenders at 39 cents. If you wanted to impress your date after splurging on a 25-cent, first-run movie, this was what you got. Cheapskates on a date got one of the quarter ice cream desserts. At 39 cents, we’re talking a serious banana split, with three hefty scoops of ice cream, usually chocolate, vanilla and strawberry, straddled by a whole, sliced banana in a long dish. The ice cream was hidden beneath generous gobs of crushed pineapple, strawberries and chocolate sauce Naturally, nuts, whipped cream and a cherry crowned the dish. Does anyone, anywhere even make such a banana split anymore? Now, I know you’re most likely thinking that a quarter or 39 cents back then was no different for a kid on a small allowance than an ice cream treat today. But I can’t help doing a little math to show why I think we had it better as kids. Most seniors I know seem to agree that the standard rule-of-thumb in comparing costs in the 1950s to now is a multiplier of about 10. It’s most likely a phony figure, especially when generalizing, but it’s a number we settle on. That means a $2,000 car back than would go for about $20,000 in 2008. Or a $19,000 home would sell now for about $190,000. However, there are some price changes that simply defy those simplistic figures and are way beyond the 10-fold estimate. Take for example, those 25-cent movies. They’re now approaching $10, more like 40 times the old price. And the 10-cent bag of popcorn is now $3. I could find dozens more examples where the multiplier of 10 isn’t even close. And I suppose I could find some examples where it is much less than 10. Yet it makes me wonder if you can get an ice cream sundae today for a mere $2.50. Most ice cream joints I know are getting more than that for a double-dip cone. And, if there was such a thing, what would a fully loaded Super Jumbo Banana Split cost in 2008?

A recent adventure with a hit-and-run driver over a paltry $125 in damage has come to a screeching halt as far as I am concerned.
But the wheels of justice in the case may still be turning for the perp (I love using those neat words I learn on TV’s Law & Order). To recap, in My hit-skip saga on Sylvania Ave. (Part 1), I wrote of an encounter between another car and mine stopped at a red light. After her car bumped mine, the other driver and I pulled into a service station to exchange information. As I got out of my car, she hurriedly drove off. I tailed her to a closed garage about a half-mile away. Her husband promised to pay for any minor damage to my car but, after my first call to him, he was suddenly unreachable at the phone number he gave me. I tried without success for five days to call him again. At that point in Part 1, I asked readers to write me their suggestions about what I should do next. Some of those comments are at the end of this report. Meanwhile, here’s what I did and how the whole saga was successfully concluded for me. All it took was a visit to Toledo police at their Northwest District Station on Sylvania Avenue. The helpful and friendly desk officer listened intently as I told him the complete story. I apologized several times for bothering him with such a minor damage report, but explained that it had become a matter of principle. I showed him the name and address on the title of the offending car. Besides the phone number, it was the only information I got from the driver’s husband, who said the car was owned by his wife’s mother. The officer turned to his computer and quickly came up with the car owner’s current number and address. He agreed that a crime was committed when the driver fled the scene of an accident and refused to show pertinent insurance and license information. So I was not wasting valuable police time, I reasoned. The officer and I exchanged opinions that the driver might have driven off because she did not have a license or insurance or might even have been under the influence of something or other. He explained that a standard police procedure used in such cases would probably lead to a quick conclusion and my satisfaction. It involved a simple letter to the car owner advising that her car was involved in an accident and that police were checking the circumstances. The officer was right about a speedy end to the matter. A few days later, I got a call from the driver’s husband. He apologized profusely for not getting back to me and for being inaccessible by phone. Oh, and by the way, did I really need to contact Toledo police in the matter? He tried to appear surprised by my actions. His acting hadn’t approved since our first meeting. Of course I got the police involved, I replied. What did you expect me to do? Call off the cops, he said, and he’d pay me the $125. No, that’s not the way it’s going to work, I explained. You give me the $125 you owe me, and THEN I’ll tell the police you paid for the damages. I could feel his concern not only over the police, but over his mother-in-law as well, who was not happy when she had called her daughter about the letter she received. You don’t have to be a genius to realize this was why I was hearing from him. He also insisted I hadn’t heard from him earlier because he had lost my telephone number. I asked if he magically found it after the contact with police and his mother-in-law. It was a rhetorical question, and I didn’t wait for an answer. Let’s settle the matter, I said. He convinced me of his sincerity in doing just that when he suggested a meeting as soon as possible to pay me the $125. We agreed on 2 in the afternoon at my favorite mall food court. I held off the appointment for four days, however, enjoying the thought that he was stewing a bit and suddenly so eager to do the ethical thing. On the day of the meeting, he was right on time. We shook hands amicably and sat at a table for a couple minutes. He once more excused his wife’s actions, insisting that she was scared and only 18 years old. He still seemed to feel those were legitimate reasons for fleeing the scene before knowing whether there was any damage or injury. I showed him the repair estimate from the car dealer. He slipped me three neatly folded bills -- $100, $20 and $5. Then he reminded me to tell the police the matter was settled. I promised to do so without delay. I also pointed out to him that the matter was settled as far as I was concerned, but that any further police involvement regarding laws broken was totally out of my hands. He mumbled something about understanding completely, shook hands and left. HERE'S WHAT SOME READERS SUGGESTED:
Gene Reebel commented on My hit-skip saga (Part 1): Forget about it. Larry Eichenlaub wrote: With NO hesitation I would pursue this deadbeat. A similar thing happened to me once. As the story played out, it was discovered that the individual had no insurance and no driver’s license. We ended up in court and the driver, driving his father’s auto, was ordered by the court to pay me the costs I had incurred. I never received a penny, but the young driver had the time period before restoration of his already suspended license lengthened, his father’s auto impounded, and had to spend three days in the clink for having previous arrests on this type of offense. I was very angry that my insurance company had to eat this, but I was an unlucky victim and had to put up with what I got. If you back off from this the offenders will laugh and go on their way with such behavior. We need more stringent rules/laws verifying that drivers have current insurance. Carole McElroy wrote: I’m for contacting the police to find out what your options are … then the attorney. Sure hope you can get this taken care of. When we were young, we never would have thought to “run off” after a fender-bender. We knew the consequences would be worse than paying for the repair. Guess I’m just being “old fashioned.” Name withheld by request wrote: I won't elaborate but my vote would have been to call the police immediately that same day. You may be too late to do it now. Bill Kjellstrand wrote: Those people seemed so shifty one can only hope they learn their lesson. I don't imagine the insurance company or the cops will do much, but you can go to small claims court. I've done that twice, and won both times. Maureen Brooks wrote: As my daughter is set to take her driving test and this is one of the issues to discuss, you were right -- you should have taken the license plate number initially. You put yourself in a precarious position by following her home. Next time, call the police at the scene of an accident. Bob Kailes wrote: My initial inclination, instead of letting the air out of her tires, would be to call in the police, primarily to get insurance information. But this seems to not the best use of their time. I would not let it go, they deserve to get grief. Therefore, I would get my car repaired and give them a summons through small claims court. If they don’t show, then you win by default. As a retired person, small claims court is an interesting place to spend an afternoon and perhaps get another blog out of it. Carol Ardman wrote: I'd get the lawyer to write a letter, and then it comes down to how much money is your time worth? Are you going to pursue this to the grave? If the letter doesn't succeed, she won this one. But she could have acted in exactly the same way (and so could her husband) if she was 65. Gary Kailes wrote: 1. Call the police. He's a con and she did a hit and run. Take pictures and make a copy of the repair estimate for the police. Give them notes on who you contacted and what transpired. They may want to write it off as you waited too long. If police do take the report and contact the people, they will probably want to settle up, fast. Let the system take its course on them. 2. Contact your insurance company if you want. Consider it is only $125. 3. Contact the owner (mom) of the car in the incident. She may want to pay up as it is her car and probably her insurance. Maybe she'll take the car back. There is liability on her and she should know how they are putting her out to hang. 4. If you decide to go the police route, limit your contact with the husband and wife. Refer them to your insurance or the police as it is now out of your hands. Mark Tiefenbach wrote: If they cannot be honest enough to confront you and go through all the fuss of shutting the phone down, parking the car in the garage like it was the bat cave or something, and just turning their backs on you, call the cops and file a report. The $125 would've been the easy way out and honesty would prevail. Apparently they went to extremes to be dishonest. Take the “frail young thing" to court. Joseph Habib wrote: Have your lawyer write them a letter of what the legal consequences are. Instruct the lawyer to write that his client (you) is willing not to pursue this any further (legally or monetarily) if the "whippersnapper" writes you an apology letter. D. Farley wrote: A similar story happened to me several years ago, and I had to pay myself for the minor repair (young boy gave me license number and insurance policy -- both invalid). Although I feel as you do that a lesson should be taught, times are such I would be too worried I might end up with a bullet in my head. Although you are clearly the victim, you no doubt would also be the loser. In spite of the dollar amount, a lesson should be taught. However, society seems to think not in this day and age. Good luck. Anne Speth wrote: Call the police. You will have more assistance if you have an accident report. However, since you ALSO left the scene of the accident, you "neutralize your innocence!" Pay the $125 and stay out of her way.