OLD ENOUGH

Old Enough

By Charles Kraus

      Lately, life has gone from — where did I park the car, to did I drive here in my car?  I suppose, if I hang around long enough, the kids will ask me to hand over the car keys, and the questions will be moot. 

      I’ve been through a number of what you might call stages of the human condition — kids stuff, teen stuff, young adult, military, including a war, college, grad school, marriage, parenting, responsible son for aging parents, grand parenting.  There is more ahead, but you understand the progression.  

      Where young folks see two categories of senior -- old and decrepit, we of certain advanced generations, refine the far end of elderliness, transforming it into an expanded portfolio:

TRANSITIONAL - Am I actually getting old?

People begin opening doors for you and you resent it.

ADVANCED TRANSITIONAL

After a while, the resentment goes away.

CONFLICT

Next, particular people begin opening those doors.  First, young women.  Then frail older women.  Then folks who appear to be in need of your assistance manipulate their crutches and maneuver their wheelchairs so they can block the elevator door from closing, just in case you can’t make it through the entrance in a timely fashion.  You nod a thank you, but are upset by the implications.  Do you look like you need of this amount of help?

STRATEGIZING 

For a while, I portrayed a range of ages.  Young and spry to show my children they needn’t worry about poor old dad.  In the alternative, if I thought doing so might get me a quicker result while cavorting in the public arena, I’d give my impression of an “older” gent, engaging the world with a smidgen of unsteadiness and a touch of uncertainty  This technique can actually get you front of the line privileges, and is particularly helpful when waiting for a turn in the men’s room.

      Some people are deferential to seniors.  A subset are deferential but with a hint of insensitivity tainting their presentations.  “How you doing young man?,” the twenty-something drug store clerk says to me every time I stop by to purchase hearing aid batteries.  I try not to let him bother me — as long as I get my senior discount. 

      I’ve been know to act a bit feeble if a well meaning stranger treats me as if I’m just south of senile.  To avoid embarrassing the helpful person who has misjudged my needs. Suddenly looking alert, vigorous and facial — would be impolite — “Ha!  You thought I was some old fool.  Well, watch this, you nincompoop!”

      At first, I was surprised and offended to find the world ready, even anxious, to assistant me.  Later, I accepted the help as a form of entitlement.  Then, of necessity.  My mind went from, ‘can’t you see I don’t need your pity,” to “thank you, that’s appreciated,” and then on to, “can’t you see I need you to open the damn door!”  

DONALD TRUMP CHANNELS ARCHIE BUNKER

http://www.cleveland.com/opinion/index.ssf/2016/06/donald_trump_channels_archie_i.html#comments

DONALD TRUMP CHANNELS ARCHIE BUNKER

Guest Columnist/cleveland.com By Charles E. Kraus

[From Cleveland Plain Dealer 6/26/16  web and printed versions]

Predictions had it that once Donald Trump secured the nomination, he'd move to the middle. Instead, he's moved to 704 Hauser Street. That's Archie Bunker's old address — the neighborhood is now upscale, pricey enough for ... well, how about Trump Astoria?

Trump goes there, in his mind, when he wishes to mingle with the common folks. You know, "that black guy over there ... great guy. Nice. I love him."  

Don and Arch use the same limited vocabulary, sounding like 14-year-olds experiencing a transformation process that will help them reach a level of sophistication often associated with 15-year-olds.

Arch didn't have much in the way of formal education. He was blue collar, a victim of his time and place in society.  He worked on the loading docks after serving overseas in World War II, earning a Purple Heart for taking shrapnel in the rear end.

Trump was born into golden diapers. He was prep-schooled at the New York Military Academy. (Although receiving four draft deferments and never serving in the actual military, Trump claims attending this boarding school gave him lots of insight into being a soldier.) He then attended Fordham University and the University of Pennsylvania. 

Somehow, Trump never encountered a thesaurus. Members of his team are Great.  Terrific. Fantastic. The Best. Foes are Bad Bad people. Sluts. Ugly.

Trump overflows with tired, hackneyed, stock phraseology. "Meathead," Archie's favorite epithet, out-trumps Trump.  

Trump overflows with tired, hackneyed, stock phraseology.

Expand your lexicon, expand your mind. Identifying and examining issues requires noticing and categorizing. Words identify concepts. But nuance is for middle management. If you are truly wealthy, you don't have to learn gradations or complex, critical thinking. You just tell staff, "Get me the best."

Fans of "All In the Family" may protest my comparing Archie and Donald. The show's creator, Norman Lear, gave his television character some endearing qualities. I haven't noticed similar attributes in Mr. Trump.

The New York guys do share a few tendencies. Archie was a bigot, suspicious of blacks, Hispanics and anyone practicing a religion that wasn't spelled WASP. Like Don, he believed every conspiracy theory, every superficial, unexamined, simplistic explanation for the multifaceted challenges faced by society and planet Earth.

But Archie wasn't out to trick anyone. The guy wasn't a schemer. His opinions were genuine, sincerely held, if misguided, beliefs. They didn't require clarifications, convoluted explanations or denials. It is Trump, or his ghost writers, who wrote a book filled with tips about manipulating people.

There is another difference between these characters, perhaps the most important of all. Archie is made-up. He's fiction. When the CBS Television studio lights were dimmed, he turned into Carroll O'Connor, a levelheaded actor.

Trump didn't spring from someone's imagination. Sadly, he's for real.

////

The closest that Charles E. Kraus got to the late actor Carroll O'Connor was when he worked in CBS-TV's Music Rights Department and shared a wall with O'Connor's office. Kraus now lives in Seattle.

as of 6/27/16   683 comments

Veteran

Veteran

By Charles E. Kraus

You can be a veteran of various branches of the armed services, front line, support personnel, an enlisted person, officer, serving during peacetime or while the country is at war.  The record reflecting most of my four-year hitch in the Navy has me down almost exclusively as performing 'sea duty' (as opposed to serving on land), but that was only because being attached to a Construction Battalion in Vietnam, wearing fatigues and totting an M16, counted as Sea Duty even though it took place in and around DaNang.   

My dad's Merchant Marine cruises during the Second World War, traveling dangerous sea routes on a ship so ill equipped that instead of actual guns, it had wooden decoys designed, from a distance, to fool enemy patrols into thinking the vessel could return fire, weren’t even considered military activities, though they were more dangerous than any I performed during my enlistment.

There are common threads to being a vet.  You have to leave home and move into the military world.  It’s kind of fraternal.  A bunch of strangers are required to train together, people from an assortment of backgrounds, ethnicities, sections of the country, with a variety of regional accents and preferences, suddenly turned into a unit forced to perform as designated by a higher power -- a company commander or a drill instructor.  These troops are asked to move from comfort zone to war zone, to stow prejudices and act with equanimity.  They learn to inform every thought with a context that asks if what they are about to do is good for the cohort.  Also, to “appreciate” or at least yield to authority — to understand the consequences of uncooperative behavior.

Eventually an authentic bonding occurs within rank.  It is said that familiarity breeds contempt.  It can also breed respect and acceptance.  When you eat, sleep and work together, you discovery that the winners and losers aren’t determined by stereotype. Turns out, the people you depend upon come from ghettos, from upscale white parts of town, from a variety of religious and secular backgrounds.  They have all kinds of accents, odd (by your own standards) assumptions and belief systems, codes of honor, even different ways to broach a subject or walk down the street. 

You march together, working in a manner that is proscribed.  You wear the same outfits, and though a smidgen of attitude can be expressed in the tilt of a hat, by and large, you and those with whom you service begin to mirror one another.

While serving, you become a veteran of more than potential danger, more than the often rude awakening brought on by separation from home, from challenges to your assumed wisdoms and preconceptions.  You become a recipient, a veteran if you will, of an expanded, more inclusive, perspective. 

Vets are many things. Perhaps a little more macho than the rest of the population.  Perhaps more inclined to see the world through a government issued point of view.  More than this, most are apt to judge people by the individual talents, skills, and deportment they bring to the scene. 

Tax Man

Tax Man

By Charles E. Kraus

My father was an IRS investigator.   In 1930 he graduated from the City College of New York, passed his CPA exam, then applied for a Treasury Department assignment.

A ton of years later, Dad happened to be issued a license plate with an alphanumeric sequence beginning HH.  His wife said it stood for Honest Harold.  He was honest, more or less.  That is the impression I gathered from the stories he told about his life as a tax man.

Dad kept a shelf of code binders in our den.  Unlike my school binders  --   his were more substantial.  Inches wide.  Dignified, or at least very official looking.  Fitted with hardware designed to withstand abuse.  Snapping the rings shut after replacing pages of out-of-date regulations required agile fingering.  The rings slammed into place instantaneously.  

I got the impression that what with civil service hours and the need to be 'in the field' most of the time, the work load was quite flexible.  As, apparently were the rules.  When I was about ten, my father pointed to his binders and playfully explained, "using those books, I can prove or disprove anything."

His beat was corporate compliance.  But that did not discourage relatives from stopping by for an annual early April dinner served with tax preparation for anyone who just happened to bring along the appropriate forms and a shoebox of financial history.  After the meal, Aunts and Uncles sat around the table organizing and reorganizing documents.  They whispered to one another in tones appropriate for a doctor's waiting room.  As dad completed a return and delivered the verdict, the rest of us could hear responses from the other side of the den wall -- sounds of relief, regret, or occasional disbelief.  Protests, even accusations.  Harold didn't understand, was unfamiliar with personal tax law.  Pleas for a little more flexibility -- after all, Uncle Morty pointed out, this was family.

One year -- taxes completed, as mom served cake and coffee, I wandered into my room and found Morty seated at the desk erasing numbers dad had entered on his tax papers. 

During the Christmas season, unusual presents arrived at the house.  Cases of scotch. Theater tickets.  Perhaps guidelines about giving gifts to IRS agents were more relaxed in the 1950s.  I like to believe these friendly gestures were not factored into ongoing audits.  HH -- Honest Harold.

Dad didn't talk all that much about his work.  I recall two stories.

My father and his team had been set to report  tax fraud allegedly committed by a famous crooner, someone known for his talent and his underworld connections.  Moments before the charges were to be filed, 'word came down' that the investigation was closing.  Done.  Through.  Gone.  

Each time he spoke about the incident, or about the accused perpetrator, my father turned purple with rage. I wasn't allowed to purchase or play records by the singer.  If a radio or television station happened to feature the guy, we adjusted the dial, tuning to a program that offered a more congenial, law abiding entertainer.

How could that happen, I asked, how could a case just shutdown?

Dad didn't offer details.  Instead, he told a companion story.

Another agent was working on an equally explosive investigation.  One Saturday morning, the guy’s home phone rang.  A pleasant sounding stranger said, Hi Agent ___.  I just want you to be aware that we know where you live.  We know the route your son takes to school ... the park your daughter visits when she heads to the playground.  She's seven.  He's ten.  Nice kids.  

That's all he said.  Perhaps it was enough.

Every once in a while, I wonder if a caller knew where I parked my bicycle when I visited the library.

National Park Service

National Park Service 

By Charles E. Kraus

      Last night I dreamed I’d died, been handed a GPS preset with coordinates to Heaven, arrived, 

and found myself unable to locate a parking space. There were a few vacant spots but these were 

reserved for Angels. 

      

      I grew up in New York City back in the days when street parking was sanctioned. Also back in 

the days prior to power steering. My father’s two fisted manipulation of the wheel as he coxed our 

Hudson Commodore Custom into a modest opening, a mere six inches longer than our car, 

combined Jujutsu, Boatswain knowhow and Balanchiean precision. 

      Street parking in Manhattan is now a corporal offense. In other cities — San Francisco and 

Seattle for example, dealing with high-tech-low-bid parking meters often requires the deciphering of 

obscurely displayed but essential information such as how many minutes registered when you kept 

pushing that ‘add time’ button. You force your credit card into the gummy slot then pry it out using 

two hands and your teeth. Eventually, if the meter connects with your bank and they agree on a fee, 

a sticker is issued. This gets affixed to the windshield or the passenger window, placed on the 

dashboard, or Velcroed to your ear. 

      Upon returning timely to your car, you are as likely as not to find that the bumper of the vehicle 

now parked in front of you is just about but not quite touching your license plate. And behind? 

Where you’d left yourself a few feet of maneuvering room? The previous tenant, a Mini-Cooper, has 

been replaced by a commodiously cabined Land Cruiser. The super-sized transport is docked so 

close to yours that the only way you could pass a credit card between the two vehicles would be if 

you didn’t have very much credit.

      Sadly, my wife is the proud owner of an officially sanctioned Disability placard. The permission 

slip gives her the chance to park in certain otherwise restricted zones. I say “chance” because in 

most cases, handicapped parking is just as overbooked as the rest of curbside. Signage denoting 

such spots should more accurately read: Reserved for the Handicapped & Lucky.

      Has someone counseled, “leave the car over there, they never give tickets.” Have you been 

offered an event-specific permit allowing you to ignore the posted regulations? Were you 

contemplating a protective order personally signed by Judge Judy, only to be handed a scribbled 

note saying, “Board Meeting, don’t ticket. Thanks, Harvey.” Do not fall for these attempts to 

outsmart the meter-readers. 

      Such schemes only work for other people.

      There are red curbs, yellow curbs, green curbs, white curbs and just plain curb curbs. There is 

alternate-side-of-the-street parking, parallel parking, angled parking, between certain hours parking, 

three minute loading zone parking, and Restricted Parking Zone parking. After circling the block for 

hours, I’ve concluded that all of these options are theoretical. The real world offers only one kind of 

parking space, and it’s occupied. 

What If I Owned A Gun

What If I Owned A Gun

By Charles E. Kraus

published in The Oregonian and The Baltimore

You are a law abiding citizen in a world that feels less and less safe.  You have kids to protect, or a husband, a wife, property -- not to mention securing your own wellbeing.   You are trying to figure out if owning a sidearm would be a good idea. Hopefully you would never need to use it.  But knowing it was available might give you some piece of mind.

Perhaps.

In this age of terror, I’m trying to figure out when and where owning a sidearm is helpful.  If someone breaks into my house.  I confront him.  He doesn’t have a gun.  I do.  I say, hold it right there.  He does.  I call the police.  Works fine.

Or, he has a gun, sees mine and we end up in a shoot out.  Not so fine.

Cops train.  Not just target practice, they rehearse situations.  They know, or are supposed to know, when to use their weapons, how to protect innocent bystanders.  Sharp shooters pinpoint their shots.  Can you? If you had a weapon and there were lots of people around, could you cause your bullets to land where you wanted them to go?

Crowded store.  Two terrorist.  Assault weapons.  I pull out my pistol and fire back.  Assuming I don’t hit a shopper or sales clerk, I’m guessing, what with such little opportunity to take careful aim, I shoot and miss.  The folks with the AK47s are going to return my fire.  Not good.

I’m in a crowded theater, sports arena, restaurant, subway, on a bus, or sadly, at a Christmas event in a social service center.  Exactly how would I put my gun to good use?  I might shot a perpetrator.  In all that chaos?  Perhaps.  Maybe if I was in the hall, and realized what was happening, and if I didn’t run away.  If I crawled in, kept low, took careful aim.  Maybe I’d hit a terrorist and save dozens of lives.  That could happen.  Or have I been watching too many movies?

If  a guy harmed one of my kids.  I’d use the gun. If I was in a situation where I honestly believed a loved one was going to be seriously harmed, or that I was about to become the victim, I’d use what I had.

I wonder, if I carried a weapon, what the chances might be that a thug could overpower me, that my gun would end up on the other side of the equation.  I wonder how many times a mere criminal, not a cold blooded terrorist, had come to rob, been confronted by an armed victim, panicked, grabbed the weapon and put it to bad use.

Guns have kickbacks, they are loud, pulling the trigger means creating a minor explosion right there at the end of your arm.  People who do target practice often wear ear protectors.  I’m not saying you would worry about your hearing while you were in the midst of a gun battle.  I’m saying the kick and the blast and the situation, the fear, the uncertainty, the activity, the tension, the confusion, these things do not contribute to a steady hand.   

  I’m wondering, in the middle of terror, if people are dying, and the police arrive.  Do they see weapons and fire at those holding them?  The terrorists and the terrorized? In their haste do they have or take the time to figure it out?  Hopefully they do.  That is their intension.
-----
This essay appeared in the December 15, 2015 edition of the Baltimore Sun.

WRITE THIS WHILE YOU CAN

WRITE THIS WHILE YOU CAN 

By Charles E. Kraus

There is a "2016 To Do" list on my office bulletin board, several lists really — to do, titles of books I wish to read, people I need to contact; also:  

WRITE THIS WHILE YOU CAN

Beneath the heading we find several topics I might yet tackle.

1. The Reduction of Writer Friends From My Generational Queue. The demise of

aging friends, ultimately, of me. Too grim? I’ll explore this once I am dead, an entirely

new perspective, death as seen from the point-of-view of a participant.

2. Rereading and Reevaluating — that’s a subject I might get to in 2016.   How over and over again, when returning to an old favorite, some book or film I admired back in my collective past, I am disappointed — by the work, by my having been attracted to the work, and/or for having spent years as a propagandist urging others to appreciate the wonders I now reject.  Did you know that Holden became a CPA? That the Chicago Seven opened a restaurant?  That when I first saw A Thousand Clowns, Murray was my hero, and that when I last saw it, I cried for his deficiencies?  It is impossible to reread without considering the fate of the author.  Bellow lasted too long and went to the other side of reason. Salinger became a paranoid bully.  Kerouac took the wrong road.

3. My Involvement In the War gets listed as two separate writing projects -- fiction and memoir.  Probably I should stick to the facts as I misremember them.  I was distracted when I signed the enlistment papers.  If I finally write it down, will I learn why I took the alternative route?

WRITE THIS WHILE YOU CAN is my reminder.   Whatever the topic, Charles, do some serious writing while you are still able to string words. Before stringing involves beads. Thoughts used to jump around in my head, colliding, fighting for superior position, making the cut, surviving an edit or two, ending up on a final draft. Currently, my musings resist symbolic representation.  Words no longer compete; they acquiesce.  Before my impressions get shipped off to a back burner in subsets of subsets of my mind, while they continue to be accessible, if only with great effort, dangled into consciousness on a quick peek, short term, lend lease basis, I’d like to send them into the game.

Samuel Clemens dictated reminisces long after his inner-editor ceased to function.

That’s a perfectly good way to ruin a reputation. And yet, there are, there were, there are, new

combinations I want to add to the cumulative count.