I Ain't Marching Any More or Less — Trumps' Parade 9/18/18
By Charles E. Kraus
Been shining my jungle boots and ironing my old uniform all summer in preparation for President Trump's Veterans Day parade. I haven't actually worn therm for forty-eight years. But they seem as pristine as the day I left the service.
Evidently, I can put them back in the closet. It appears the event is canceled. Upon reflection, I think this may be a wise decision.
I'm reasonable certain most members of of our active military would also prefer to sit this one out. The President may have helmed a parade or two, positioned in an open convertible, waving at the masses. The people who preceded him up and down the route, in the heat, in the cold, had a different focus. You think it's fun to spend hours marching down the street? Marching requires concentration, awareness, stamina and the ability to postpone a bathroom call that would make such a difference in your life.
The only genuine parade-like marching I've ever done was when graduating from bootcamp. That took place at the Great Lake Naval Training Center, in a gigantic drill hall. Hundreds of us newly minted sailors, theoretically in lockstep, strode the field at a fast clip. We pivoted left again and again as we reached each corner until we'd used up the four sides of the arena.
The bleachers were filled with families and friends who had come to our 'graduation.' For many, it would be the only gradation in their lives. It was a big deal -- pomp and circumstance at the enlisted person's level. Bands played, people cheered, the place seemed to be bursting with pride.
Each of the numerous Companies assembled on the field was comprised of 75 men. We were volunteers, ordinary average regular folks who'd been subjected to eleven weeks of intense harassment, intimidation, training and some drill instruction. Finally, we were being released into the "real" Navy.
When it came to marching, we could approximate reasonable formations, advance row by row without bumping into the people in front of us, reverse course on a dime and more or less appear to be marching. But a tentative aspect hug over such promenading. Even after hours and hours of drilling, a novice's uncertainty lingered in our hearts.
As each company approached the bleachers, its Recruit Petty Officer In Charge (RPOC) prepared to order a pivot. At his command, all 75 men, hopefully in unison -- were to swing left on the balls of their feet, creating a united right angle adjustment to the direction in which they had been were heading. The choreography required your right foot to be extended as you went into this turn.
The proceedings were synchronized. No one, no row, no section, no company, could stop, or even hesitate, without effecting those behind. In back of your unit was the next, and the next, all moving forward. It felt as if we were being pursued and needed to keep stepping ahead or be run over. There was no pause button.
The fear of not making the turn in a timely fashion, of creating what could be a thousand man pileup, became more and more intense. We were reaching the last possible opportunity to avoid the bleachers.. The pivot only happened when the RPOC gave the command. "To the left, hut!" Was he going to time it correctly? Would the “hut” come a fraction of a second too late to keep us from trampling the spectators?
I experienced the gut sensation you get a split second before an imminent car crash. Of being out of control. The wall was getting closer and closer. There was nothing we could do to avoid a smash up. But then, "To the left, hut!" was sounded inches from catastrophe.
We pivoted and marched on. If you think we were frightened, you should have seen the looks on the faces of the guests seated directly in front of us.
Monday, August 20, 2018
Tuesday, July 10, 2018
MISTER ROGERS -- WON'T YOU BE MY MUSE?
The Inquirer
MISTER ROGERS -- WON'T YOU BE MY MUSE?
By Charles E. Kraus
Published in the 7/9/18 edition(s) of the Philadelphia Inquirer and it's related papers
My wife and I were a bit surprised when we received a thank-you note from Mister Rogers. I’d attempted to get him a copy of the book we’d written about children’s parties. It had been passed from one children’s entertainer to another until it reached a musical event where Fred Rogers was giving a keynote.
Six months went by and I’d assumed Mr. McFeely’s speedy delivery service had mistaken our book for junk mail and tossed it. Rogers apologized for the delay, explaining that he was a little behind in his correspondence. Our book was being added to his permanent collection. I was elated! His thank-you was going into the permanent keepsake file in our office.
In truth, I’ve kept more than his kind note. As a life-long children’s performer, I hold his methods of communicating with children in my heart. His approach to interacting with young people went beyond “entertaining” them. He mirrored curiosity, kindness, thoughtfulness and wonder, respecting, accepting and celebrating the vulnerabilities and limitations felt by all children. He helped them to develop attitudes that would allow neighborhood visitors to flourish as the years passed.
In the 1960s, television programming aimed at the younger set consisted of live shows hosted by ex-vaudevillians, comedians and radio broadcasters who had ventured into TV and meandered to the kid show niche. Most were just passing through this career phase on their way to more sophisticated adult programming. A few found the genre attractive and decided to specialize in the children’s entertainment field.
Captain Kangaroo, Shari Lewis, Miss Frances, and Buffalo Bob Smith reigned among the most successful. The Captain, Bob Keeshan, had begun his TV career as an NBC page, graduating to a stint as Clarabell the Clown, then transitioning into a Captain’s costume. He was congenial, warm, and ever so befuddled by the other characters on his show.
Shari was a charming, aggressive, talented ventriloquist who communicated especially well with her adorable puppets. Miss Frances, the agreeable hostess of Ding Dong School, projected a friendly, if bland, nursery-school teacher persona. Technically innovative, her program kept cameras unusually low, giving home viewers a sense of watching from a child’s perspective. Buffalo Bob, a veteran broadcaster, starred on The Howdy Doody Show. He was highly involved with marionettes, props, and juvenile situations, part of a cast of outlandish characters who chased one another around the set and got squirted from a seltzer bottle.
Mister Rogers brought something else to the screen. He didn’t do gags, pratfalls or anything that smacked of show business. He was an explainer, not a costumed character, just a man, being himself. A person who enjoyed sharing his enthusiasms. These were contagious because they were genuine. That’s the message that I got from him, that I’ve made the center of my programs for kids. Respect yourself and your audience. Be caring and be authentic.
What a wonderful way to approach life.
MISTER ROGERS -- WON'T YOU BE MY MUSE?
By Charles E. Kraus
Published in the 7/9/18 edition(s) of the Philadelphia Inquirer and it's related papers
My wife and I were a bit surprised when we received a thank-you note from Mister Rogers. I’d attempted to get him a copy of the book we’d written about children’s parties. It had been passed from one children’s entertainer to another until it reached a musical event where Fred Rogers was giving a keynote.Six months went by and I’d assumed Mr. McFeely’s speedy delivery service had mistaken our book for junk mail and tossed it. Rogers apologized for the delay, explaining that he was a little behind in his correspondence. Our book was being added to his permanent collection. I was elated! His thank-you was going into the permanent keepsake file in our office.
In truth, I’ve kept more than his kind note. As a life-long children’s performer, I hold his methods of communicating with children in my heart. His approach to interacting with young people went beyond “entertaining” them. He mirrored curiosity, kindness, thoughtfulness and wonder, respecting, accepting and celebrating the vulnerabilities and limitations felt by all children. He helped them to develop attitudes that would allow neighborhood visitors to flourish as the years passed.
In the 1960s, television programming aimed at the younger set consisted of live shows hosted by ex-vaudevillians, comedians and radio broadcasters who had ventured into TV and meandered to the kid show niche. Most were just passing through this career phase on their way to more sophisticated adult programming. A few found the genre attractive and decided to specialize in the children’s entertainment field.
Captain Kangaroo, Shari Lewis, Miss Frances, and Buffalo Bob Smith reigned among the most successful. The Captain, Bob Keeshan, had begun his TV career as an NBC page, graduating to a stint as Clarabell the Clown, then transitioning into a Captain’s costume. He was congenial, warm, and ever so befuddled by the other characters on his show.
Shari was a charming, aggressive, talented ventriloquist who communicated especially well with her adorable puppets. Miss Frances, the agreeable hostess of Ding Dong School, projected a friendly, if bland, nursery-school teacher persona. Technically innovative, her program kept cameras unusually low, giving home viewers a sense of watching from a child’s perspective. Buffalo Bob, a veteran broadcaster, starred on The Howdy Doody Show. He was highly involved with marionettes, props, and juvenile situations, part of a cast of outlandish characters who chased one another around the set and got squirted from a seltzer bottle.
Mister Rogers brought something else to the screen. He didn’t do gags, pratfalls or anything that smacked of show business. He was an explainer, not a costumed character, just a man, being himself. A person who enjoyed sharing his enthusiasms. These were contagious because they were genuine. That’s the message that I got from him, that I’ve made the center of my programs for kids. Respect yourself and your audience. Be caring and be authentic.
What a wonderful way to approach life.
Wednesday, July 4, 2018
DETAILS FROM LIFE and from the internet
DETAILS FROM LIFE and from the internet
By Charles Kraus
As we age, we continue to learn about ourselves. Part of this involves assessing outcomes. You get the law degree or didn't you? You find the life partner? Enjoy becoming a parent? Make those career moves? Did you see the world like you planned, or sit things out in Bakersfield? Are you pleased with yourself, over time, or disappointed?
There is another kind of self-knowledge I've been getting it on the internet, finding details about my past, updates regarding old friends and associates, filling in gaps. Collecting information about the neighborhoods where I grew up, and the schools I attended. I've come across uploaded photographs and home movies of events in my life taken by strangers, or by people who knew me more than I knew them. Every once in a while I seem to be reading my obituary, but it turns out there are lots of guys with my name, and some of them have passed away.
I'm accumulating personal-historical data. Checking memories against hard facts. I have had this vague image of Pennsylvania Station, the old Penn station, and the old Madison Square Garden, two locations my family frequented when I was a boy. Magnificent structural blurs.
A quick search and there they are in virtual detail. I was right, Penn Station was a doozy.
PS 79 still exists, though they've given it a new name and turned it into some sort of middle school. I attended kindergarten there in 1950s. Google Maps just took me to the attached house I lived in on Walton Avenue that we occupied back then. The stone lions are gone from the stoops. And though I doubt the current owners realize it, that narrow set of steps, leading down to the basement door, is where the coal truck anchored its shut before releasing our delivery. Rosie Wagner's place is next door. We raised a lot of cats. Her family had birds. And a giant box turtle that ever so slowly explored the back yard. For all I know, he's still out there; they live a long time, don't they? Google's roving tour, a moveable street view, takes me across Walton. I'm looking at Beth Rose's front door. Then, at the apartment house above. Kids could do all of their trick or treating without leaving that building.
The past used to remain speculative, we either left it full of holes or filled in the empty spaces with guess work that, over time, began to masquerade as facts.
Obviously, I'm not the only one trying to reconnect with my roots. Perhaps you've received an email from someone from your past, asking if you're the person who lived around the corner back when. You write back, adding a few more details to her record and pick up a few for your own.
During the 15 months I spent on the USS Fulton, the ancient sub-tender was generally tied up in New London, Ct. I left the Navy in 1970. Little did I know that two years later the ship would make it's way to the Mediterranean, and eventually to La Maddalena, Italy. Until finding this itinerary on Wikipedia, I'd believed the Fulton was so obsolete that needed to stay close to shore. Just one more piece of my past that benefited from reevaluation.
In the early 1960s, for part of my high school education, I was sent to Kingsley Hall, way up in North Egremont, Massachusetts. Recently, I was wondering about its fate. My fingertip research told me the school closed long ago. If I understand correctly, one of it's buildings is now a police station. Makes sense to me.
By Charles Kraus
As we age, we continue to learn about ourselves. Part of this involves assessing outcomes. You get the law degree or didn't you? You find the life partner? Enjoy becoming a parent? Make those career moves? Did you see the world like you planned, or sit things out in Bakersfield? Are you pleased with yourself, over time, or disappointed?
There is another kind of self-knowledge I've been getting it on the internet, finding details about my past, updates regarding old friends and associates, filling in gaps. Collecting information about the neighborhoods where I grew up, and the schools I attended. I've come across uploaded photographs and home movies of events in my life taken by strangers, or by people who knew me more than I knew them. Every once in a while I seem to be reading my obituary, but it turns out there are lots of guys with my name, and some of them have passed away.
I'm accumulating personal-historical data. Checking memories against hard facts. I have had this vague image of Pennsylvania Station, the old Penn station, and the old Madison Square Garden, two locations my family frequented when I was a boy. Magnificent structural blurs.
A quick search and there they are in virtual detail. I was right, Penn Station was a doozy.
PS 79 still exists, though they've given it a new name and turned it into some sort of middle school. I attended kindergarten there in 1950s. Google Maps just took me to the attached house I lived in on Walton Avenue that we occupied back then. The stone lions are gone from the stoops. And though I doubt the current owners realize it, that narrow set of steps, leading down to the basement door, is where the coal truck anchored its shut before releasing our delivery. Rosie Wagner's place is next door. We raised a lot of cats. Her family had birds. And a giant box turtle that ever so slowly explored the back yard. For all I know, he's still out there; they live a long time, don't they? Google's roving tour, a moveable street view, takes me across Walton. I'm looking at Beth Rose's front door. Then, at the apartment house above. Kids could do all of their trick or treating without leaving that building.
The past used to remain speculative, we either left it full of holes or filled in the empty spaces with guess work that, over time, began to masquerade as facts.
Obviously, I'm not the only one trying to reconnect with my roots. Perhaps you've received an email from someone from your past, asking if you're the person who lived around the corner back when. You write back, adding a few more details to her record and pick up a few for your own.
During the 15 months I spent on the USS Fulton, the ancient sub-tender was generally tied up in New London, Ct. I left the Navy in 1970. Little did I know that two years later the ship would make it's way to the Mediterranean, and eventually to La Maddalena, Italy. Until finding this itinerary on Wikipedia, I'd believed the Fulton was so obsolete that needed to stay close to shore. Just one more piece of my past that benefited from reevaluation.
In the early 1960s, for part of my high school education, I was sent to Kingsley Hall, way up in North Egremont, Massachusetts. Recently, I was wondering about its fate. My fingertip research told me the school closed long ago. If I understand correctly, one of it's buildings is now a police station. Makes sense to me.
Thursday, June 7, 2018
Kids and Colors - and eye contact
Kids and Colors - and eye contact
By Charles E. Kraus
I work with children -- all colors and ethnicities. Homeless kids to future heirs and heiresses. Thriving children, dying children. My audiences have taught me to place human awareness above racial awareness.
I've been welcomed into palatial estates, cookie cutter houses, crowded apartments, community rooms, cordoned off birthday party sections at McDonalds, rented church basements -- if you can hold a party there, I've probably played the site. Nothing I am about to tell you is theoretical.
Long before injustice and the arbitrary twists of fate and circumstance influence who we become, we arrive with a set of values and abilities. Some kids are more verbal, have more developed senses of curiosity. Other's don't reveal these skills and behaviors. Until you spark their interest.
I show up. The children notice. If its Redmond, Washington or Beverly Hills, and the kids see a different magician or clown at every party, they approach with questions and requests for particular tricks or routines. If I'm in South Central LA, or a white guy walking into a packed apartment filled with Black guests, maybe the room goes quiet. Maybe the kids don't approach. They watch. Perhaps I'm the only white guy who has ever been in the place.
Before my shows, I visit the audience, talk with kids and parents. There is a simple way to put people at ease. Works at shows and would probably be helpful at StarBucks. You make eye contact. Warm eye contact. Welcoming eye contact. Human-to-human. You think the message you are trying to communicate while you are doing this. Human-to-human is very equalizing.
My eyes tell kids I'm happy to see them, that I'm not judgmental, that I'm not rating their clothes, surroundings or skill levels. This is a genuine hello. It's OK. Alright. I use words, too, of course, but I lead with eye contact. It breaks down language and cultural barriers. It's universal.
My eyes have a different message for parents. I'm saying, Wow ... kids! Aren't they something! I'm acknowledging a well established, parent-to-parent observation. This often leads to sharing a smile. It says that deep down, children are important, precious, amazing, and challenging. I'm also letting people know that my audience is a safe place for children.
Kids can be turned on to joy and wonder. All kids, or just about all of them. I don't have to demand quiet or request anyone's attention. I walk through the crowd picking coins from behind ears and elbows. I stop for a moment making a silver dollar disappear, or a silk scarf materialize. Guess what? Everyone is watching. All kids know what the word Wow means.
A balloon gets caught on my finger, then on my nose. Kids laugh. They found it funny in Da Nang during the war, they find it funny in Palo Alto today, in recreation centers filled with gang members who have brought their younger siblings to see a show, in hospitals, and even, sometimes, in hospices.
Connecting the world eye-to-eye won't put an end to prejudice, but the technique might encourage a sense of community in ways that laws and dialogue have failed to achieve.
The look-in-the-eye message that I like best is one I exchange with teens and adults. It's not about show business, it's about life. Yep, I am saying to the person who is receiving my attention -- Life is crazy. It's stupid and great and mysterious and look at us, caught up in the middle of the mystery. In a crazy kind of way, we're in this together.
By Charles E. Kraus
I work with children -- all colors and ethnicities. Homeless kids to future heirs and heiresses. Thriving children, dying children. My audiences have taught me to place human awareness above racial awareness.
I've been welcomed into palatial estates, cookie cutter houses, crowded apartments, community rooms, cordoned off birthday party sections at McDonalds, rented church basements -- if you can hold a party there, I've probably played the site. Nothing I am about to tell you is theoretical.
Long before injustice and the arbitrary twists of fate and circumstance influence who we become, we arrive with a set of values and abilities. Some kids are more verbal, have more developed senses of curiosity. Other's don't reveal these skills and behaviors. Until you spark their interest.
I show up. The children notice. If its Redmond, Washington or Beverly Hills, and the kids see a different magician or clown at every party, they approach with questions and requests for particular tricks or routines. If I'm in South Central LA, or a white guy walking into a packed apartment filled with Black guests, maybe the room goes quiet. Maybe the kids don't approach. They watch. Perhaps I'm the only white guy who has ever been in the place.
Before my shows, I visit the audience, talk with kids and parents. There is a simple way to put people at ease. Works at shows and would probably be helpful at StarBucks. You make eye contact. Warm eye contact. Welcoming eye contact. Human-to-human. You think the message you are trying to communicate while you are doing this. Human-to-human is very equalizing.
My eyes tell kids I'm happy to see them, that I'm not judgmental, that I'm not rating their clothes, surroundings or skill levels. This is a genuine hello. It's OK. Alright. I use words, too, of course, but I lead with eye contact. It breaks down language and cultural barriers. It's universal.
My eyes have a different message for parents. I'm saying, Wow ... kids! Aren't they something! I'm acknowledging a well established, parent-to-parent observation. This often leads to sharing a smile. It says that deep down, children are important, precious, amazing, and challenging. I'm also letting people know that my audience is a safe place for children.
Kids can be turned on to joy and wonder. All kids, or just about all of them. I don't have to demand quiet or request anyone's attention. I walk through the crowd picking coins from behind ears and elbows. I stop for a moment making a silver dollar disappear, or a silk scarf materialize. Guess what? Everyone is watching. All kids know what the word Wow means.
A balloon gets caught on my finger, then on my nose. Kids laugh. They found it funny in Da Nang during the war, they find it funny in Palo Alto today, in recreation centers filled with gang members who have brought their younger siblings to see a show, in hospitals, and even, sometimes, in hospices.
Connecting the world eye-to-eye won't put an end to prejudice, but the technique might encourage a sense of community in ways that laws and dialogue have failed to achieve.
The look-in-the-eye message that I like best is one I exchange with teens and adults. It's not about show business, it's about life. Yep, I am saying to the person who is receiving my attention -- Life is crazy. It's stupid and great and mysterious and look at us, caught up in the middle of the mystery. In a crazy kind of way, we're in this together.
Friday, May 25, 2018
Dig it
Dig it
By Charles Kraus
[Assumed names; genuine responses]:
*Bobby here i can help with the digging sink holes call me 36__271-....
*Bill @ 772- 4..... I love to dig
*I'm interested in the gig. Do you alla have tools and everything? Is there any concrete I have to hey through?
*Hell even bring the back fill the holes all you need is the asphalt there
*My name is Hal I will fill those holes for 500. You reach me at +1206-82 ......
*Hi I can start asap pls let me know if and when you want me to start thanks Evan 206 244-1....
*my names Sev I will do the digging for you please let me know wen and were im a very hard worker 360 254-83....
*I can do job for you no problem. But I was hoping we could do at least 1000 ? Please get back to me thanks
As the longtime owner of a suburban house in the Northwest, a house with driveway sinkholes, I've had the opportunity to hire diggers. They tunnel down 4' or 5' feet, replace the muck with rocks and gravel, then top off with a patch of asphalt. We repeat this process about every eight or nine years.
You don't dig a hole because you need a break from piano practice. Manual labor is something you do with your muscles, with your back, with your hands, but not delicately as if crafting. It's performed firmly, significantly, forcefully. Maybe there are individuals who prefer digging, but mostly practitioners dig because their other marketable skills are underdeveloped. It's exhausting.
I believe the foreman we hired in 1992 stopped at one of those day-workers for hire street corners where people hang out waiting for cars to pull up, roll down the window and say things like, $10 an hour to mow the lawn. He picked up a few strong backs and proceed to our driveway. We were charged $700 plus a few rounds of pizza and cola.
A decade later we repeated the procedure. Now there were two sinkholes. Workers kept digging until they hit dry stuff, which was about 5 feet below the surface. They repeated the established refill process. As I recall, the total cost was about $1200.
Here we are in 2018, watching certain spots along our driveway begin to resemble oversized concave bowls. It's been a particularly wet winter and the underground streams have turned into underground rivers, carrying away whatever was holding up portions of the driveway.
It's digging time, but the hiring process has changed. Manual laborers have smart phones. Though very few pay to have their services listed, lots of diggers know how to respond to a virtual request for assistance. It cost me $5 to place a 'gig' notice on Craigs List.
My advertisement described the driveway situation. Pleading my age and reduced income, I wondered anyone would be interested in helping for $900. The ad went live at about midnight. By 12:30 a.m., I had two responses. By morning, I had a dozen. To date -- about a week later, I've heard from forty people interested in coming to dig.
There were people who said they could be over in an hour and have the job done before night fall. Two 'girl friends' vouched for their boy friends. One fellow felt he could complete the job for $500. Another preferred to work alone. Others had associates.
The respondents were men, all men, who wanted work. Who were willing to spend hours, maybe days, performing the kind of punishing physical labor that might be assigned to members of a chain gang. Perhaps the economy is improving for a certain segment of the economy, but I've got pages of emails from people who are not being pulled up by a rising tide. They are willing to dig down to a rising water table.
By Charles Kraus
[Assumed names; genuine responses]:
*Bobby here i can help with the digging sink holes call me 36__271-....
*Bill @ 772- 4..... I love to dig
*I'm interested in the gig. Do you alla have tools and everything? Is there any concrete I have to hey through?
*Hell even bring the back fill the holes all you need is the asphalt there
*My name is Hal I will fill those holes for 500. You reach me at +1206-82 ......
*Hi I can start asap pls let me know if and when you want me to start thanks Evan 206 244-1....
*my names Sev I will do the digging for you please let me know wen and were im a very hard worker 360 254-83....
*I can do job for you no problem. But I was hoping we could do at least 1000 ? Please get back to me thanks
As the longtime owner of a suburban house in the Northwest, a house with driveway sinkholes, I've had the opportunity to hire diggers. They tunnel down 4' or 5' feet, replace the muck with rocks and gravel, then top off with a patch of asphalt. We repeat this process about every eight or nine years.
You don't dig a hole because you need a break from piano practice. Manual labor is something you do with your muscles, with your back, with your hands, but not delicately as if crafting. It's performed firmly, significantly, forcefully. Maybe there are individuals who prefer digging, but mostly practitioners dig because their other marketable skills are underdeveloped. It's exhausting.
I believe the foreman we hired in 1992 stopped at one of those day-workers for hire street corners where people hang out waiting for cars to pull up, roll down the window and say things like, $10 an hour to mow the lawn. He picked up a few strong backs and proceed to our driveway. We were charged $700 plus a few rounds of pizza and cola.
A decade later we repeated the procedure. Now there were two sinkholes. Workers kept digging until they hit dry stuff, which was about 5 feet below the surface. They repeated the established refill process. As I recall, the total cost was about $1200.
Here we are in 2018, watching certain spots along our driveway begin to resemble oversized concave bowls. It's been a particularly wet winter and the underground streams have turned into underground rivers, carrying away whatever was holding up portions of the driveway.
It's digging time, but the hiring process has changed. Manual laborers have smart phones. Though very few pay to have their services listed, lots of diggers know how to respond to a virtual request for assistance. It cost me $5 to place a 'gig' notice on Craigs List.
My advertisement described the driveway situation. Pleading my age and reduced income, I wondered anyone would be interested in helping for $900. The ad went live at about midnight. By 12:30 a.m., I had two responses. By morning, I had a dozen. To date -- about a week later, I've heard from forty people interested in coming to dig.
There were people who said they could be over in an hour and have the job done before night fall. Two 'girl friends' vouched for their boy friends. One fellow felt he could complete the job for $500. Another preferred to work alone. Others had associates.
The respondents were men, all men, who wanted work. Who were willing to spend hours, maybe days, performing the kind of punishing physical labor that might be assigned to members of a chain gang. Perhaps the economy is improving for a certain segment of the economy, but I've got pages of emails from people who are not being pulled up by a rising tide. They are willing to dig down to a rising water table.
Saturday, May 12, 2018
How I Celebrated My Mother's Birthday
How I Celebrated My Mother’s Birthday
By Charles Kraus
I know an attorney who begins endless letters by telling his clients, "your file has once again come up for periodic review ..." Then he’d write a few lines about the case and bill for $500. Well, Florence’s birthday has once again come up for periodic review. Five hundred dollars was not involved, but the day turned out to be worth a fortune.
For about two weeks prior to mom’s birthday, serious health issues looked as if they would keep her from so much as an awareness that she was approaching her 88th year. Congestive heart failure combined with a virus caused her body to taken on an almost cationic pose. Eyes closed, head tilted, a general slump. Except for the fact that she would respond to questions, it was possible to think she was comatose. She was not. But her system needed every bit of energy to fight for recovery; it couldn’t waste itself on lively discourse.
Then, several days before her birthday, mom began to improve. By the day of her
birthday, she’d returned to the dining room and was capable of holding up her end of a
short conversation.
Kline Galland throws monthly birthday celebrations. Staff called to remind me that the February birthday bash would take place on Thursday, the 24th. Would I be attending to help my mother enjoy the party? OK, I told them, with low expectations and heightened feelings of obligation. I would do this for my mother, though I did not anticipate much of a party.
I arrived shortly before 1:30. The nursing home community was already assembled in the recreation room. Ten birthday celebrants occupied front and center. Behind them were a dozen loosely fashioned rows of residents, most in their wheel chairs, some in more sophisticated transporters. Almost everyone appeared to be resting. The only animation in the room came from the hostess, Jan, a middle-aged woman undaunted by her task. She was going to wake up this crowd and show them a good time.
But first, the Wallingford Wobblers. Stationed behind the hostess, this neighborhood senior citizens glee club, opened with a medley consisting of every song Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney every sang to one another, plus Moon River, an after thought that seemed to be included because it was on the back of the page that contained the lyrics to You MustHave Been a Beautiful Baby.
The songs were not performed, not in the sense that words, lyrics, or musicality would have attracted a spotlight. Credibility came from the earnest renditions, pleasantly enunciated, though not particularly heartfelt. The singers did not seemed to be aware that a pianist was trying to accompanying them.
I look around the room and notice a kind of a stirring, a subtle, quiet, gentle, plainly rhythmic, perhaps instinctual, response to the music. Hands, or at last fingers, toes, arms, legs, bodies locked into the poses of old age and ill health, moving now a little, then a little more, responding to the tunes, to the memories, to melodies and words that had been sitting in minds and hearts, untapped for decades. Certain words of certain songs emphasized on the beat.
Eventually, modest applause. Then, the hostess retrieved the microphone. I assumed she would thank everyone and send us on our way. But, no, she’s making jokes about getting old. Laughter from the staff. She‘s encouraged. Minute chuckling from one or two residents.
"Now," she says, "we are going to give gifis to those celebrating birthdays and I want to ask each of you a few questions." Mike in hand, with the poise and confidence of Steve Allen getting ready to do some shtick with the audience, she greets the first guest of honor.
"So, you like the singing?"
Doesn’t she know these people are, well, tired, maybe not interested, maybe not altogether cognizant of her expectations? Or the significance of the day?
"Pretty good," the woman responds.
"Where are you from? Where did you go to high school? Were you a GOOD student?"
Jan has become Steve Allen.
"From Seattle. I went to Garfield High. Of course I was good."
A young staff member provides a comic Hip Hip. He gets a few laughs.
"May I ask how old you are?"
"91
Hip Hip!
Applauds.
The hostess proceeds. She is respectful. She is not patronizing.
There is only one male seated among the birthday celebrants. He tells us he’s from Chicago.
“They like baseball in Chicago,” Jan says. “You got a favorite team?
He responds by informing us he is going to sing a song. It turns out to be You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby. He sells it.
“How old are you?”
“95, he whispers.
Hip Hip!
I’m thinking about my mother, about what or if she’ll say when the microphone reaches her. A week before, she could barely open her mouth so we could feed her the soup. Now, she’s about to be interviewed.
I remind her of her age. Will she remember?
Here it comes, “and how old are you?”
“Well,” I can see she’s trying to come up with a number.
“Well, I’ll tell you …” and in the best May West I’ve heard in a long time, “I ain’t getting any younger.”
She sells it, and is rewarded with a big laugh.
The cake isn’t bad. But you know what’s better? What’s better is realizing that everyone had a good time, especially my mother.
////
Sunday, April 8, 2018
Listening to Life
Listening to Life
By Charles E. Kraus
Published in The Oregonian and Oregonlive.com 4/8/18
Life is composed of many elements -- events, sights, expectations, sad moments, and pleasant surprises. Also, sounds. These are a few of the things I've heard during the past 72 years:
Maybe I was four or five, part of a group of neighborhood kids enjoying the afternoon. A truck cab had parked down the block. As exotic as it was gigantic, this was just the kind of attractive nuisance we were looking to climb. And so, we did. Assembled on the cab roof, one of my associates must have lost his balance. He pushed against me to regain stability. The maneuver worked fine, for him. Not so for me. He remained on the roof while I sailed head first onto the sidewalk. Dazed, bloody and suffering from a severe concussion, a bomb bursting between my ears. I can still hear it.
A more pleasant example from my childhood was the exquisite rasp of my father's snoring. Elongated rumbles boasting their own unique melodic scale, my father was so embarrassed by his languid elegance that he only rented hotel rooms at the farthest end of the corridor where he was least likely to get complaints from guests in adjoining rooms. His snores may have disturbed others, especially my mother, but they lulled me to sleep. If I awoke in the middle of the night, right there on the other side of the wall from my parent's bedroom, I listed for my father's snoring. Hearing it, I knew, just knew, that everything was ok, that he was ok, and that therefore, all of us were just fine.
There was a fellow who sold candy and magazines on the train. He'd come on board for a few moments working the aisle before we pulled out. "Candy, Magazines, Chewing Gum," he'd shout in what was surely the loudest, deepest un-amplified voice on earth.
I found myself in the armory the evening presidential candidate John F. Kennedy was scheduled for a campaign stop. He was running really late. Inside the old brick edifice came more and more supporters. As the hour grew, maneuvering space shrank. It felt like Time Square on New Year’s Eve, and if it wasn’t exactly a new year, politically we were celebrating a New Frontier.
The sound that too many people make in a confined space, if they are excited and if their voices collide with the walls and ceiling, can charge a united mindset with massive energy. And so, if you are the candidate, the catalyst, and you wait just long enough, if you enter a rally such as this as the wave of enthusiasm reaches its peak and, accompanied by your entourage, make your way onto the stage, then take the last dozen steps, a lone man, buoyed by a rousing reception, if you are JFK, there is a roar so impossibly exquisite, only the sound of another lone man, in Dallas, pulling the trigger of his 6.5 mm Carcano can eventually extinguish the reverberation.
There were two Vietnam associated sounds.
Attached to MCB 71, our base was adjacent the Chu Lai airstrip. The concept of noise abatement did not exist, or if it did, did not apply. Planes took off or landed every 30 seconds 24/7. As Phantom Jets reached altitude they created an ear piercing turbulence that could have been the sky ripping apart. And thus, one of the most appalling memories I have of my war days was of a drive two of us were making to deliver parts to a vehicle that had broken down at the far end of the field. We heard a Phantom take off, that immense roar filling the senses. The fighter came so close vibrations shook our bodies. Then, all of a sudden, the noise stopped. Just quit. This was an eerie silence. Not merely because of the contrast it made with what we’d been hearing, but for a more important reason. We knew what it meant. The plane’s jet engine had shut down. There would be a crash. I do not know the next part for sure, but what we thought was that the trajectory of the fighter sent it hurling towards a small school house . The pilot could eject, allowing his plane to continue on course, or he could stay onboard and do his best to alter things. He did not eject. With all the sights and sounds of war, what I remember most is that silence, the moments that followed, and looking off in the distance where the school house remained standing.
Our battalion flew back to the States reaching Davisville, RI in the middle of a January night. After stowing my gear and cleaning up, I set out alone through the silently approaching morning. My peacoat offered little resistance to the numbing winter temperature. I crossed a calm, quiet, lonely base, hearing the sounds made as my boots sank into the crust of ice that forms on New England snow, thinking that just a plane ride ago, I’d been experiencing the monsoon season and a military exercise called Vietnam. In the span of two days, the war had become part of my past. The walk had a feeling, a feeling that returns when I recall the quiet crunch of steps through the snow, the calmest, most serene journey I believe I have ever made.
There was the sound, the sight and sound, of Jackie Wilson arriving late for his spot at a sold out rock and roll revival. After a song or two, he stopped the proceedings. Explained he'd been traveling all day and had not had a chance to rehearse. Looking so weary, he vocalized with the band, exercising his voice. And then, when he was ready, Jackie sang us To Be Loved, building and building until he reached for and slammed the final note out of the venue.
I'll tell you the sounds that made me the happiest over the years. These took place during my active parenting phase. It's early morning. I'm up. Probably pacing. Waiting for one of my kids to come home from a party or event. Lots of cars have driven by, their approaches giving me a taste of relief only to be followed by the fading sound of vehicles continuing down the road. Then, finally, a daughter pulls up in the driveway. A car door closes. There are footsteps on the stairs and my child is home. That's the best, most melodic, meaning full, pleasing, joyful sound known to the human ear.
By Charles E. Kraus
Published in The Oregonian and Oregonlive.com 4/8/18
Life is composed of many elements -- events, sights, expectations, sad moments, and pleasant surprises. Also, sounds. These are a few of the things I've heard during the past 72 years:
Maybe I was four or five, part of a group of neighborhood kids enjoying the afternoon. A truck cab had parked down the block. As exotic as it was gigantic, this was just the kind of attractive nuisance we were looking to climb. And so, we did. Assembled on the cab roof, one of my associates must have lost his balance. He pushed against me to regain stability. The maneuver worked fine, for him. Not so for me. He remained on the roof while I sailed head first onto the sidewalk. Dazed, bloody and suffering from a severe concussion, a bomb bursting between my ears. I can still hear it.
A more pleasant example from my childhood was the exquisite rasp of my father's snoring. Elongated rumbles boasting their own unique melodic scale, my father was so embarrassed by his languid elegance that he only rented hotel rooms at the farthest end of the corridor where he was least likely to get complaints from guests in adjoining rooms. His snores may have disturbed others, especially my mother, but they lulled me to sleep. If I awoke in the middle of the night, right there on the other side of the wall from my parent's bedroom, I listed for my father's snoring. Hearing it, I knew, just knew, that everything was ok, that he was ok, and that therefore, all of us were just fine.
There was a fellow who sold candy and magazines on the train. He'd come on board for a few moments working the aisle before we pulled out. "Candy, Magazines, Chewing Gum," he'd shout in what was surely the loudest, deepest un-amplified voice on earth.
I found myself in the armory the evening presidential candidate John F. Kennedy was scheduled for a campaign stop. He was running really late. Inside the old brick edifice came more and more supporters. As the hour grew, maneuvering space shrank. It felt like Time Square on New Year’s Eve, and if it wasn’t exactly a new year, politically we were celebrating a New Frontier.
The sound that too many people make in a confined space, if they are excited and if their voices collide with the walls and ceiling, can charge a united mindset with massive energy. And so, if you are the candidate, the catalyst, and you wait just long enough, if you enter a rally such as this as the wave of enthusiasm reaches its peak and, accompanied by your entourage, make your way onto the stage, then take the last dozen steps, a lone man, buoyed by a rousing reception, if you are JFK, there is a roar so impossibly exquisite, only the sound of another lone man, in Dallas, pulling the trigger of his 6.5 mm Carcano can eventually extinguish the reverberation.
There were two Vietnam associated sounds.
Attached to MCB 71, our base was adjacent the Chu Lai airstrip. The concept of noise abatement did not exist, or if it did, did not apply. Planes took off or landed every 30 seconds 24/7. As Phantom Jets reached altitude they created an ear piercing turbulence that could have been the sky ripping apart. And thus, one of the most appalling memories I have of my war days was of a drive two of us were making to deliver parts to a vehicle that had broken down at the far end of the field. We heard a Phantom take off, that immense roar filling the senses. The fighter came so close vibrations shook our bodies. Then, all of a sudden, the noise stopped. Just quit. This was an eerie silence. Not merely because of the contrast it made with what we’d been hearing, but for a more important reason. We knew what it meant. The plane’s jet engine had shut down. There would be a crash. I do not know the next part for sure, but what we thought was that the trajectory of the fighter sent it hurling towards a small school house . The pilot could eject, allowing his plane to continue on course, or he could stay onboard and do his best to alter things. He did not eject. With all the sights and sounds of war, what I remember most is that silence, the moments that followed, and looking off in the distance where the school house remained standing.
Our battalion flew back to the States reaching Davisville, RI in the middle of a January night. After stowing my gear and cleaning up, I set out alone through the silently approaching morning. My peacoat offered little resistance to the numbing winter temperature. I crossed a calm, quiet, lonely base, hearing the sounds made as my boots sank into the crust of ice that forms on New England snow, thinking that just a plane ride ago, I’d been experiencing the monsoon season and a military exercise called Vietnam. In the span of two days, the war had become part of my past. The walk had a feeling, a feeling that returns when I recall the quiet crunch of steps through the snow, the calmest, most serene journey I believe I have ever made.
There was the sound, the sight and sound, of Jackie Wilson arriving late for his spot at a sold out rock and roll revival. After a song or two, he stopped the proceedings. Explained he'd been traveling all day and had not had a chance to rehearse. Looking so weary, he vocalized with the band, exercising his voice. And then, when he was ready, Jackie sang us To Be Loved, building and building until he reached for and slammed the final note out of the venue.
I'll tell you the sounds that made me the happiest over the years. These took place during my active parenting phase. It's early morning. I'm up. Probably pacing. Waiting for one of my kids to come home from a party or event. Lots of cars have driven by, their approaches giving me a taste of relief only to be followed by the fading sound of vehicles continuing down the road. Then, finally, a daughter pulls up in the driveway. A car door closes. There are footsteps on the stairs and my child is home. That's the best, most melodic, meaning full, pleasing, joyful sound known to the human ear.
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