Saturday, September 28, 2019

Mr. Cranky's Neighborhood

Image by Prawny from Pixabay

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my (eventual) grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who don't, yet) — the Stickies  to haunt them after they become grups and/or I'm dead.
                  
                        This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens 
        Perusal by callowyutes may result in psychological, etceteralogical triggering. 

                                                 Glossary  

                                                   About

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Star: Dana — A gentlereader

"I guess when you turn off the main road, you have to be prepared to see some funny houses." -Stephen King


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies (& Gentlereaders),

I've recently begun walking around my neighborhood. I've lived in this neighborhood for better than a decade but have never done this before. I'm a card-carrying suburban boomer with rural certifications. Suburban boomers drive. S'boomers live in developments/subdivisions/townships — not hoods.

They don't normally go for walks either, not in the traditional sense. When they do they're usually equipped with water bottles to remain hydrated as they navigate through tricky subdivisions that often contain lengthy, unmarked dead ends.

Carrying ballast to keep from tipping over, they walk briskly while pumping or swinging their arms purposefully. After a sensible dinner.

In the 'burbs, full speed jogging is usually done in the middle of the night by one-percenters, or wannabe one-percenters, so that our hero can get a jump on normal people before beginning their 16-hour workday. Exploiting the 99% takes a lot of time and energy.

Although, technically speaking, I live in a small incorporated town, which in the Flatlands of Ohio are called cities, to me it's a 'burb. I spent the first 12.75 years of my life living in inner-city Pittsburgh (with an h) in neighborhoods where yards were generally small to nonexistent and trees, except for parks, were few and far between.

From my personal perspective, I don't live in a city, it's a crowded suburb.

The yards, for the most part, are small, but almost everyone has one, and there's enough grass to require regular cutting. There are hedges and edges to be trimmed and weeds to be wacked. Almost everyone has a driveway and garages are commonplace.

People don't usually park on the street (in some neighboring "cities" it's illegal to do so) and nobody has to mark their territory (parking spot) with milk crates, retired kitchen chairs or the like and be prepared to defend their territory to the death (or at least till someone calls the cops).


                                                      *    *    *

I confess I'm not a big fan of the Buckeye state. I've been living here temporarily for 34 years. It's me, not them. It's never felt like home. I felt more at home during my brief sojourn in the sunbelt that I ever have here.

But the thing that I love about my neighborhood is the trees.

It's a very old neighborhood full of architecturally unremarkable, modest homes once mostly inhabited by barely middle-class employees of local steel mills and factories that are mostly gone.

Now it's inhabited by retired former employees of local steel mills and factories that are mostly gone, and younger H. sapiens that haven't fled to points south of the Mason-Dixon, at least not yet.

And hooge "perennial plants with elongated stems, or trunks, supporting branches and leaves"—which is how Wikipedia describes trees—of all sorts.

                                                   *     *     * 

True, and newer, suburbs may have larger yards, houses, and incomes but often the trees have been redlined, restricted to their own neighborhoods. The trees, if any, are usually saplings or not much more than saplings (teen trees?). My modest neighborhood has enormous trees and lots of 'em. Far more birds than people live here.

Although the bottom third of my county consists primarily of tiny cities and realburbs, the rest is mostly rural and chock full of farms (and trees). This is why occasionally eagles, hawks, and falcons can be spotted soaring overhead.

"Honey, have you seen the cat?"

There are at least two owls that live in or near my neighborhood. I've never seen them but I hear them almost every day. I assume they're warning each other to keep to their own turf or things will get ugly.

[Hey, nature boy, have you received a commission from Dodging Death Digest?

No, Dana, I'm painting a charming foundational, literary picture of my neighborhood, for what follows.

What started out as a way to get some much-needed exercise without going to da'mall and joining my fellow geezers and geezerettes walking in circles around the local consumer cathedral like a secular version of devout Muslim pilgrims circling the Kaaba, got me thinking. 

One day it occurred to me, it's 2019 in America, where are all the protesters?

                                                     *     *     *

My neighborhood is top-heavy with old people that, like me, worked full time for 45 years or more. Some are still working, as I would be if not for the blessing of being part of an extended family of three generations living in our large, old drafty house.

We don't own our home—in fact, if we ever find a way to swing it we'll be headed for North Carolina—but most of my neighbors do.

Beginning in the late seventies, shortly before I was lured to Canada's Deep South by my late wife (it's complicated) the factories and the mills began shutting down or moving away.

The tiny city I currently inhabit was still thriving when this started happening and many of the old people (people my age) still living here who were relatively young at the time, had tough, physically and mentally (ever work the line?) demanding jobs.

But a lot of these jobs paid fairly well, traditionally were fairly secure, and a lot of these people had bought homes—unaware of how fast and how far things were going to fall.

Not exactly an easy life but with a little luck—if the job or some bug didn't kill you first you could do 30 and out and finally fix up that tiny yard, maybe get a camper—although you might need a part-time gig to make ends meet.

Everyone knows what happened next (or should). Bottom line: a whole lot of folks are now living in modest houses, that may or may not be paid for, in various states of repair or disrepair.

Some get full pensions, most a fraction of what they thought they would eventually get when they were busting their butts back in the day.

There's no shortage of empty homes that won't sell. There are a few abandoned houses that should be torn down, and it shouldn't be so hard and expensive to make this happen.

                                                   *     *     *

The yards, for the most part, are small, but almost everyone has one, and there's enough grass to require regular cutting. There are hedges and edges to be trimmed and weeds to be wacked.

Just about every street has a retired guy with a riding lawn mower that cuts the grass of the houses that won't sell if the owner can't be bothered keeping up the yard work.

Bird feeders need to be maintained, hips and knees replaced, grandkids babysat. Everyone knows someone that was killed by and/or is being treated for Cancer. But no one is blocking Main Street and demanding The Gummit do something. Too busy. 

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

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Your friendly neighborhood crank is not crazy about social media (I am a crank after all) but if you must, you can like me/follow me on Facebook. I post an announcement when I have a new column available as well as news articles/opinion pieces that reflect where I'm coming from or that I wish to call attention to. 

Cranky don't tweet. 

  
















 





   

Saturday, September 21, 2019

Cars (Pt. 3 of 3)

Image by Emslichter from Pixabay

Or, Self Indulgent Nostalgia Series (S.I.N.S) No. 5

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my (eventual) grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who don't, yet) -- the Stickies -- to haunt them after they become grups and/or I'm dead.


[The following missive is rated SSC (Sexy Seasoned Citizens). If read by grups or callowyutes it may result in psychological/emotional/etceteralogical triggering.]


                                                 Glossary  

                                                   About

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Star: Dana -- A gentlereader

"I had to stop driving my car for a while... the tires got dizzy." -Stephen Wright


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies (& gentlereaders),

Our boring old man story thus far...

In part one I talked about the fact that for the first 12.75 years of my life cars were of little importance as I was living in inner-city Pittsburgh (with an h) at the time and it was possible to secure the basic necessities of life (physical, emotional, and psychological) on foot or via cheap and easily accessible public transport.

[That's quite the opening sentence, Sparky.]

Thank you, Dana. I summed up an entire letter/column in just 61 words.

[I was being sarcastical I...]

I would've never guessed. In part two I described my family's decamping to the 'burbs and the fact that cars, or rather the fact we didn't have one, became very important.

Next, me and mine moved to suburban (nearly rural) Philadelphia and joined forces with my big brother Ed and his family. I now had a drivers license, a car, and a job.

The job was working at the small supermarket where my brother worked as the meat department manager and alleged heir to the throne.

He was busting his butt because he'd been told by the owners, Yano and Hack 'n' Slash, that he was accumulating sweat equity towards eventually owning the store. It never happened; it's complicated. I'd wish them well but their both dead.

Anyways, having a car and a little money took the edge off of spending my last year of public high school at an institution that was a giant step backward from the sophisticated high school I had attended for the previous three years.

The one in the Pittsburgh (with an h) suburb we couldn't really afford to live in and had so much trouble getting around in because we didn't have/couldn't afford a car.

                                                       * * *

Now securing provisions no longer involved a long walk to the bus stop, a relatively lengthy bus ride, shopping, a relatively lengthy bus ride, and a long walk home.

[And yes, I also walked five miles to school through blizzards, uphill both ways.]

Sweet.

However, the best part was being able to drive where I wanted to when I wanted to -- within certain limits -- till I moved into my own apartment once I had that last year of high school under my belt and 25 hours per week became 40+ hours per week.

My first car, a '62 Buick LeSabre, got about 10 mpg, but gas was about 29 cents a gallon at the time, so who cared? It also had wing windows, which are long gone and which I still miss, and could seat six comfortably, eight in a pinch. My friends called it the Road Grader.

I turned a modest profit by renting out the truck to Vietnamese refugee families.

[Are you trying to get us dragged in front of the Intersectional Inquisition?]

Please! I still maintain contact with some of 'em. They loan me money with no interest when I'm in trouble because they feel sorry for me. Some of their grandkids are suing Ivy League schools to overturn the bias against Asians that make the rest of us look stupid and lazy.

 [OMG! You are trying… Wait, orange?]

Actually, I think Oompa Loompas deserve some sort of affirmative action program. Ever since the Donald got elected hate crimes targeting little orange people of color are off the chart. 

[But the Donald is tall and his hair is yellow, not green.]

Obviously, he’s the result of a mixed marriage. Didn’t you know that his…

[Can we move on, please?]

                                                     * * *

One of my favorite car memories from this period involves driving through, and hanging out in, beautiful Valley Forge State Park where there were lots of beautiful young women, weather permitting.

Another was driving to the King of Prussia shopping mall to hang out because the place was full of beautiful young women regardless of the weather

Another was driving to...

[I think they can suss out the theme you're developing, Sparky.]

Sparky? Since when...

[I suppose next we're going to be treated to wild-eyed, exaggerated stories about your romantic prowess/adventures?]

Sadly, no.

I was even more introverted then than I am now. While not all that shy nowadays, I was very shy back then. And, never having been either a sex or a success object my love life has been a rather modest one.

Besides, there are all sorts of people still alive who knew me at the time, I'm not that old yet, so...

However, being young during the sexual revolution and the age of the mini-skirt, when rock 'n' roll peaked -- and before the AIDS plague broke out -- was, well, very cool. Glad I was there even if I was a bit player.

Anyways, I picked up enough so that once I eventually had two intense three-year relationships and then a 21-year marriage to my late wife I was able to appreciate that the best sex occurs within a committed relationship.

[Whoa... too much information. Wait a minute, isn't the subject of your boring interactions with cars supposed to be the subject at hand?]

Well, yeah, but I'm famous for charming digressions and occasional wonderings down Memory Lane.

[I guess that's one way of looking at it.]

Driving on...

                                                     * * *


Once I got a taste of the freedom and independence cars provided I was hooked. Since then I've devoted a great deal of time, money, and trouble to making sure I owned a car.

There have been times when cash flow problems, coinciding with expensive car repair problems, generated temporary transportation crises.

There was a time or two when these given crises went on long enough to result in life-altering changes of direction (pun intended and embraced).

However, my desire to own my own car was only reinforced. My Dear Stickies, you may have trouble relating to this but that's because your parents and I have gone to a great deal of trouble to make sure you take all sorts of things for granted.     

Millennials and Generation Z, I'm lead to believe, particularly the urban versions, don't love cars the way we Boomers and Xers did and do. But after all, life as we know it will be over in 12 years without a Green New Deal, a little less than that now.

Cars, we are told, in spite of the fact we now have corn-fed and/or battery-powered ones that depend on subsidies and Rules&Regs issued by The Gummit, are one of the reasons we find ourselves on the road to perdition.

However.

That nine-day road trip that me, Ron, and Freddie took to Disneyworld in the late seventies (a sort of workingman's Spring break) -- wherein Fred's car was a vital member of the team -- would not have attained its mythical status without an Oldsmobile Omega.

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

Please scroll down to react, comment, or share. If my work pleases you I wouldn't be offended if you offered to buy me a coffee.  

                                                   *    *    *

Your friendly neighborhood crank is not crazy about social media (I am a crank after all) but if you must, you can like me/follow me on Facebook. I post an announcement when I have a new column available as well as news articles/opinion pieces that reflect where I'm coming from or that I wish to call attention to. Cranky don't tweet.



 


Saturday, September 14, 2019

Cars (Part 2 of 3)

Image by Thomas H. from Pixabay 

Self Indulgent Nostalgia Series (S.I.N.S No. 4)


If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my (eventual) grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who don't, yet) -- the Stickies -- to haunt them after they become grups and/or I'm dead.


[The following missive is rated SSC (Sexy Seasoned Citizens). If read by grups or callowyutes it may result in psychological/emotional/etceteralogical triggering.]


                                                 Glossary  

                                                   About

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Star: Dana -- A gentlereader

"Have you ever noticed that anybody driving slower than you is an idiot, and anyone going faster than you is a maniac?" -George Carlin


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies (& gentlereaders),

Last week's missive ended thusly: "There was a tiny shopping center with a hardware store, a bank, and a drugstore about a half-mile away. The nearest supermarket was several miles away. We didn't own a car and couldn't afford one."

The good news was that we had made it to the 'burbs where the temperature actually cooled off at night in the summertime. The bad news was that we lived in what is now called a food desert.

I use this term ironically (I'm cool like that) as this term refers to urban areas where it's difficult to easily access a real supermarket from your house. As I mentioned last week, this wasn't a problem when I was a kid.

When we lived on Pittsburgh's (with an h) "the bluff" we had easy access to Schwartz's Sanitary Supermarket. When we moved to the Sou'side we could easily walk to at least two supermarkets, a tiny, old, A&P (which smelled like freshly ground coffee) or a large, air-conditioned um... I want to say Kroger's, maybe Acme?

I loved the large, air-conditioned _______ because on hot summer days my fellow street urchins and I would go in and walk up and down the frozen food aisle which felt like a trip to the Arctic because of the open frozen food cases. I'm of the opinion that the electricity it took to power these coffin style freezers lead directly to global warming. I...

[Excuse me, this has what to do with cars?] 

Oh yeah... you make a valid point, Dana. Well technically, now that we were suburbanites we weren't in a food desert as there were all sorts of supermarkets to access -- if you had a car.

Suddenly, our lack of a car was a very big deal. In the city, on the rare occasion that walking or a relatively brief (and easily accessed) streetcar or bus ride was insufficient to accomplish the task at hand, we could hire a cab.

There was no such thing as ride-sharing services at the time but there were ginormous taxi cabs with jump seats and huge trunks in which it was possible to squeeze the whole fan damily if necessary (the taxi, not its trunk).

In the 'burbs taxis were expensive and few and far between. My old man used to walk about half a mile to a bus stop that took him to his job at the other end of the township we lived in and then walk another half a mile to report to work.

He reversed the procedure when it was time to go home.

My mum and I had to take that walk and ride the same bus line to a shopping center, that featured a Krogers, on Friday nights. We took a folding cart, a sort of large basket on wheels with us. The trip there, when we and our cart got on the bus in this township that was overwhelmingly middle and upper-middle class, made us an object of curiosity.

The trip home, with our cart bulging with enough groceries to feed a family of five for a week, almost rendered us a tourist attraction. You should've seen us dragging the damn cart up and down the steps of that bus.

After we got off the bus on the return trip the last part of the walk home consisted of a trek up a long, slow hill, Kirk Avenue. Fortunately, it wasn't that steep. When we made it home we felt like successful hunter/gathers at the end of a good day on the savannah.   

Owning a car, or rather not owning one, had become a very big deal.

Eventually, my mom made a friend; a single lady with an obnoxious son that my little brothers and I had to get along with because of our transportation challenges. This made hunting and gathering much easier but it was still a bitch trying to get around.

My last year of Catholic grade school education was within easy walking distance -- we lived about fifty yards from the school, St. Ursula's. Come ninth grade, I rode a school bus for the first time in my life and attended a public school. Both experiences were somewhat less than edifying.

                                                     * * *

And then, four things happened.

Friends of mine acquired drivers licenses and suddenly the world opened up. I particularly liked being driven around in Sam's dad's caddy. Sam's dad was a doctor; I told you it was a nice township.

My old man died when I was sixteen. This sucked sweaty socks, of course, but was not as awful as it sounds. He was 58, I was 16 and he had become more of a benign, disinterested grandfather than my dad by then. Mortgage insurance he had, life insurance he did not.

My paper routes (yes, plural), with help from my mum, financed driving lessons. Which, in retrospect was an unusually optimistic move on our part. Where would we have gotten the dough to buy a car? The bad news is my instructor was an incompetent hooplehead, and I couldn't master how to use a clutch (google it...). These lessons led nowhere.

[For the record: Several years later Jackie at Good Humor taught me how to master a clutch in five minutes via a secret method that I'm willing to share for only $999.99.]

BIG BUT...

We moved in with my big brother, his wife, and baby. They lived at the opposite end of Pennsylvania, in suburban (almost rural) Philadelphia.

In short order, thanks to a 1962 Buick LeSabre with an automatic transmission, I had a drivers license and a car and a job. Thus began the rest of my life. A life in which cars (and trucks) have, and continue to play, an important role.

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

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                                                   *    *    *

Your friendly neighborhood crank is not crazy about social media (I am a crank after all) but if you must, you can like me/follow me on Facebook. I post an announcement when I have a new column available as well as news articles/opinion pieces that reflect where I'm coming from or that I wish to call attention to.

©2019 Mark Mehlmauer As long as you agree to include the name of my website (The Flyoverland Crank) and the URL (Creative Commons license at the top and bottom of the website) you may republish this anywhere that you please. Light editing that doesn't alter the content is acceptable. You don't have to include any of the folderol before the greeting or after the closing except for the title.