What A Life

Doesn’t seem that over twelve years have passed since the “Millennium” fiasco, but if you recall, months before the dawning of the year 2000, prognosticators of every stripe were predicting everything from a total computerized collapse to doomsday. Even poor old Nostradamus was dusted off, and “experts” attempted to make his most dire prophecies fit the occasion.

Times Square New Year's Celebration.....might have been the last one.

Not one to panic, I followed what I assumed were perfectly normal responses to the furor. First, I purchased an electrical generator….a big one. I knew that power outages would no doubt be common, and although I could have sympathized with you had your electricity gone out, frankly, I wanted to keep my beer (non-alcoholic) cold. I also amassed an impressive collection of fuel filled 5 gallon gas cans; just in case. I then laid in supplies of sandwich makings, batteries, flashlights….and Mace. I envisioned hordes of pillagers romping on our front lawn, and I wanted to be prepared. I was ready for the worst.

Our daughter Michele hosted a New Year’s Eve pajama party. The attendees were supposed to wear typical sleepwear. Folks, typical sleepwear for me, are under shorts. (Just turn away, if the mental picture offends.) Not wanting to panic the other guests, I donned a sparkly new pair over my blue jeans, thus still retaining my modesty, and yet the spirit of the occasion.

So, we pre-celebrated. While I downed copious quantities of faux champagne and dietary beverages, my co-celebrants did a more traditional job of bringing in the new year. I also took advantage of the buffet, gorging as if this might have been my last meal.

Thinking back, the food seemed rather tasteless, what with the Millennial sword of Damocles, dangling over our heads.

We nervously watched the TV news, taking notice of the various sorts of anticipatory mayhem going on all over the world. The first clue that the sky wasn’t going to fall occurred when the network showed the celebration going on in Australia. The Aussies made it through the witching hour without so much as a hiccup.

Dick Clark was in New York’s Time Square, awaiting the drop of the mirrored ball. I hoped if New York survived, we’d be safe in the hinterland. We waited. When the ball dropped, and nothing happened. I was feeling a little better about things, but we were in another time zone.

At the stroke of twelve; the power went out. There wasn’t a sound from our revelers. Ten seconds later it was back on. It seems our daughter Carrie’s husband, David, had quietly stationed himself next to the house’s electrical breaker box, and on the stroke of twelve, he switched off the main power.

Had he been a little closer, I’d have Maced him.

We ate lots of sandwiches over the next few days, and as far as the generator was concerned, it was sold several years later at a garage sale.

But possibly I sold it too soon; 12-12-2012 is just around the corner….where’s the Mace?

A new gizmo to stump the un-stumpables. A virtual. 10 pound, pound cake to the winner.

OK, it's old, and required two hands to operate.

Some of you who know me, no doubt will do a double take. “It can’t be the Mike Foley I know.” Well, if you’re thinking in a religious sense, you’d be partially right, but let me say, I am a believer, and a regular church goer.

I labored most of my life under a Damoclean sword. The sword, being a heart murmur I’d had for most of my life. I was nearing 40, and I wanted to prepare myself for the “end“. I I felt it was only right that I do what I could for my family’s future. I felt I needed to visit a doctor, and get the bad news…I.E. How many years do I have left?….That is, if my time left could be measured in years.

A worried 11 year old.

I dreaded the doctor visit, but, I sucked it up, and was in the doc’s waiting room at the appointed time. Our family practitioner, Dr. LeCavelier, was French Canadian, with a very pronounced accent. He’d treated my family for their ills, but never me.

I’m not going to go into the details, but by the time the procedure had reached the: “Put your clothes back on, Mike.” stage, I was surprised that he hadn’t uttered a few, “tsk, tsks”, accompanied with a pitying look. I felt I knew the problem better than he, so, I casually mentioned: “Well, Doc, I guess you heard my heart murmur.” His reaction was not what I expected; he looked puzzled. “No, Mike, I deedn’t hear de heart murmere.” I went on to explain. “Well then, you must have missed it, because I’ve had a murmur for years; in fact, I wasn’t able to participate in Phys Ed classes in school, and I was even classified “4-F” when I registered for the military draft.”

“Take off zee shirt, I weel sheck you again.” I removed my shirt, and he listened to my innards once more. After he replaced the stethoscope around his neck, he told me: “Mike, zere is no heart murmere, your heart, eet sound perfectly normal.” I was stunned. It took a minute for me to digest what he’d just said. “Do you mean that I could pass an insurance physical?” I asked incredulously. “Yes, Mike, you could.” I went on down a list of previously banned activities. When I mentioned jogging, even then, he saw no problem.

“Doc, are you absolutely sure? I said, “I just can’t believe that my murmur is gone.” He went on to reassure me: “I will schedule you for de EKG.” The next day, I was hooked up to the EKG machine. When the technician finished, she quipped: “I’ve seen worse”. “Ok“, I thought, “just how much worse?”

Dr. LeCavelier called me later that afternoon, to give me the results. My heart was normal. Sharon had the champagne chilled, and we toasted my good fortune—-several times;

Yep, folks, I was, in a sense, born again.

Gadget guessers, here’s this weeks assignment:

OK, Sherlock, what is it?

Last weeks gizmo is a “Nut Splitter” used to split hex nuts on rusted bolts

Let’s see…just how many New Year’s commemorations have I been a party to; or, how many New Year’s parties have I attended? I’m afraid I’ve lost count, for there are quite a few that I don’t recall, but a few memorable ones.

As for my childhood, and New Year’s the celebrations I witnessed were possibly a little less than spectacular events, for it seems residing in a nearly teetotaling household, a jeroboam of 7-Up qualified as a celebratory beverage. There were no hangovers, of that I’m sure.

Ray Curtis; looked older, but not wiser.

It was only as I reached almost adult status that the festivities began to take on a more well, “adult” aspect, for I recall one New Year’s observance that might have been my undoing. One of my best friends, seventeen year old Ray Curtis, had the look of a much older person. At seventeen, I looked seventeen. Ray, on the other hand, looked to be in his early twenties. He was husky, and had a very impressive set of potential whiskers. A “Five O’clock Shadow”, as it was referred to at the time.

The advantage for Ray, (and his associates) was that he could buy beer and or cigarettes. I was more than happy to help consume some of the contraband.

So, on the last night of the year, Ray and I embarked on our celebratory journey. We’d loaded the back-seat of his 1941 Chevy coupe with ill-gotten beer and cigarettes—-and a box of Wyoming fireworks. We left a little room in case we should find female companionship.

The author; not old; not smart.

Ray picked me up around 8:00 P.M., and we popped the lid on the first of too many beers. Manly Ray next fired up a cigarette, and to my eyes, looked quite mature, one hand occasionally on the wheel, the other with a smoke or a beer. Quite mature.

I, on the other hand, was content to appear less than mature, but eager to look as if I were slightly rebellious. My hair was well oiled, swept up into a fine 50’s pompadour, a cigarette dangling from my lips. It was after several of those beers had been consumed, and a few Camels puffed, (but not inhaled) that Ray felt the need for excitement. “Mike, we need to set off some of those fireworks!” I heartily agreed.

We headed down Main Street, and at the central intersection, where two drugstores, the telephone office—and the police station were located, Ray made ready to detonate some pyrotechnics. He rolled his window down half way, and just as we approached the police station, took a firecracker from the stash, held the fuse to the end of his lit cigarette, and tossed it towards the space above the partially lowered window. Unfortunately for Ray the cracker hit the glass, bounced back, landing between his legs. He didn’t have a chance to yell, because it detonated immediately. Ray juggling a half consumed beer, a cigarette, the steering wheel, and painfully smoldering trousers, well, that was something to see.

Ray has since passed on, and my New Year’s fetes since, have lacked the smoke, the alcohol, and the exploding firecrackers; but I still chuckle when I recall that particular New Year’s Blast.

Happy New Year.

The gadget.

A fresh gadget to confabulate you. It’s no antique. A fabulous virtual, chocolate cupcake to the winner.

Seems that most folks of my age recall the old radio shows of the 1940’s and 1950’s. We still remember some of the famous lines used during the introduction of the shows, like Superman’s famous intro: “Faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound; it’s SUPERMAN!”. I rushed home from the little four-room school that I attended, hoping to make it in time to hear those famous lines. The show was only 15 minutes long, and the episodes were serialized, so the audience was left hanging until “tomorrow’s” show.

There were wonderful comedy programs, like Red Skelton’s, (I thought that Red Skelton was a “red skeleton”.) Jack Benny’s and Bob Hope’s show. For the life of me I couldn’t understand how they could make a “skeleton” talk.

“The Inner Sanctum” was scary enough to make me cower, and certainly look for a place to hide—when I heard the famous “squeaking door” intro, and the creepy voice of the announcer that preceded the broadcasts, I was ready for bed.

A vintage Halicrafter Radio.....I can still smell the ozone.

Part of the fun was the equipment we used to hear the shows. The first radio I recall was a huge “console” model, with an “Autronic” eye; a device that indicated when the radio was tuned properly. The main dial of the radio had a listing of various “bands” or frequencies of the broadcast stations. I remember trying to figure out where the cities listed on the dial were. Bombay, London, Paris, Moscow, they were all displayed, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get the set to bring in any broadcasts from anywhere but Reno, Nevada, where we lived at the time.

I imagine that because of the size of the device, my parents elected to sell it, rather than ship it to Douglas, Alaska, where we moved when I was in 2nd Grade. The wonderful console radio was just a memory. They used the space saved to pack more important gear, such as clothing and kitchen implements. The radio seemed very important to me, but that didn’t hold much water with my folks, necessities were packed first. So, when we settled into our new home, a cheap plastic table model radio sufficed. Wouldn’t have made much difference in Douglas; because there was only the single feeble signal from our sole radio station, KINY.

Two old radios that still register in my mostly cobwebbed brain, are the Halicrafter sets, and the Zenith “Transoceanic”, a “portable radio”, that was anything but portable.

An ad for the Zenith Transoceanic...portable, if you ate your Wheaties.

It must have weighed in at around 25 pounds, complete with it’s battery, and impressive pleather covered case. It was expensive too. It was merely something that I would have loved to have owned. As far as the Halicrafter radios were concerned, they too were expensive, and more technically advanced, sometimes included in “Ham” radio set-ups. My best friend in the 40’s, Ray Hermann, lived in a home graced with a Halicrafter. Ray and his family regularly tuned into stations all up and down the west coast — and beyond.

Having never forgotten the old shows, happily in the 1980’s, old time radio shows began to become available on audio cassette. I immediately began collecting the tapes, and as a traveling sales rep, found myself enjoying, and laughing along with the old broadcasts on my drives. The programs have become popular to download onto MP3 players, and enjoyed in the family car.

My son Mike Jr. loves the old “Gildersleeve” show, and has a complete collection of the broadcasts, that he listens to while driving to and from his sales calls. The Gildersleeve show was a spin-off from the popular “Fibber McGee and Molly” program. “Gildy” was Fibber’s annoying neighbor. To my way of thinking, Gildersleeve’s shows were much funnier, and enjoyable.

I’ll test your memory a little more in weeks to come, with more recollections of radio’s good old days.

So, there you have it; tune in next week, same time, same station, for another episode of “What A Life”.

It's no antique

A new gadget today, and this one should make ND Expat scratch his head. By the way, it’s not an antique.

By the by, ND Expat guessed the gadget of last week…it was a surgical skull saw…fun, eh?

Next week, I’ll show you a few “New” technologies  that aren’t so new after  all.

I’m resolute about 2012. Therefore, I don’t think it’s necessary for me to make any resolutions for the new year. I’ve made many promises to myself over the last half-century or so, and what I have found, is that if you are prepared to make a New Year’s commitment, keep it to yourself.

If I'm going to make a resolution for 2012, I want to look like this again.

It’s when you advertise the fact that you are going to: Join a gym, go on a diet, cut up your credit cards, get a tattoo, or any pledge you may have to recant, you and I know that it’s better to zip the lips. You’ve no doubt figured it out by now, that health clubs rely on the poorly motivated to keep their doors open. On January 2nd, you bound (well, perhaps not “bound”) through the gym’s front door, where you are faced with an instructor that resembles that female drill instructor from “The Biggest Loser”. It’s at that moment that your pledge begins to become watered down.

Then there’s those extra few pounds you put on during the holidays. Just possibly you already had on board a little extra poundage to shed before the November and December food orgies began. After you put away the last slice of pumpkin pie, you announce: “Well, that’s it; no more pie for me until I drop thirty pounds.” This too is said without much conviction. I for one have discovered that it’s much easier to pledge a diet when one’s mouth is full of dessert. In fact, some of my potentially most effective dietary promises have been made at such a time. It’s after I’ve had a few hours to rethink my ill-timed pledge, that I begin to sense a cooling of my pedal extremities.

This year, I’ve first vowed not to make vows. Next, I’ll make sure that my wife hasn’t prepared my favorite lemon pie, that would require me to renege on a foolish slip of the lip. In this case, I might as well join the ranks of the overweight, and simply avoid mirrors.

Junior woodsmen, what is it?

I hope that 2012 is all that you hope it to be; healthy, happy, and filled with correct guesses on the Gadget of the week.

There is a piping hot pan of virtual (calorie free) cinnamon rolls for the correct guess of this weeks gadget.

By the way, the gadget depicted two weeks ago is not a trivet, but a circumcision shield. Designed so that the moile didn’t remove an excess amount of the victims equipment.