Frasier may have left the building, but at least he’s back for a short visit

In the summer of 2016 when I made the ill-fated decision to move out of the city, I also decided to do some serious downsizing and gave away half of what I owned.  I donated over 300 hardcover books and half of my DVD collection to the Bellevue Library.

This was actually the very first thing I gave them, my complete set of Frasier, which aired on NBC from 1993 to 2004.  Looking back, I’m not sure why I did; I dearly loved this show.  Everything about it was brilliant—from the writing to it’s inspired casting (Frasier wasn’t even supposed to have a brother, one of the producers saw David Hyde Pierce and remarked his uncanny resemblance to Kelsey Grammer). 

As great as it was though, my second favorite thing about the show was his luxury apartment in the fictional Elliot Bay Towers in Seattle.  I used to record the show on my vcr, then pause it during replay just to study the artwork or the titles of the books on his bookshelves!

My favorite thing about the show though was the calls to my mom after every new episode.  She knew to expect my call the moment Kelsey began singing “tossed salad and scrambled eggs”, and we’d rehash that night’s story and laugh all over again. 

Sadly, Mom passed about 6 months after the final episode.

The reason I share all this now is because last night I laughed again at Frasier for the first time in a LONG time, and afterwards felt both relief and some heartache too.  The show was recently revived on Paramount Plus with much fanfare (they announced it was returning 3 years ago) but after 4 episodes I was greatly disappointed.  

USA Today wrote a pretty scathing piece about its revival and got raked over the coals by Frasier’s adoring fans; the paper was right though, the show was a turd.

And then last night (after putting it off for over a week) I watched the fifth episode and it was nothing short of awesome—they got it, they got that magic back!  Well, for this episode at least.  Frasier and his adult son Freddy are in Frasier’s Boston apartment, waiting on blind dates; when the first woman arrives, they’re both attracted to her but don’t know which Crane she’s there for, and instead of just asking…. I was howling.

Later when the second woman shows up, and Frasier confesses to Freddy he wants her too, his disgusted son remarks “Why don’t I just pretend to be your personal chef?  We’ll set up another table on the balcony, and try to fool both women into having dinner with you!”  Frasier pauses, stares into space like he’s mulling it over and says “You know, there was a time when I would’ve considered such a thing…”  My God I laughed so hard! 

I know it sounds silly, but if you were a fan of playwrights like Preston Sturges or Noel Coward, you’d enjoy this too. 

Okay, I thought I’d wrap this little lovefest up with 3 takes on Frasier’s apartment.  The first is from the original Frasier, complete with his dad’s ratty 1970’s recliner. 

The second is how designers imagine it would look today—pretty fancy stuff. 

The third is his apartment on the revived show, set in Boston.  I am digging that Rorschach wallpaper!

You people are safe from us older delinquents—well, for a month at least

A couple years ago (okay, 17 years ago) when Facebook was brand new and I was in my mid-forties, I posted a photo of myself in my new leather jacket on the main page.

At the time I was going through some sort of mid-life crisis, and wrote that after spending my entire life as a nerdy square, was I now too old to be wearing a black leather jacket?

Expecting a chorus of positive feedback to go for it, I got the following:

1) My friend Tracy asked if I was trying to look like the Fonz.

2) My friend Alex asked if I was wearing sweatpants below my jacket, I should consider wearing jeans.

3) My younger friend (and Photoshop expert) Eric added this pair of oversized undies to my photo.  Why?  Because the only panty-raids I’d be going on were for granny panties at the nursing home.

While his doctored picture began getting dozens of likes and LOLs and comments, I slunk away and debated hurling myself off my fourth floor balcony.  Oh the humiliation!  In the end I just laughed it off, what else can you do?

The reason I shared this middle age delinquent look back is because at the start of November when I received “Courtney’s Chit-Chat”  (a monthly newsletter from the senior center with 2 calendars—one for activities, the other a lunch menu) there was this special note on the main page:

It has been brought to our attention that members participating in group trips have not been respectful to ACCESS drivers and participating members. Please keep in mind that you are a representive of the center on trips. ACCESS can suspend individual members as well as suspend the center indefinitely from trips.  Due to multiple offenses, we are cancelling all November trips.  We do not condone bullying or disrespectful behavior. 

Group trips will pick back up in December with a chaperone.

What the—grounded!  Well, that sucked.  Hmm.. aside from two trips to the casino (and one to Oakmont Bakery when I was sick), I’d pretty much gone on all the other trips.  If I did something wrong, would they have let me know?  Did I see someone else do anything?

There is one woman in our group who makes a dash back indoors to whatever establishment we just came out of, when the Access shuttle pulls up to take us home.  I just chalked it up to a last minute bladder-check, but she usually takes several minutes and we’re not supposed to keep those Access drivers waiting.

Speaking of Access drivers, when we went on the Mt.Washington outing for lunch, several Access vehicles showed up to take us home.  One was a regular 4 passenger car, and this tall, elderly black man got out.  He said “I am lookin’ for someones named Janet—Pearl—and Douglas!”  

We all came over to his car and he said “Welcome aboard ladies—and fine gent!  They call me Crazy Roy!  Now who wants to ride up front with me!”   Pearl & Janet were already getting in the back seat, and I said “No, no—wait.  I want to know why they call you Crazy Roy.”

Janet (also black) said “Child, just get in the damn car!”  Crazy Roy tilted his head back and laughed.  He said “Because Mister Douglas, crazy things happen to me most everytime I get behind that wheel!” 

He has got to be kidding me.  I stood there for a minute, mentally getting my affairs in order then climbed in beside him.  No joke—this is a true story—not 10 seconds after Crazy Roy pulled away from the curb in front of the restaurant, some crazy-ass man jumped off the sidewalk in front of our car with his arms outstretched, dancing in place like a jiggly scarecrow.  Crazy Roy rolled down his window, stuck his head out and shouted “GET OUTTA THE LANE, FOOL!  I ALMOST RUNNED YOU OVER!”

As we got on our way, Crazy Roy said “See?  We’re good now, we got the crazy outta the way!”  I said “Pearl, as soon as we get back to the Tiffany please remind me to call Pittsburgh Cremation & Funeral Care—they’ve got a special going on right now for simple cremation, 1500 dollars.”  

Pearl laughed and said okay, Crazy Roy said “ARE YOU SERIOUS?  FIT-TEEN HUNDRED DOLLARS?  YOU GOT THE PHONE NUMBER?”   I said “Uh… not on me, why?”

Crazy Roy said “’Cuz yesterday was my 80th birthday!  I could go anytime!”

I guess I can live with being grounded for a few weeks.

 

One of our Friends is no longer with us

Note:  This was written the day before the death of Friends actor Matthew Perry and has nothing to do with his passing.  The title is just a sad coincidence.

 

Last night my friend Elisa (who I worked with for 10-11 years at the Allegheny County Dept of Aging, and now helps manage the Senior Center) texted me and wrote “I’m sure Kim already texted you but in case she hasn’t, Terry Cavallo died yesterday.”

I assumed she was talking about someone at the center.  Who was Terry Cavallo?  I texted back I didn’t know the name, but the moment I pressed SEND, it hit me: Kim as in Kim Hall from the Dept of Aging?  Terry as in Terry Kavala?

Before I could ask, she sent a link to his obituary.  Oh Terry.  My heart sank.  He had been wrestling with blood disease, and his latest treatment was the same given to leukemia patients.  His heart couldn’t bear the strain.

For as long as I’ve known Terry, he was always lean, fit as a fiddle.  He never drank or smoked.  He was only 63 years old.

I sat here and thought about him all night, and our many years together, and it hit me, we were Friends before Friends.

There was a core group of 6 of us, all close in age, who worked at the Dept of Aging and met for lunch everyday for 10-11 years, from 1990 to 2001.  There was 3 guys—Terry Kavala, Jerry Duch & myself, and 3 girls—Carolyn Galvin, Elisa Eyer & Kim Hall.

We sometimes had a couple of older guest stars like Joanne & Darlene join us, and a younger guest named Janet—but it was the 6 of us who met Mon-Fri for lunch in the Nurse’s Room, our “Central Perk”. 

Terry was like Ross, the funny but melancholy academic.  Jerry was like Joey, the cute Italian guy who was always cracking everyone up.  I was Chandler, the neurotic with the job the rest knew little about.  (They just knew I worked with computers.)

I’m not sure how I’d match up Elisa, Carolyn & Kim to Phoebe, Monica & Rachel, I’ll have to ask them what they think.

I don’t know if it’s too soon, the poor man has just passed.  But it’s been a long time since I last saw or spoke to Terry, and I’ll always carry this one memory of him with me.  I had bought my mom a ruby garnet ring (that was on special for Mother’s Day) from Kaufmann’s, a big department store right across the street from our office.  When I showed it to the group at lunch, Terry remarked how much he liked it and wanted to get one for his wife. 

I told him to make sure he asked for the wife’s ring, not the mother’s one.  Men weren’t being careful and were ticking their wives off. 

From the expression he gave me, I assumed he knew I was just being a goof.

However, the very next day at lunch Terry was nowhere to be seen.  Afterwards when I was back at my desk, my phone rang.  It was Terry, who said he’d just spent his lunch hour at the jewelry counter at Kaufmann’s insisting there was two versions of the ruby ring they had on special.

When I said oops my bad, he calmly said “Douglas I’m coming for you next.”  

I literally ran down the hall to Carolyn Galvin’s office and told her I was a dead man if she didn’t save my hide.  I can’t remember what happened after that, but I’m still here so… I only wish Terry was.

Goodbye Terry—you deserved so much more.

 

Photo of the Day: Here’s an oldie but a goodie…

Do people still use that expression?  “Here’s an oldie but a goodie…”  You used to hear that all the time, on the radio at least when they played an old hit from the 50’s or early ‘60s in the 1970s. 

But I wasn’t necessarily talking about the Ray Charles song on display on this contraption, but the contraption itself.

I bought this MP3 player in December 2009 on Amazon, a Sony Walkman.  It has 8GB storage—I have over a thousand songs on it and there’s still room for 500 more.  I kept it in my workbag, it was only used in the office and the bus ride there & back.

It’s not very big; a quarter inch thick, and that’s the actual size of the thing at the top.  Frankly I’m surprised it’s discontinued, the technology still amazes me.

The reason I’m showing it here is because of recent events at the Tiffany (where I live).  I may not look it, but I use the exercise room in our building’s basement at least 4 days a week.  There’s a large flat panel tv on the wall, and while on the treadmill or stairclimber I’d have that Roku tv on, watching an “Oldies” music channel of rock n’ roll from the 1960s-1980s.

But several days ago, the television stopped working—well, stopped streaming.  It turns out one of the tenants in the building was paying for the service down there, but moved out.  No one else has stepped up yet to keep it going.

I was having trouble with my daily exercise routine with nothing to listen to, and was debating bringing my bookshelf radio down there when I remembered this MP3 player from my pre-retirement days.  I dug out my old workbag, and there it was.

But I hadn’t turned it on in 8 years, would it still work?  It sure did, after I plugged its USB cord into my laptop to charge for a couple hours.  When it came on I laughed out loud; it was still at the midway point thru Patty Duke’s ‘Funny Little Butterflies’, what I’d been listening to while cleaning out my desk my last day in the office.

So a couple nights ago, finished with my workout downstairs, I got on the elevator to come back upstairs and it stopped on the first floor (where the lobby is) and 2 young men got on.  I’ve seen them here before, they’re recent move-ins on the 6th floor.  They’re both at least 6’3” and can’t be older than 19-20, and look very much alike.  I’m sure they’re brothers.

I was still wearing my earbuds, but the device was turned off—so I heard the first one behind me say “Can he hear us?” and the second one said “I don’t think so”.  This is what I heard after that.

“What’s he holding, is that a Walkman?”  “Nah, Walkmans are bigger. They play tapes.”  “Is it a radio?”  “Maybe he’s listening to the Pens.”  “Maybe he’s a Swiftie.”  “Haha ask him if he even knows what that is.”

Anyway, I was facing the doors and biting my lip to keep from laughing.  But it amazed me that they didn’t know what I was even holding; is an mp3 player from 2009 an antique already?  I saw on the news recently that 9 out of 10 people under the age of 20 own iphones or ipads only.  I know Apple is premium tech but that still blew me away.

And for the record I know what a Swiftie is, and I’m not one of ‘em!  But 40 years ago when I owned a Walkman that DID play cassettes, I listened to blondes like Stevie Nicks, Olivia Newton-John, Mary Hopkin, Belinda Carlisle and Stacey Q.  And I still do.

 

Uncle Mike, I just wanted to say thank you and goodbye

Last week my Uncle Mike died.  Born in February 1943, he was 80 years old.  He was my dad’s brother, 5 1/2 years younger in age.  It’s not a lot, but it never occurred to me they were that far apart in age.  They were very close, played music professionally together for many years, loved and respected each other.  They were brothers in the truest sense of the word.

When Dad died in February 2001, I often wondered how Uncle Mike dealt with the loss.  I wish I’d reached out and just asked, but in 40 years I can count on one hand the number of times I saw Uncle Mike, let alone spoke with him.

I loved the man, we just never got to know one another.

My Uncle Mike was married to my Aunt Sandy for 55 years, and they raised 3 daughters; Emily, Amy & Michael.  I haven’t seen the older two in many years (Em lives out west, Amy in Florida) but I love them dearly, they’re wonderful people.  And honestly, their mother is a trip.  From the first time I met Aunt Sandy (when I was 6 years old) to the first time I’d seen her in 18 years just a couple months ago, she has always been funny and dear and outspoken. 

At my niece Sophia’s graduation party in June, Uncle Mike & Aunt Sandy were there.  (I hadn’t seen them since Sophia’s first birthday party, she’ll be 19 this week.)  Anyway, Aunt Sandy said “Doug why don’t you come down and stay with me & your Uncle Mike for awhile?  You can smoke in every room of our house!”   It was such a sweet offer, I didn’t want to tell her I quit smoking many years ago.

From 1979, the original Morris brood:  Uncle Mike on the top left, Dad, Aunt Terry, Uncle Shane, Grandpap Morris on the bottom, Grandma Morris, Aunt Dena

He certainly was a good looking man.  My mom (who was a couple years ahead of him in school) often told us how popular Uncle Mike was with the girls, and how he became the brother she never had after she married Dad. 

I have a couple memories of my Uncle that I’ll always hold close to me; the first is one I’m not sure I should even be sharing.  In the fall of 1966 when I was around 5 years old, I was showing my sister Shawn the “barbershop” Dad had set up in the basement for my older brother Duke & me. 

The next thing I know, Shawn was in the chair and I was clipping her long tresses. 

She went upstairs to where Dad was in the kitchen with Uncle Mike.  Dad pounded down those steps and (in a moment of temporary insanity) began beating me.  I mean he was crying and frantic, I think he was scared Mom would come home from the store, see most of Shawn’s hair gone and have a heart attack or something.

Anyway, I just remember Uncle Mike running down those steps and yelling at him to stop and pulling Dad off me.  I never heard my uncle yell or raise his voice again. 

My second memory is from February 2001, when my old man died.  After the service, I stood alone in front of my dad’s casket and cried pretty hard.  It went on for quite awhile too, and the entire time my Uncle Mike stood behind me, his hands on both my shoulders.

It brought me so much comfort, him doing that.  I’m just glad I was able to thank him a few years later.  Rest in peace, Uncle Mike.

 

Photo of the Day: Dad, here’s me and here’s you, right before we’re 62

This is me (on the left) at the start of this summer, and Dad (with his granddaughter Drew) on the right, from 24 years ago.  Both of us are just a few months shy of our 62nd birthdays here.  Dad’s was July 1999, mine is next month.

Dad’s face is a bit more worn than my own, probably from his tobacco and beer; but he was married over 40 years, and raised 6 kids.  I’m sure that will age anyone.

I can remember not too long after this photo of Dad was taken, my sister Shawn called me at the office and told me Dad had been diagnosed with terminal cancer.  I can still recall looking down at my shirt, feeling silly for wearing something with so many stripes and not even aware I was crying, until my coworker Lisa came over to my desk to ask what was wrong. 

Dad would be gone February 2001, 6 months after he turned 63.  

I guess I’ve just been thinking about it a bit lately, turning 62 and wondering what’s in store.  I hope it’s not cancer.  I’ve never been fond of the quote “like father like son”, now more than ever.  I feel like my life is just getting started… I wonder how my dad felt when he was my age? 

Anyway, that’s all I have to share today, I just wanted to put something new out there.  I’m heading to the senior center with my tablet (e-reader) after I post this, we’re dealing with a real heat wave and the Tiffany’s cooling system can’t handle temps 88F and higher.

I hope things are cool in your corner of the world, and thanks for stopping by.

 

Haunting old places: so this must be what a ghost feels like…

Recently, thanks to the internet, Zillow & a bored but inquisitive mind, I came across something I’ve wondered about but haven’t seen in thirty years.  

My first real apartment in the city that I got on February 1, 1989.  I wasn’t quite the hermit I am now, I was in my twenties, dated a bit and family visited on the weekends.

And then on the first Friday in August 1994, I came home from work to find a Sheriff’s notice on the front door.  The owner of the building, delinquent in his taxes and with a stack of unpaid gas, water, trash & sewage bills, had deserted the property. 

We (myself and 2 other tenants) had 60 days to vacate the premises.  I honestly cried like a big baby, I lived there 5 1/2 years and loved my place.

I eventually moved to a neighborhood closer to downtown, and in the 30 years I’ve been gone, have looked at old photos on occasion and wondered what happened to the place after I was booted to the curb.  And now I know.

The building from the outside, 1989.  It had an insurance office and two apartments above.  (I was on the second floor, in the rear.)

  And how it looks in 2023.  (Pretty much the same, a bit scruffier.)

My living room in 1991, and my friend Rebecca dropping by for a visit.  To the left of the double bookcases was my kitchen.  To the right, my laundry room & bathroom.

And here’s that same room in 2023.  It’s a woman’s place now, and boy does this lady decorate.

Here’s the wall with my couch, in 1990.  That was my first girlfriend in Pittsburgh, Rossi.

Here’s that same wall now, 30 years later.  By the way, do you see that framed photo collage by the current tenant’s front door?

I had a collage by that front door 30 years earlier.  Here’s a pic from 1991, with my sisters Courtney & Donda-Lin.

Here’s my sister Shawn in August 1993, celebrating her 30th birthday.  I baked her that cake, y’know!

That same kitchen, 30 years later.

  Here’s a boring pic of my boring bedroom in 1990…

And here’s Miss Modern Day’s bedroom in 2023.  I am impressed.

 

I don’t have any photos of my bathroom back in the day, but I recognize this layout like I’d been in here yesterday. 

Finally, here’s the laundry room now, and how it was in 1993.  (That’s me, smoking a cigarette out the window.) 

 

Well, not everything changed in 30 years—in the current (first) photo, that’s my same linoleum floor!

 

 

So… where were you on January 4, 1978? (Just a little 70’s flashback, that’s all)

DISCLAIMER:  This will probably be the most unnecessary, least significant thing you read all week; proceed at your own peril

Recently I started watching Eight is Enough on Tubi, and I’m going to be honest here and admit I’m not a big fan of the show.  In fact, in the 1970s I hated it.  I loved the Ingalls on Little House on the Prairie on Monday nights, the Lawrence Family on ABC’s Family on Tuesday nights, The Waltons on Thursdays.

But on Wednesday nights the Bradfords on Eight is Enough did little for me.  Those brothers & sisters didn’t feel like brothers and sisters for a minute.  And why were they all adults to boot?  In one episode, Abby (the stepmom, married to Tom Bradford) wants Tom to accompany her on a weekend trip.  He says “We can’t leave Nicholas alone for 2 days, he’s only 10 years old!’ 

Abby says “You have a houseful of 8 children and 7 of them are adults.”   THANK YOU ABBY.

“Well Doug, if you’re not a fan of the show then why are you even watching it.” 

It’s a real time capsule of middle class America in the 1970s, and a reminder of my own teenaged years then.  And the Bradford house had it all--the hot curlers and high waisted bell bottoms on the girls, the shag green carpeting, the big glass ashtrays in the living room—even though no one in their house smoked.

A 1975 Fleetwood Cadillac sat in the driveway (along with oldest son David’s Volkswagen bus and stepmom Abby’s vintage roadster) and the entire house shared one bathroom and one phone.  Can you imagine?  

So I’m watching Season 2 Episode 15 “A Hair of the Dog” where the new kid in Tommy’s junior class is after Tommy to get his older brother David’s apartment so they can have a beer party.

Right away I notice the new kid is an older Danny Bonaduce, from The Partridge Family.

My friend Danielle is a fan of The Partridge Family, so I call her up to tell her what I’m watching.

DANIELLE:  Eight is Enough is crap!  Why are you watching it, turn it off!

ME:  I’m not a fan of the show, it just takes me back.  Anyway, the reason I’m—

DANIELLE:  Josh says it’s the worst show in the history of television!

ME:  I’m not arguing with you!  I’m just trying to tell you Danny Bonaduce is guest-starring on one episode as the new kid in school, and—

DANIELLE:  He’s probably up to no good!  He was just as bad in real life too!

I can see I’m not exactly winning her over.  Anyway, I finish the show (it wasn’t so bad) and look at the air-date that Tubi includes with each episode.  It originally aired January 4, 1978.

Why does that year & date sound so familiar to me?  This will eat at me for the next couple weeks.

So, a couple nights ago I’m looking through online folders of pictures I scanned from my mom’s photo albums (that were sadly taken apart after her passing) and I found it.  The photo with that date, I mean.

As my brothers & sisters can attest, our mom liked to include details on the backs of her photos.  The date, what’s going on, etc.;  and on this picture, she writes:

January 4, 1978.  Doug returns to school after Christmas vacation wearing the painter pants and Earth shoes he received as gifts. His rust sweater is a gift too.

Doug is in the 11th grade.           

I remember asking for those painter pants and orange Earth-shoes for Christmas, and getting some nice compliments from a couple of my female classmates at school.

(It just occurred to me I never wore white pants again.  That’s probably a good thing.)

I can even remember what we had for lunch in the cafeteria that day!  Well, almost.  Wednesdays were “Gravy Day”, we either had meatloaf with whipped potatoes and brown gravy, or a hot chicken sandwich with potatoes & gravy.  (The meatloaf was my favorite, the chicken was my sister Shawn’s.)

And I am willing to bet $1,000 I know what my family watched on television that night.  Well, us kids anyway.  Danny Bonaduce on Eight is Enough, up to no good.

Sophia’s graduation night: oh what a night

This past Friday night was my niece Sophia’s graduation from West Greene High School, the class of ‘23.  It was a long but special affair held in the school’s gymnasium, and I was impressed just seeing Sophia and her classmate London (the top two students of their class) sitting apart from their classmates, on the raised platform with the school’s principal and superintendent, among other esteemed faculty.

But when Sophia went to the podium to give her salutatory…. I was blown away.  She was kind, eloquent, decisive… she sounded like a real leader.

Here’s a couple photos of Sophia delivering said speech, and with her mom and dad, my sister Shawn and her husband Jim.

As impressed and proud I was to see her on that stage, I wasn’t surprised.  I’ve never known someone her age (in her era or mine) work and volunteer and study like Sophia did.  She earned that spot at the top, and then some.

Can I share one more thing here before I wrap this up?  Way back in August 2011, Shawn & Jim had taken 6 year old Sophia out for a day in the park, the day before her first day of school in the first grade. 

I called Sophia to ask if she was excited to start school the next day; she said she was but lamented that summer was over, there were still things she wanted to do. 

It tickled me so much I wrote a blog about it, and her mother & mine’s own first days of school, which you can see here:   My love-hate relationship with the first day of school 

I wrote that I hoped she enjoyed those school days because they’d be over before she knew it, even if she did have 12 years worth to look forward to.  How did they fly by so fast?  Maybe not for Soph or her mom, but I remember writing that like it was only a couple years ago.

Congratulations Sophia,  I can’t wait to see what you do next!

Like the quote says, when in doubt go to the library

A couple days after my last post (where I’d just returned from a week at my sisters, and lamented I needed to make some changes in my life) I decided to take Joyce & Kim’s advice (2 of the very kind people who commented on that post) and went to my local library and applied for a card—and here it is.

I wasn’t looking to do more reading, but after checking out Avalon Library’s Monthly Event calendar they post locally, noticed they have a few events I might be interested in: a history book club, a mystery book club, and ‘Arthouse Cinema’ matinees on Friday & Saturdays, twice a month. 

The library was only 2 1/2 blocks from my apartment, with a babbling brook and koi pond in front, and several bronze statues of kids at play.  I was greeted inside by 2 librarians, Sharon & Heather who couldn’t have been nicer.

I asked about applying for a library card and said I was retired, lived alone and was thinking about joining one of their clubs.  (I didn’t tell them I wrestle with some social anxiety disorder.  I mean, I can mingle if I have to, but I’m a lot more comfortable when I’m alone or with just one person.)

As Sharon was filling out my paperwork, she looked at me and said “You look very familiar… have we met before?”  I assured her it was our first time meeting, I’d never been here before.  She turned back to her computer monitor and said “I know I know you.”   I said “Well.. I was winner of the 1978 Literary Award.” 

Arrgh!  Why do I do this?

Now Heather (the library’s administrator) came around the desk.  She said “Do tell!”  I laughed and said it was nothing really, but asked if she’d ever heard of the Bowlby Library.  Heather said “Yes!  We’ve exchanged books with them—it’s in a little town south of us, Waynesburg Pa.”  

I said I was born & raised there, and probably spent half my childhood at that library.  When I was in the 11th grade, the library selected one student from the surrounding high schools and presented us with an award at a formal banquet.  A month later, I even got a letter of congratulations from my congressman.

Heather said “Well, we have a celebrity here!”  Sharon said “I hoped you saved that letter!”  I said “Well it’s ancient history but I was just looking at it last night.. um, I have it in my Google Photos if you want to take a look.”   I pulled out my phone and showed it to them. 

They were very kind and acted like this was a big deal.  (It really wasn’t, even when I got it 45 years ago.)  Sharon said “Doug, would you like to apply for an opening we have here?” I said “You mean like a volunteer?”  She said “No, we already have volunteers.  This is for a library clerk like myself, 25 hours a week, $9.00 an hour.”

I said thank you for the invite, but I was retired.  Sharon said “Well I’m retired too, but here I am!”

I know it sounds like a good idea and all, and my declining makes me sound lazy, but here’s the facts.  This wouldn’t be extra income for me.  At the start of the year, I tell Pennie—my state’s health insurance agency—what my income will be for the year, within $500 or so.  For 2023 my guesstimate was around $30,000.  Based on that, my monthly health insurance premium of $883.79 is reduced to $152.00.

(And yes, an insurance plan for a pre-Medicare sixtysomething male in my state is $885.00 a month, and that’s just for a silver level plan.)

Any money I earn over my reported estimate (which I’ve already withdrawn from my retirement fund in January, like I do every year) would just raise my monthly insurance premium.  So… I’ll pass.  Also, I AM lazy. But still, their offer made my day.

Now if I can just work up the nerve to check out one of those clubs… we’ll see.

           

This old house: after 50 plus years, I think I’m finally ready to move on

Can I share something a bit long, a bit odd?  Back in mid-February I’d written about going to visit my old apartment here in the city.  My friend Robin emailed me a day or so later and said that after reading my post, she had a dream where she got to revisit her childhood home.

Wow—I thanked her for passing that along, then thanked her for reminding me to do the same.  Y’see, since Google Maps began photographing the planet in February 2005, I’ve been waiting patiently for them to capture MY childhood home.  Every so often I’d go on to Google Maps, plug in the address—260 South Cumberland Street—nothing.

But finally, after 17 years there it was.  That’s my childhood home on Cumberland Street at the top.  It’s weird to see the empty space on it’s left, when I was a child an old Polish woman named Katie lived in a gray tiled house right next to ours.  It was torn down 40+ years ago.

To our right was the Johnsons, and over the years I’ve seen it on realty sites like Howard Hanna being sold again & again!

Not our house though—the people who bought it and moved in after us are still the same owners. 

We left there the week before school began, in August 1970.  We moved “to the country” 7-8 miles outside of town.  It wasn’t really a farm, but at times we had a couple livestock and a giant vegetable garden.  We called it the farmhouse and made a lot of happy memories there. 

(I’ve talked about our farmhouse before, and after discovering an aerial photograph was taken of it in the 1970s, I shared it here.)

But before the farmhouse, we lived in town in a nice neighborhood that was my world.  One block down from us was a pair of sisters the same age as my sister Shawn & myself, Jackie & Sharon Howard.  One block down and to the right was a girl in my class, Heidi Sisler.  She lived with her parents & brother in an apartment above the bakery.

One block up and to the right was Jeff Tewell and his mountain of comics.  John Lacava. Chuck Zimmerman.  A girl my older brother was sweet on, Lynn Mancuso.  And one block up and to the left was Waynesburg High School.  It’s where my parents attended school in the 1950s, and Dads’ brothers & sisters, and where my brainy Aunt Dena was an English teacher.  I was very excited to go to that school.

Margaret Bell Miller High School, which is now a middle school 

We walked past here every day on our way to South Ward Elementary. 

And a block west of this school was my friend Greg Leathers.  He was also in my class, and would go on to become the mayor of Waynesburg. 

But back when I knew him, he liked to draw like me and had a “Creepy Crawler Maker” where you heated colored goop and poured it into strange bug molds.  (I remember it getting really hot; I can’t imagine it being marketed to children today!)

I made a pretty big fuss about moving, I didn’t want to go.  But our sister Donda was 18 months old and outgrowing her crib which was in our parents bedroom.  Our sister Shawn’s room was too tiny for a second bed.

And Dad, who grew up on a farm, had recently learned of a larger house in the country (on one of the gas company’s wells too, meaning free natural gas). 

The last week of school, my teacher Mr. Porter had me stand in front of the class and tell them where I was going in the fall.  I told them I’d be attending Leprechaun School in the country. 

(It’s actual name was Lippencott School.  I don’t remember Mr. Porter correcting me!)

For years afterward the house on Cumberland became my scapegoat, everytime something went wrong.  If I was bullied in school, disliked one of my teachers, rejected by a girl, worried I didn’t have enough friends, I’d think “I’m not supposed to be here, my life was in Waynesburg, on Cumberland Street.”  

But with all things, I eventually stopped doing that and got on with my life. 

    

Shawn, Steve, myself, Duke & our sister Donda celebrating her first birthday on Cumberland St.

Those feelings made a comeback of sorts, the spring of ‘78.  I was a junior at Jefferson-Morgan High School and it was time to take the SATs.  The exams were at Waynesburg College, in town.  After I arrived and got situated, a couple girls came up to me and said “Doug Morris?  Hey guys, look who’s here!”  

I was befriended by a group of childhood classmates I hadn’t seen in years, and it was such a warm experience it made my heart ache a little for what might’ve been. 

Anyway… I was always appreciative of our years growing up in the country.  And with 5 brothers & sisters, we weren’t lacking the company of other kids!  But I think this explains why I live where I do now, all these years later.  Once a townie, always a townie.       

And finally, a goofy but honest-to-God real story

In that house on Cumberland, there were 2 doors that faced one another directly outside the entrance to the kitchen.  The door on the left was the basement steps, the right was a shallow closet with shelves, our food pantry.

One day I detected a small loop of twine on the wall in that pantry below the bottom shelf.  When I pulled on it, a small square of drywall swung outward, about the size of a slice of bread.  When I showed it to my dad and asked what it was, he said he didn’t know as it didn’t look large enough to store anything.

But it WAS big enough to hide my life savings—$2.09, which I kept in a baby-food jar.  I placed it in that hole along with one of the Creepy Crawlers Greg Leathers had given me (hoping a rubbery spider would scare off curious fingers).  After I closed it, I pulled off that tiny loop of twine.

Over time I forgot about it, until a month or so after we moved to the farmhouse.  I told my mom “I left my life savings in our old house!”  When she asked where I left it, I said the food pantry.  Mom said “Oh honey, a family with 2 daughters moved in there—they probably found & spent it already!”

I didn’t tell her about the hole in the wall below the bottom shelf, but for years I wondered if it was ever discovered.  And now, I’d rather not know.  I want to believe my life savings of $2.09 is still there, after all these years.

And still being protected by one of the Mayor of Waynesburg’s Creepy Crawlers.

 

My old apartment (I once regretted leaving) is available… do I want to move back?

Earlier this week, I received this email from Lobos Management, my former landlord.  I couldn’t believe it.

This email address is attached to an apt at 527 Monroe in Bellevue.  The former tenant requested we contact him if 406 became available again. 

It is now available for $839 plus utilities, and has kitchen & bath updates. If you’re interested please respond to this notice at your earliest convenience.

Shortly after I left there in Sept 2016 to move back to my hometown, I wound up regretting the decision and contacted my old landlord and made this request.  That was 6 1/2 years ago! 

It may be just another apt to some (and more military bunker than charming), but you can’t live somewhere for 22 years and not form an attachment.  Even after I returned to the city and found a new place, I was homesick for my old apartment for a long time.

Anyway, while I’m not exactly in love with my current place (no patio and the carpeting is pretty worn), it’s in a well managed building and roomy, with lots of windows.  I’m not ready to move again anytime soon, let alone to a Lobos managed property. 

Without going into a lot of detail, Lobos had a pretty shady reputation.  They took weeks to respond to maintenace calls, and pulled some awful stunts over the years. 

Still, I was really curious so I called and made an appointment to see my old place this past Wednesday.

I was met in front of the building by a young woman named Winona who couldn’t have been nicer.  Walking upstairs to the 4th floor (we had no elevator) felt so routine.  My former apartment still had the dark green welcome mat I bought when I first moved in, all those years ago.

Here’s the view when you walk in.  I have to admit, it felt like I was home again after a long absence—even if it did seem smaller than I remembered.  Those patio doors… the glass was really clouded with age.  I complained about them for years, but nothing was ever done.

 

I thought the new cupboards looked great (new appliances too, I never had a dishwasher) but couldn’t believe they left that old brown wall panel.  My sister was after me for years to paint that!

 

 

The bedroom hasn’t changed at all, but the bathroom has a new medicine cabinet & vanity.

And finally, my old balcony.  I miss that giant pine tree, it was filled with birdsong every spring.

After I was done snooping looking around, I thanked Winona but admitted I probably wouldn’t be moving back.  She asked where I was living now, I said the next neighborhood over, in Avalon. 

Winona said “How much are you paying, if you don’t mind me asking?”  I told her $840, and she said she could beat that.  (Yeah, by one dollar!)

I laughed and said that’s true, but I just got my rent locked in for the next 2 years, plus the heat, water & trash is included in my rent.  I added we also have an elevator, a gym & laundry on every floor.

She still gave me her business card in case I changed my mind.  I won’t, I lived there long enough.  But it was nice getting to see my old place again.  For such a boxy little place, I sure made a lot of good memories there.

                     Moving into my old apt at the Monroe, Sept 1994