Category: Family

The Nine Dollar Haircut

Posted on by Pete Schloss

July 12, 2010 was hot riding into Smith Center Kansas. No, not just hot, but HOT! So hot that the roll of my bicycle tires gave the continuous sound of separating Velcro on the sun-beaten asphalt. So hot that colors appeared bleached by the arc-welder brightness of the midday sun. So hot that… well, you get the point, and after 60 miles on the bicycle, so did I. Christine and I went into the old downtown to seek a diner.

Downtown Smith Center is not dead, but like many small town historic business districts, it is not well. The two and three story brick and stone buildings harken to a time when a name and year of “birth” were prominently displayed at the top and on the cornerstone. There was the Shite Building, 1888, and The First National Bank building, “Founded 1886, Erected 1930”. That was a tough year to build a bank, but The First National Bank had apparently weathered the adversities of the Great Depression. Faded paint indicated some of the long-gone businesses. Much of the former commerce has been replaced by antique and second-hand stores. The bank facade informed us that it was 2 p.m. and the temperature had fallen to 101.

We ate at the Second Cup Café, where $6 can still buy you tenderloin with all the trimmings, and a piece of homemade pie… Apple, with Maple flavored crust, fantastic! A patron asked if we were with “the cycling group”, and after a pleasant discussion with her and the café owner, she smiled and gave us a $5 donation and a “God Bless You”. We left the café and were again assaulted by the wall of heat. Across the street I saw a small faded barber’s pole mounted next to the door of a timeworn storefront, “Paul’s Barbershop”. It had been over 6 weeks since my last haircut, and curiosity got the best of me. I crossed the street to peer in the window. Over the years, the glass had lost its clarity, etched by countless dust storms. I shaded my eyes against the glass in order to see within. I beheld not just a barbershop, but a living “barbershop museum”, with one of our cyclists, Jeremy, in the barber’s chair.

We entered the shop. It was a “three chair store”, each of which was a creature of cast iron, nickel, porcelain and leather dating to the late 19th or early 20th Century. Jeremy was in the center chair, but what immediately drew my eye was that the chair to the left was a fully functional barber’s chair in miniature. It was the perfect size for a 5-year-old and elevated to the perfect height for Paul the Barber. This tonsorial “throne”, fit for any young prince, differed from its larger brothers only in the absence of the long leather razor strops which hung from the full-size chairs. “Atmosphere” in the shop was provided by a mahogany encased, single dial radio that still used vacuum tubes. The counter displayed bottles of men’s grooming products such as Vitalis, Krew-Kut, Hask Hair Tonic, and other brands that I had thought long extinct. Behind the counter was a very old ornate white and chrome cash register, the kind that shoots little metal “tombstones” up at the sound of a bell to announce the amount of the transaction. I would soon learn that the register remained in use. Then there was Paul, the shops sole proprietor.

I suspect that in Paul’s younger days he might have been 6 feet tall, but 7 decades and bending over countless heads of hair had taken their toll. As he focused his attention on cutting Jeremy’s hair I noticed a tremor in Paul’s hand that seemed to stop just at the moment the clippers reached their destination. Barbers are observant, and Paul was no exception. He seemed to read my mind and commented in a matter of fact manner that he had suffered a stroke but was able to pursue his calling after only 6 months of recovery. Paul was confident of his skills to the point that he made jokes, “If I make a mistake, the hair will just grow back” … “If you want your cut fixed you can always ride your bikes back here”. Paul and I were amused, but I sensed that Christine preferred that I leave my hair to other hands.

Paul put the finishing touches on Jeremy’s hair-cut, and with practiced mastery removed the barber’s cape, shaking the clinging hair to the floor. “That will be nine dollars”, Paul announced. Jeremy and I both must have displayed a micro reaction because Paul then followed up with, “I could do it cheaper, but only if you fellows pay my bills.” It has probably been over 30 years since I had a $9.00 haircut, and here Paul had assumed we were suffering sticker shock!

My turn in the chair. Paul went to work as a craftsman should, with calm practiced confidence. We talked as he cut. “So, you fellows are Catholic. Well, I’m Lutheran, which is kind of watered down Catholic, you know, not as complicated.” He stopped and chuckled. “Was a time there weren’t many Catholics in this area, but there are sure a lot of them now”. He was making a matter of fact observation. There was no animus meant.

I asked Paul for a recommendation for a dinner restaurant. “Well, I prefer to eat at home with Mom (his wife), but I suppose if I had to eat somewhere else it would be Duffy’s, downtown here.” Later we ate at Duffy’s, and Paul’s recommendation was spot on.

I learned that Paul and his wife had celebrated 50 years of marriage in June. They had two daughters, a son, and one grandson. This was his second barber shop and he had been cutting hair in this shop since 1962. He confirmed that the chairs, register, and fixtures predated his arrival by decades. Paul became serious. “There have been a lot of people who have offered to buy my chairs, cash register, and other things.” He continued, “Mom” and me talked about it, but it’s just not right, the shop is my business, my life.” Paul just couldn’t see parting with it piecemeal. With sadness he remarked that in front of the shop there once stood a tall barber’s pole that was as old as the shop itself. About 8 years ago some fellows passing through town wanted to buy it. Paul politely declined to sell. “I was in the shop Saturday, and by Monday the pole was gone. Someone stole my barber pole”. Paul didn’t blame “those fellows”, or anyone else. He just remarked with sadness, “Maybe someone just needed it more than me”.

“What do you think?” asked Paul. “About the barber pole?” I replied. “No, the haircut! Is it ok?” I smiled and looked in the time worn wall mirror. There was a white skinned border that now separated my bicycle tan from my shortened hairline. “Paul, it looks great!!!” Paul beamed and said, “That will be nine dollars.” I gave him a ten… “Please keep the change”. His smile broadened, broken only by the word, “Thanks!”

As I left the shop I considered that my ten dollars had purchased more than a haircut. I had enjoyed a moment in the life of a very good and extraordinary man. Smith Center had the fortune of Paul’s good will for over 50 years and “Mom” had enjoyed his love and company for over 50 years. How rich the community, and how rich was his family. My 15 minutes in his chair were priceless. I wish that I could take my grandchildren there. You know… the experience of that small tonsorial “throne” fit for a young prince or princess. I wonder if children’s haircuts are also nine dollars. Let’s see, that would be $90.00 plus the tip… What a bargain!

Peace Everyone! Pete Schloss

A sad update to my reflections on Paul…

The First “Next Thing”

Posted on by Pete Schloss

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I have written of our practice of always having a “Next Thing” to engage the imagination. I have also written about our preparations for the end of life “Last Thing”. It occurred to me today that I have never mentioned the First “Next Thing”.

Actually, there are two of these. The first one never came to fruition, but it confirms to me that the notion of a “next thing” has been hard-wired within me since I was very young. One Summer, as a child of 9 or 10, I stood at the headwaters of the Mississippi River gazing downstream to a point where the waters disappeared around a bend. It was a river in name only, since at its source it was little more than a large stream. Where I stood was a sign that declared that the river progressed onward south to the Gulf of Mexico, a journey of over 2,500 miles. The notion of traveling its length to the sea in a rowboat captivated me. During the school year that followed, my imagination would not let go. My mind wandered from classwork to the lure of the Mississippi. I wrote estimates of the time it would take to travel, and the supplies that I would need, all in the margins of my school text books. I envisioned using my dad’s 1946 Elgin outboard motor for power. I still have that motor, and I believe that it still works. Without regret, I do not believe that it or I will ever make that Mississippi journey dreamed of by my 9-year-old self. It was my first major foray into planning a “next thing”. It would not be my last.

Fast forward to the Fall of 1971. I was a sophomore at Southern Illinois University. A coed in my African History class told me of a 9 semester-hour study abroad program planned for the following Summer. After class we went to the History Department offices to get more information. 2 months traveling to England, France, Italy, Greece, Crete, the Aegean, Turkey, and Yugoslavia. 22 students and 2 faculty members would study Ancient History where it occurred. Travel would include a week on a cruise ship and travel from Budapest to Paris on the Orient Express. The price was $1,250.00, a huge sum in 1971… more than I had paid the prior year for my new Kawasaki Mach III motorcycle. My imagination went from a smoldering ember to a conflagration in minutes.

It never occurred to me that the trip would be out of my reach. Without knowing it I had already decided that the experience I imagined was more valuable than a motorcycle capable of accelerating 0-60 mph in 3 seconds, topping out at over 130 mph.  Within the day I was on the phone to my parents and explained that prudent saving and the sale of my motorcycle would fund the trip. I don’t know if my parents took me seriously. But they didn’t hinder my self-initiated plans and preparation.

Someday I may share the details of that “epic” Journey, however here are some of the thumbnail events:

  • The coed and I both went on the trip, starting as a couple but not ending that way.
  • I found other love on the island of Crete.
  • In Naples I was kidnaped by Indian sailors and held aboard a 600-foot grain freighter until rescued by machine gun wielding military police. (This one really needs some explanation in another post)
  • I made the acquaintance of a pretty Polish girl who was traveling as the interpreter for a Japanese film crew. Our fast friendship resulted in the film crew following us for a week making a documentary on American student travels in Europe. The program aired in Japan. Regrettably, I never saw anything more than some still images. One of the professors related that he had seen the film and it largely featured all of us smoking cigarettes, drinking, and carousing… a “reality show” before its time. The conclusion reportedly was me embracing the Polish girl and then leaping on a departing ferry in Naples harbor as we all waved goodbye to her and the film crew.

 It was an astounding Summer that fed my soul for years to come. It even contributed to my marriage to Christine who I was not to meet for another 2 years. On the night that we first met we sat beneath the limbs of a large oak tree. I spun my tale of adventure in Europe, sensing that her imagination was just as flammable as mine. Years later she confessed that from that beginning she found me “fascinating and intriguing”. We have since gone on to plan many “Next Things” the greatest of these being… marriage, a family, and life growing old together.

I could have kept that motorcycle and passed on the 1972 journey, but then I wouldn’t have anything to write about, would I?

Peace Everyone! Pete

PS: Our next “Next Thing” will begin to unfold for us in less than 2 weeks!

Packing for 90 Days

Posted on by Pete Schloss

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Packing for most “trips” is not something one stresses over, however packing for a 90 day “journey” is another matter entirely. With the exception of a large suitcase that will accompany us only during the cruise, everything that we will take with us must fit in moderately sized backpacks for each of us. The goal is to keep the weight below 20 pounds each.

Christine has proven in the past to be better at this than I am. On our 2013 Spain trip of 54 days (which included 35 days walking the Camino) her pack weighed in at 16 pounds, while mine started out at 24 pounds. After a few days on the trail I segregated a bunch of “just in case” stuff and shipped it out, reducing my pack to 18 pounds. 6 pounds may not sound like a lot, but it was a world of difference when one is afoot and covering 12-15 miles a day.

I once mused on the cumulative effect of carrying an extra ounce over 525 miles. That distance represents approximately one million footsteps. Each step that transports that extra ounce adds up to an extra 62,500 POUNDS over the length of that journey! Ounces do matter!!!

There are some principles that are helpful to keep in mind:

  1. Pack for the expected, not the “just in case”.
  2. Europe is not part of the “third world”. The countries in Europe have the equivalents of Walmart, Target, Dick’s Sporting, Walgreens, and CVS everywhere.
  3. Take less than you think that you will need. I (half) kiddingly have said that one can stretch the use of underwear to 4 days by wearing a pair on day one, reversed on day two, inside-out on day three and again reversed on day four.
  4. Make sure it can all fit in your pack, even though you will be wearing approximately one-third of it.

Here is a short summary of what we have found to be a reasonable packing list:

  • 4 pair of socks, 2 of medium weight and 2 of light weight.
  • Hiking shoes and a pair of light trainers.
  • 2 long pants and 1 pair of shorts, and a light swimsuit.
  • 3 changes of underwear, 2 tee-shirts.
  • A lightweight sleeved shirt.
  • A light sweater.
  • A breathable water-proof windbreaker.
  • An ultralight parka that is designed to cover both you and your pack.
  • An ultralight compressible down blanket.
  • A simple first aid kit for minor cuts and major blisters.
  • A toiletry kit with a very minimalist supply of toothpaste and shampoo. (Remember, Europe is NOT THIRD WORLD)
  • A ½ liter refillable water bottle. (Large capacity and water purification are not necessary… again, NOT THIRD WORLD!)
  • A small kit with charging cords and electric plug converter. Smart phones and most other electronics work fine on Europe’s 240-volt power, but a plug converter is necessary to make US “prongs” connect with Euro outlets.
  • Trekking poles. These have proven to be a necessity. They enhance stability afoot and transfer approximately 10% of the effort of walking to the arms and chest. Christine and I each attribute their use to saving us from some serious stumbles.

In addition to the above, I will take my iPhone, iPad, and “real” camera. Carrying these things in not necessary to my journey, but they are necessary for taking YOU on our journey!

We also each carry copies of any travel documents, including copies of both of our passports and driver’s licenses.

On the Camino it is customary to say “Buen Camino” (Good Journey) when one greets or says goodbye to another Pilgrim. So I will end with that and a bit more:

Peace Everyone, and Buen Camino! Pete

Mea Culpa to a Good Friend

Posted on by Pete Schloss

In the years after our children had grown to adults, but before they were parents, I held the belief that we had accomplished everything that was really important. It was my way of finding reconciliation with the impermanence of life.

We had given our children the tools to engage life: a good work ethic, a strong moral code, higher education, and health within the limits of our ability and their good fortune. It seemed to me that this was everything that was truly important and anything more that life allowed was “icing on the cake”.

I declared this at dinner one evening. At table were good friends, one a youthful grandmother. She took exception to my words. Imprudently, I persisted and her responding objections grew more vociferous. Finally, our respective spouses interceded to redirect our dinner conversation to the peace of calmer waters.

In the years since, we have had the good fortune to become grandparents. I have watched Christine grow into her role as a grandmother and I have witnessed the dimension that she has added to the experience of childhood for the “little people”. It is clear to me now that important work remained for us in life as grandparents to these children. I can scarcely imagine life for us without them, or life for them without Christine.

Although it has been more than 10 years since that dinner conversation, it often returns to my thoughts when I see the exchange of unconditional love and respect between Christine and the grandchildren. I am also beneficiary of the children’s affection, but there is an intangible depth to the relationship that they share with their grandmother.

You were right Jane… Mea Culpa.

Peace Everyone. Pete

Memories Not Included

Posted on by Pete Schloss

As I drove home from my regular morning visit to the gym I saw 4 different “Estate Sale” signs. I know that there is a defacto “Garage Sale Season”, but I have never heard of Estate Sales being seasonal.

It occurred to me that each of those sales represents a house full of mementoes with a life-time of associated memories. In the course of a weekend the owners’ possessions will be disbursed like the windblown seeds from a dandelion.

It may be a kindness for an owner to have passed away before the sale, each item falling under the auctioneer’s gavel as a mere chattel. Imagine a couple’s pain as the rocker that saw small children fall to sleep in a mother’s arms is unceremoniously hauled off by a dealer who sees only new upholstery and profit in its possession. Think of the tears that might fall from the eyes of one who sees family photos, the ragged stuffed animals of a long-grown child, a rusted bicycle, a tarnished trophy… cast into a pile destined for the trash dump.

Christine’s 99-year-old father, Bill, returned to his Kansas City roots from his Florida retirement home. He was a refugee from Hurricane Irma. The accumulation of 75 years married to the love of his life was already culled to the barest of items. Things precious to him and few others. After nearly 3 months with us Christine made arrangements for him to acquire a wonderful 1-bedroom apartment in an assisted living community. It was complete with a living room, kitchen, and a balcony with a view. However, it was just empty space until 2 sturdy young men from Ikea spent 4 hours creating furnishings from flat boxes, and turned the space into a residence.

The place held no more charm for Bill than a motel until his few personal items were hung upon the walls. Pictures of 2 deceased children, a deceased brother’s picture, a 4-H lifetime achievement award, a “100,000 Mile Club” certificate from TWA with the watermark image of a 4-engine prop plane of 1950’s vintage, and of course images from a life lived well with his wife, now deceased. These and other similar items changed the sterile residence into a home. Bill often walks the perimeter of his apartment, stopping before each of these things which are the playback buttons of treasured moments, people, or places in time. Bill has spontaneously voiced his pride in his new home. In reality it is his pride in the old things that have a new place to share with him.

Someday, many of the “treasures” that Christine and I have accumulated will become the possessions of strangers, or merely add to the volume of a landfill. In any case, whatever their fate, memories are not included.

Peace Everyone. Pete