Category: Life and Living

A Priceless Gift

Posted on by Pete Schloss

Today (April 1st) is my birthday, number 67 to be exact. There have been enough of them that memory of the celebrations tends to run together and become a blur upon the canvas of my life. There are a few exceptions… #10, 2 digits and a Scout uniform; #13, a “TEEN!!”; #16 my Driver’s License!; #18 the illusion of adulthood; #21 (of course)… and from then they tended to be more burdened by a different reality. #25, a quarter century; #30 a song says I can no longer be trusted and a movie (Logan’s Run) says I should be executed. At #40 I was solidly middle aged… #55 I get an invite to join AARP. These days I actively seek out senior citizen discounts.

There is one birthday, #5, that is branded into my memory for the most valuable birthday present that I may ever have received.

It was 1957 and we lived just south of Chicago in Calumet City Illinois. To the north and south of us were seemingly endless rows of identical streets upon which identical small “4 square” brick homes were shoved together like so many caramels in a candy box. These homes had been built at the end of World War 2. Small 2-bedroom affairs that were just within the means of young veterans returning from service. The mortgage benefits afforded to veterans under the GI bill was their ticket to becoming homeowners. Young marrieds snapped these places up in their eagerness to begin life and start the families which had been put on hold by the necessities of war. Homes barely big enough for two adults were quickly being populated by my generation… we were aptly named “baby boomers”.

On my street there were young children everywhere. A typical spring morning saw fathers leaving for work while masses of pre-school children struck out from their homes, spreading across the neighborhood like ants at a picnic. Aproned mothers stood at the front doors naively secure in the belief that the community was keeping a protective eye on children. Truth be known, it was not the neighborhood, just vigilant Guardian Angels that protected most of us. It was a grand time! It was also the time that I turned 5 and had my first real birthday party.

As birthday parties went it was pretty standard. Party hats, “Pin the Tail on the Donkey”, cake, candles, ice cream, and the melee of sugar charged children running senselessly wild. The main event, the opening of presents, brought momentary order and focus. Presents were decidedly low-tech, but we didn’t know any better nearly 70 years ago. A Duncan Imperial Yo-Yo was big stuff. Balsa wood gliders, paddle-balls, wind-up cars, Jax, marbles… so much great stuff to choke on, get cut by, or just get an eye put out. Again, Guardian Angels taxed to their limits.

The opening of presents at my party proceeded in due course until the shy boy who lived across the street produced his gift, a plain white envelope. Everything to that point (and after) had been colorfully gift wrapped, some also adorned with bows or ribbons. The envelope’s plainness was strange in comparison and in this it brought a heightened awareness from the gathering. I opened the envelope and handed my mother the card within to read. It was likely a cartoon puppy saying “Hey you’re 5!!!…” or something like that. One of the children called out, “Where’s his present”? Others joined in. I remember seeing the face of the child who brought the card. Sad, embarrassed, crestfallen… I also remember joining the chorus of the other children. My mother intervened and with practiced ease redirected the energy of the group back to random chaos.

Later, referring to the boy I asked my mom why he didn’t bring a present to my party? She told me that the card was his present, and then she added: “That card may be the only thing that his parents can afford. He gave it to you with the same offer of friendship as the other children, but you and the other’s made fun of him. How would that have made you feel Peter?” As her words sunk in a lump grew in my throat, the same one that reflexively returns as I think of that moment.

I was 5 when I received the priceless gift of empathy. That gift has served me well over the 62 years that followed. I do my best to never leave my home without it. The little boy and his mother could not have known the real value of his gift to me. I do not know what that gift ended up costing him over the course of his life. I know that it was painful at that time and I wish I could let him know that his was the most valuable birthday present I have ever received.

Peace Everyone. Pete

The End of Living, The End of Life.

Posted on by Pete Schloss

The end of living and the end of life are not the same. This last week I enjoyed an afternoon with my father-in-law, Bill Nichols at a St. Patrick’s Day “Happy Hour” and music event hosted at his assisted living community. Bill is closing in on his 101st birthday. As one might expect, his abilities are a shadow of those he held as a younger man. For him and his fellow residents, physical beauty and vitality fled them years ago. However, beauty may yet be found within the eyes that reflect the youthfulness of their spirits.

Bill was animated, sang, clapped, enjoyed a glass of wine, shared embraces with the musician and staff, and of course wore a ridiculous Irish themed party hat.

I found his joy to be infectious. Actually, this one afternoon was not really exceptional. Bill’s days are filled with activities such as “Chair exercises”, Bingo, “Balloon Volleyball”, and group sing-a-longs, not to mention the social exchanges that occur with his fellow residents at meals and throughout the day. Bill’s days are a joy that serves as an analgesic to the ills of his advanced years.

Being around Bill has left me to reflect upon the contrast of my visits with my father during the final years of his life. Dad died in 2009, 87 years old. He had suffered the intensifying effects of Multiple Sclerosis for over 30 years yet in his final years his abilities and challenges were not very different than those imposed upon Bill Nichols by virtue of his advanced years. Dad’s last years were in a nursing home community. I could usually find my father alone within his darkened room, shades drawn, television off, a faint antiseptic odor in the air. My father’s view of life in his final years may best be summed up by his own words. I would open visits with him by asking, “How are you Dad?”, and he would invariably respond from his bed, “Just waiting…”. Sadly, there was never any question what he was “just waiting” for.

As Christine and I entered our 60’s we have been continuously bombarded with ads, solicitations, and messages encouraging us to prepare for the end of life. Have we secured our final resting places? Living Trusts? Explore the benefits of Insurance Annuities! Beneficiary Designations in place? What about Charitable Giving? There is little about continuing to live and much about the end of life.

My father’s life ended in his 87th year, but I believe that 30 years earlier he retired from living at the same time that he retired from work. Dad had been a college coach, Director of Athletics, and a teacher. He was highly regarded in those roles; they were his passions. When he retired a cavernous vacuum formed in his life. Dad never sought other interests that might have carry the joy of living into the years beyond his working life.
Another contrast: My mother will be 94 this year. She is as busy today as she was 40 years ago. She has her Bridge Club, Woman’s Club, Church activities and myriad other social and community engagements. I see in her eyes the same joie de vivre that I see in Bill Nichols.

There is a lesson in these observations: We have more influence and control over delaying the end of living than we have on the end of life. When age or infirmity deny us the pursuit of one passion, find another to replace it… Always have a next thing and Pursue Good Stuff!!!
Peace everyone. Pete

PS. Dad, my calendar just reminded me that tomorrow is your birthday and you would have turned 97. Although you have been gone 10 years it seems that I am still learning from you.

January 31, 2019. Performance Art. New Orleans Day 2

Posted on by Pete Schloss

Our second day featured a bus tour of the city. It was packed with facts and figures, anecdotes and events… too much to express in this post. However, I will share a sequence that illuminated the ubiquitous above ground tombs that New Orleans has been known for.

The above ground cemeteries of the city are not due to a fear that the rising groundwaters will float the dearly departed back into the yards of their loved ones. Rather, New Orleans was once a Spanish possession and the burial practice of surface crypts reflects the practice of that Spanish heritage that carried forward through the French era and into modern times.

Furthermore, New Orleans is an island in a delta swamp, bordered by a huge (20×40 mile) inland sea (Lake Pontchartrain). Real estate is at a premium and the surface crypts present a certain (if macabre) economy in the burial arts. These family mausoleums are typically of modest dimension, most appearing to be less than 8 feet deep by 4 feet wide and 8 feet high. Nevertheless, the older ones “house” the remains of up to 30 family members! How…?

The freshly departed is interred in a casket and the tomb is sealed, not to be reopened for at least a year and a day. Should another family member pass during that period they are placed in a holding crypt to wait their place inline. After the requisite time has passed, the casket is removed and the (now desiccated) remains are unceremoniously dumped on the floor of the crypt. The “next in line” then takes the shelf in his/her coffin for the next year and a day. It works, and it is reminiscent of the ossuaries that we encountered years ago in Italy. One such monastery ossuary in Rome made designs with the bones of thousands of its dead monks. There was even a skeleton fashioned from the remains of many brethren that held a sign expressing in Italian and English, “What you are, I once was… What I am, you will become”. A chilling confrontation with the reality of Dust to Dust.

Early evening we adjourned for dinner to Muriel’s Restaurant located near Jackson Square. The restaurant dates to 2000, but the building within which it is housed is on the National Register of Historic Places, dating to the 18th Century. Muriel’s had ambiance!

We enjoyed well executed cocktails at the bar…

…and an excellent dinner. Christine savored smoked “double-cut” pork chops, and I a Drum filet.

If you have never seen a Drum, it is a butt-ugly bottom feeding river fish. At our waiter David’s urging I took the bait and ordered the Drum. It was as fine, delicate, and flakey a white fish filet as I have ever eaten. The dinner was finished with a decadent bourbon-pecan bread pudding and flowerless chocolate tort. Both were remarkable.

Ambiance, CHECK!… Cuisine, CHECK! The only thing left for consideration was the service.

There is an art to being a professional waiter. It requires a certain detachment that does not imply haughtiness. It is a “dance” in which the customer engages as the deserving recipient of the server’s dedicated respect. It would be comical to imagine the waiter acting and speaking in the same manner among friends and family.

We enjoy breaking that mold in a way that expresses our appreciation for their job well done. Occasionally the server will not step out of his/her “character”. It is understandable though disappointing. More often the server will relax the guard but not entirely. We appreciate that and we are grateful to have engaged with a highly trained professional. Then there is that rare server whose intuition is so finely tuned as to allow a deeper connection. Tonight that server was Liz. We bantered a bit with her as she opened the wine. There were incrementally relaxed comments back and forth in the course of dinner. Finally at one of Liz’s visits to our table Christine stated her appreciation for the expressive eye-contact that Liz practiced. “Thanks Mom!” was the reply Chris received. It absolutely made Christine’s day, our evening, and capped a 5 Star evening.

Day 2 is in the books. New Orleans Day 3 will dawn in a few hours. Sadly, Christine will be flying back to KC on Saturday to be with her Father and the grands. I will slowly wind my way back home over the following 10 days. It just won’t be the same without her.

Peace Everyone. Pete

Please enjoy a few images from today:

January 30, 2019. New Orleans, Day 1

Posted on by Pete Schloss

Most days of our lives present a relatively narrow range of experiences. The most memorable may be those that expand that spectrum and allow us to appreciate a fuller range of the human condition. Today was such a day.

Morning sprang with the chill of near freezing temperatures in a lush Louisiana State Park. In less than 3 hours we were entering the environs of “The Big Easy”… New Orleans. As we approached our destination we beheld hundreds of tents pitched beneath the overpasses of I-10. These were not recreational campers, but those whose circumstances have reduced them to the struggle of seeking food, warmth, and the next day of life. We passed them and turned right into our “campground”, The French Quarter RV Resort.

The “Resort” is located in gated environs, protected by an 8 foot concrete wall that is topped by inconspicuous razor-wire. It looks like a Soviet era gulag from the outside, but within it is an elegant $100 dollar per night RV park that is only 2 blocks from the French Quarter and 4 blocks from Bourbon Street. Passing through the gate I felt like Dorothy did as she awoke to the technicolor experience of OZ.

The Resort provides a swimming pool, hot tub, rec-hall, fitness room, plus the usual amenities of bathrooms, showers, and laundry. Full hookups are a given. Most of the “campers” are in large “sun blocker” motor coaches that cost more than the average home. We count ourselves among the few micro-campers. We are not envious… au contraire, we pity them the burden of their mass.

After making “camp”, we walked 10 minutes to Alice’s Wonderland, here known as Bourbon Street.

Sex and Alcohol are the prominent neon lit themes that adorn the antebellum buildings and illuminate the street. The effect is intoxicating, even for the sober pedestrian.

Liberally mixed among the tourists are those whose hands are reaching out for spare change. There is sadness to be found in some, and larceny in the intentions of others… not easy for the uninitiated to discern.

We were approached by a friendly 50ish woman who represented that she was seeking donations for “Meals for Wheels”. Christine donated and we then received the gifts of a Hare Krishna Cookbook and Bhagavad-Gita. It was not the “Meals on Wheels” that we assumed she represented. Were her intentions honorable? We will never really know… I choose to presume the best of intentions until proven otherwise. I believe that she holds as firmly to the dedication of Diety as any Christian, Jew, or Muslim. Had I the presence of mind I would have liked to have engaged her in a serious discussion.

A few days ago we walked the beaches of the Texas Gulf Coast. I happened to look down upon an ocean clam and suddenly wondered at the chasm of intellect that separated it from me. How could it ever fathom my intentions as a superior being. If the Universe is the creation of an omniscient and omnipotent Being, how much greater is the separation of it’s intellect from mine. Is it not presumptive for humans to claim to know the mind of that Being, and yet as a species we have been driven to do so for nearly a hundred thousand of years (human and Neanderthal ritual burial has been documented for that long). It seems to me that The Bible, Koran, Book of Mormon, and the Bhagavad-Gita, among others, are human expressions of an inadequate effort to understand the Infinite.

Back to Earth… We enjoyed some music and the 2 for 1 beer specials that abound up and down Bourbon Street.

The spectacle allows one to turn a blind eye to the well worn establishments, street hawkers, and less than sanitary bathrooms.

Hunger drove us to first find Chicory coffee and Beignets at Cafe du Monde, a New Orleans tradition since the mid-19th Century.

We then adjourned to the very upscale Restaurant GW Fins. Less than a block from the helter-skelter of Bourbon Street we found the calm opulence of white linen table cloths, a well ordered bar, and a dignified professional staff.

This was another expansion of the spectrum of the day’s experiences. Christine, a “slightly dirty” Martini, me a Rye Manhattan (served up, but in a rocks glass). We then settled into a review of the last 41 years.

Dinner followed. Christine, a succulent Filet Mignon, and me a flaky, melt-in-your-mouth Halibut-Scallop combination. As spectacular as the meal was it was overshadowed by the attentive staff. We were graced with the exceptional services of Rod, Benjamin, and Moose.

It is common for a patron to ask directions to the restroom, but entirely uncommon for the waiter (Benjamin) to then take the arm of the lady (Christine) and accompany her to that destination much as one would be ushered in a wedding. Totally endearing!

We count today memorable and leave tomorrow for consideration on another day.

Peace Everyone. Pete

January 29, 2019. Tabasco!

Posted on by Pete Schloss

151 years ago financier Edmund Mcllhenny suffered the loss of his fortune and prospects having been a resident of Louisiana and a southern sympathizer during the Civil War. He had gifted his rare collection of the complete works of William Shakespeare to a Union officer rather than see the volumes lost to the looting Union troops. The collection was later returned to the Mcllhenny family and is now a treasure in their Tabasco Museum.

While eating lunch he asked for some pepper sauce to liven up the otherwise bland fare. The proprietor demurred saying that peppers were out of season, but that he would pay dearly to have some. McIlhenny was thus inspired!

Experimenting, he hit upon a process (not unlike making sauerkraut) of mashing select chili peppers, brining and aging the mash in white oak barrels (for up to 3 years), then extracting and bottling the pungent red elixir. Tabasco sauce was thus born.

It has been exclusively produced on Avery Island ever since. The company exports world wide and prints its labels in 22 different languages.

Control of the company has remained in the hands of the Mcllhenny/Avery family since its inception. Many of the executives have been known for their valor in the service of the United States Armed Forces, most notable being John Avery Mcllhenny who (literally) served next to Theodore Roosevelt as a Rough Rider in the Spanish American War battle of San Juan Hill.

Others were notable adventurers such as “Ned” Avery Mcllhenny who was an Arctic explorer and naturalist.

We toured the Tabasco factory today.

It is entirely contained on Avery Island, named after Mcllhenny’s father-in-law, Judge Daniel Avery. It is a small circular island about 2.5 miles in diameter that was formed upon an ancient salt dome.

The factory is remarkably small and understated when one considers the market strength of Tabasco products.

On this day alone over a quarter million bottles of Tabasco sauce were filled for shipment to Japan.

Many of the Tabasco employee families have multi-generational ties to the company, some living on the island in company furnished housing. One employee lived in the same company house for 89 of his 91 years!

Most of us are familiar with “Original” Tabasco Sauce, it’s label design essentially unchanged for at least 135 years. Today I was treated to samples of a dizzying array of other Tabasco “tastes”, including Tabasco Scorpion Sauce. Christine could tell it had heat by the sweat rolling down my brow. There was even Tabasco Ice Cream!

I have always been a fan of Tabasco, and those who remember me from my tie wearing lawyer days will recall that I had quite a collection of their neckwear.

The last 2 nights we have been camped in Louisiana’s Palmetto Island State Park. It is perhaps one of the finest State Parks that we have encountered in our camping tour of 49 states. Spacious campsites, full utility hook-ups, WiFi throughout the campground, spotless bath facilities, and a free laundry!

We are only 15 minutes from Abbeville, 40 minutes from Avery Island, and 120 miles from New Orleans, our destination for tomorrow.

Peace Everyone. Pete

PS. Local temps are predicted to plunge to near freezing tonight. People in these parts are a bit frazzled by the cold-snap, but we are feeling pretty fortunate since Kansas City will be below zero, and where my Mom lives near Chicago will hit over 20 below zero… with a -60 degree windchill! Stay warm everyone!