Stay out of Highwood. . . .

[A repeat from September 29, 2016]  Shortly after the movie Ghostbusters was released (1984), Donna, Lauren (age 8) and I were on a flight from LaGuardia to Chicago. We were sitting in my least favorite spot — the bulkhead (no leg room).  So we take off and we’re flying along when Donna announced that she was going to the bathroom.  Since we were sitting at the opposite end of the coach section bathrooms, the flight attendant said Donna could go up to first class.  

When she returned, she sat down and said “You will not believe who is sitting right in front of us!”  “Bill Murray!”   Now Lauren was keenly aware of Ghostbusters and she immediately had to go to the bathroom.  And she whisked through the curtains.  I could see her standing in the aisle – staring at the person directly in front of us (presumably Mr. Murray).  She giggled – went to the bathroom – and returned.  “He made a funny face at me!” she exclaimed.  Soon thereafter, she had to go to the bathroom again.  And again.  And again. . . . . 

After we landed and pulled into the gate, I asked if Lauren wanted his autograph.  Embarrassed, she said “no.”  We walked through the terminal toward baggage claim – with Bill Murray (now wearing a large floppy hat) a few feet ahead.  As we got to baggage claim, I told Lauren this was the last chance.  “Do you want his autograph?”  And she said “Yes.  But you go first.”  So I approached Mr. Murray – Lauren behind me – peeking out.  “Hello, Mr. Murray.  We are from Wilmette [where he grew up] and we are fans of your new movie.  May we bother you for an autograph?”  Bill Murray looked at Lauren behind me – grabbed her and picked her up and gave her a gentle shake “whatsa matter?  Can’t you talk?”   And Lauren melted.  

He signed a large card “To Lauren – Stay out of Highwood” [the place in our area known for taverns].  So far, she has.  I think. . . . .    

My Last Cigar

In his 1924 classic Death in the Afternoon, Ernest Hemingway constructs a dialogue between himself and another American on the subjects of bullfighting, soccer and football.  The number of young men injured, paralyzed and killed playing football numbered in the thousands (today, it’s the tens of thousands).  The number of young men hurt playing soccer is minimal by comparison.  And then there is bullfighting.  Where humans occasionally get hurt – but rarely killed.  Hemingway’s point — those who decry bullfighting rarely raise a whisper about American football.   

Many years ago, in another lifetime, Donna and I spent the better part of a month following the corrida de toros circuit in Spain.  Diego Puerta was a favorite.  Madrid.  Cordoba.  Malaga.  Sevilla.  And others.  It was pretty special.  I still have great pictures from those Sundays.  There was artistry.  Tension.  Spectacle.   A unique smell.   There was the classic music.  And the denouement. . . . .  The last time I went to a bullfight was in Monterrey Mexico with my good friend Antonio G.  The Plaza de Toros Monumental on the Avenida Alfonso Reyes.  That was the last time too when I had a cigar.  A gigantic Cuban.  Hand-rolled.  Cohiba Robusto.  If you haven’t been to a bullfight, read Hemingway’s classic and then go.  I’ve read it a few times.  And get yourself a big hand-rolled Cohiba Robusto . . . . .

“TWA Emergency”

[A repeat from September 28, 2014]  Years ago – I would flit off to Spain and Portugal every few months.   One Wednesday, I was returning on a TWA flight from Lisbon to Chicago. The flight was scheduled to leave at 1:10 pm. I arrived at the airport in good order (probably 90 minutes ahead of departure) and got in the check in line. There were no clerks checking in passengers. So we stood. 12:15 pm. 12:30. 12:45. No clerk. No nothing. People were grumbling. Looking at watches and the marquee with flight information.   Finally at about 1:00 pm, a man emerged from the back – behind the counter – and advised that the flight was oversold and was taking no passengers (which was odd since some folks had stood there for two hours).  “Come back on Friday and we’ll make sure we get you on a flight.”  And the clerk beat a hasty retreat. 

The Portuguese travelers picked up their suitcases and shuffled off for the exits.  Not so the 14 Americans who remained.  Fuming.  We huddled.   Brief introductions.  Two of us went off in search of answers and help.  I left my luggage with a bunch of complete strangers.  After a call to TWA from the American Embassy (“please take care of these folks“), we were offered lunch.  TWA personnel took our names – promising to call family to let them know of the glitch in service.  The plan was to fly us to Frankfurt that afternoon and put us up in the Airport Hotel.  Next morning, we would head off to our respective destinations. 

Lunch was passable and the BOAC flight to Frankfurt uneventful.  I checked into a nondescript hotel room in Frankfurt.  Showered.  And headed down for a late dinner.  Then back up to the room.  And sleep.  Next morning, I was on a flight through London to New York.  I arrived home – finally.  Lauren seemed especially glad to see me.  

I learned that the TWA folks in Lisbon had called my home.  Donna was playing tennis and Lauren (age 10) was home alone.  Lauren answered the phone.  “This is a TWA emergency!  I must speak with Mrs. Petersen.  TWA Emergency.”  Lauren said her mom was not home and – click – the line went dead.  Lauren called the tennis center.  Hysterical.  Donna rushed home and after an hour of calling – and waiting – learned that I had not deep sixed into the Atlantic but simply been delayed.  Lauren was relieved.  When Donna arrived home, she had been sobbing.  Holding my picture.   TWA emergency.  

Anti-Semitism

Donna and I went to a local synagogue to hear James Carroll speak about his book The Cloister. The presentation was on a Saturday following Shabbat services. As we approached the entrance, we were greeted by a heavily-armed security guard – wearing body armor. We looked okay so we entered the temple.  And I donned my kippah. . . .

Mr. Carroll, a former Catholic priest (who remains a devout Catholic), discussed his book — and the love story of Heloise and Abelard.  But then he edged into the issue of anti-Semitism which has roots going back more than a thousand years.  14 million Jews in the world.  1.8 billion Muslims.  2.18 billion Christians.  And who today gets an uneven distribution of hatred?    Yep. . . . .

I just finished the book Anti-Semitism – Here and Now by Deborah Lipstadt.  Read it.  Please.  Most of us are aware of anti-Semites on the alt-Right.  But there is a growing anti-Semitism on the left — especially in American colleges and universities. For the latter, it is pointless to ask why we do not boycott human rights abuses in China, Russia, Syria, Saudi Arabia, North Korea, Sudan, Zimbabwe. It is Israel that is in the cross hairs of the radical left.  And because many Israelis are Jewish, it is their faith that take the heat. 

There are glowing embers of discrimination in Europe.  It is dangerous for a man to wear a kippah in public.  Synagogues are guarded by police.  And Jews feel concerns for safety from the moment they arise in the morning.   Anti-Semitism.  Making a comeback.  But did it ever leave?   

It is a small collection of alt right jerks who wave their despicable flags.   But for increasing numbers on the left to indulge in anti-Semitism is troubling.  Randy Rosenthal’s Chicago Tribune review comments and quotes Lipstadt’s work “And so if we think ourselves to be liberal, or progressive, or simply decent, ‘we must insist that anti-Semitism be treated with the same seriousness as racism, sexism, homophobia and Islamophobia.'”  I hope you say “Amen.”   

We’ll be over in an hour. . . .

[A repeat from October 30, 2014]   Maybe it’s a Scandinavian thing. Or generational. But when I was a kid, I remember well my parents saying usually on weekends – often a Sunday after Church – “let’s go see the Lynchs” or “Roland and Elaine” or “let’s stop over at Lor and Bill’s.” And we would get in the car, drive for half an hour and literally drop in on friends or relatives unannounced.  Often around dinner time. The hosts would hurriedly throw some chicken breasts or burgers on the grill. My parents and their friends would talk. Smile.  I would be bored out of my gourd.  And we’d drive home.

On those days we didn’t drive off to see someone, I’d be out playing baseball and see a car pull into our driveway and mentally go “uh oh.” And know that my Sunday afternoon was shot.

If it was my cousin Jack, I knew I’d be able to play cowboys and Indians while sitting in a parked car with Jack at the wheel making sounds like a motorboat.  My cousin Larry could always be counted on to play with soldiers.  But today – no one just “drops in” on anyone. Unless it is a dire emergency.  Today, plans are made weeks.  Months.  In advance.  “Wanna have dinner on Friday?”  “Oh mercy no – we can make it on a Tuesday in about eight weeks.”  Was that a simpler time sixty plus years ago?  You betcha.  Maybe I should reestablish the “drop in” trend.  Gotta start somewhere.  All right.  Listen up.  And be prepared.  We may be stopping over on Sunday afternoon.  I like my burgers medium well.  With sharp cheddar.  Onion roll.  Grey Poupon.  Sweet potato fries.  And Caymus cabernet . . . .    

The Man Who Picks Up Pennies – Redux

An update on a post of August 2, 2012.  As a kid, I lived in the one room attic of a Chicago brownstone on Byron Street.  I remember with clarity that my family didn’t have much money.   I decided to do something about it.  At the age of 4, I sold water in front of my house for a penny.   The water came from a garden hose and was dispensed in one of four small colorful hard plastic cups.  My father seriously advised that I should pick up any stray pennies (or nickels or dimes) that I might happen across.  My big score was finding a crisply-folded dollar bill lodged under a counter at Sears Roebuck at 6 Corners in Chicago.   I gave it to my mother and she called me her “hero.” 

To this day, I still pick up pennies and dimes and wallets and watches and cell phones and rings and other jewelry and even (once) a one hundred dollar bill that I find laying in public places.  I always repatriate the personal (identifiable) items.  But the few which have no claimants (like the wedding rings), I keep.  Some items are verrry nice. . . . . 

My habit is to put “found” money in my left pocket (my change is in my right) and toss it in a bowl when I get home.   And each year, I donate the proceeds (plus some extra) to a charity.  My granddaughters are both now keenly watching for pennies on the street.  Eve found a pair of eyeglasses and a nickel under a table in a restaurant.  Elin has picked up nails found on the street (another penchant of mine).  I’ve told Donna that when I retire, I will simply walk the streets.  And come home with bags full of coins, bills and diamond rings . . . . .  

Final Exam Questions . . . .

On January 19, 2012, I posted on my three favorite radio stations.  WBBM is “News Radio 78.”  WFMT provides classical music.  And WMBI is the station of the Moody Bible Institute.  I listen to each (and occasionally others) depending on how I feel.   

I was listening to WMBI a few weeks ago when Dr. Erwin Lutzer, former senior pastor of the Moody Bible Church, was asked if he ever discusses religion with atheists.  His answer was “sure.”  He welcomes such discussions.   However he said that he avoids debate and complicated arguments about the Bible or God.  Instead, he invites a simple challenge. . . . 

Dr. Lutzer suggests to his counterpart that he or she invest 10 minutes a day.  For 21 days.  And each day read one chapter in the New Testament Gospel of John.  There is one question the reader should seek to answer:  who was Jesus?   

While such a challenge may prompt religious enlightenment, I also like the vignette offered in my post of November 13, 2018.  Albert Einstein, born Jewish and somewhat pantheistic in later life, was once asked by a student if God existed. Einstein responded “What percent of the total knowledge of the universe do you suppose we as humans now possess?” The student thought – and speculated around two percent. To which Einstein replied “Now tell me – what are the possibilities that God exists in the other 98%?” 

Powerful questions.  They’ll be on the final exam. . . .