Author: scottpetersen

Lawyer, guitar player (the Blues), magic man, chess player, father, grandfather, husband, linguist, etc.

The Hotel Selu

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[A repeat from February 17, 2017]  Cordoba.  Spain.  1972.  Donna and I had been married a few months and we took a belated honeymoon trip – 3 weeks – to Spain and Portugal.  Two 25 year olds hoofing around with no reservations.  No plans.  No itinerary.  Getting up each morning and going “what shall we do today?”   Fortunately we were in sync on pretty much everything so the trip went swimmingly.  We stayed in state-run “Paradores” for about ten bucks a night.  And we dined on the “four C’s” — calamari, coffee, churros and chocolate.  And informally followed famed matador Diego Puerta as he wound his way through Spain – featured in various corridas.  The bullfighting was special having just read Hemingway’s 1932 classic Death in the Afternoon.  And Michener’s Iberia.  

Then – we got to Cordoba.  It was late.  The Parador was booked.  And other hotels had no room.  Finally – tired and hungry – we found a room.  In the basement of the Hotel Selu.  Cue the theme from “Dragnet” . . . .

Now today – the Hotel Selu may be a four star offering.  But in 1972 it was . . . .  Anyway, we checked in.  There were chickens cackling outside our window.  And some guy was yelling at his wife in the next room (I think the walls were made of cardboard).  Donna sat down on the bed and began to cry. . . . And that was before the rooster woke us up at 4:30 a.m. . . . . 

I felt like an idiot.  But mind you – I am not as dumb as I look.  So I resolved then and there that there would be no more Hotel Selus in Donna’s future.  Over the years, we’ve come close a few times but so far I’ve stayed out of that kind of trouble. . . . .

Patrol Boys

On By scottpetersenIn Patrol Boys1 Comment

(An old favorite from 11/20/14)

When I was in 6th and 7th grade, I was a “patrol boy.” After careful instruction, I was given a white Sam Brown belt (a 3″ white belt with an angled strap from one hip to the opposite shoulder). And I was given power. I was the capo di tutti capi (or one of them) for Lincoln School in Mt. Prospect. Donna was a patrol girl back in Rye, NY.

I stood at the street corner. When kids wanted to cross the street, I would thrust my arms out to the sides (“don’t go“). When traffic slowed, I would step into the street and shove my arm into the air – stop! And cars would slow and stop. It’s a patrol boy. Kids would cross. I would step back and motion the drivers with an “as you were” wave. Yeah.  6th grade.

Today, you see crossing guards who are old. Retired. Some look old enough to be my grandfather (or grandmother). Now that’s old. Not as nimble as a patrol boy. They wear iridescent vests, reflective hats, and they carry a monster “STOP” sign. A few look like they’re geared up for a SWAT team. I remember seeing one old guy wearing a helmet.

I always wondered why the patrol boy era came to an end. Probably lawyers.  And helicopter parents who worry about a child having authority. Autonomy. Power. Think about resurrecting the patrol boy (and girl) era. Think about the sense of responsibility. Confidence. Growing up. I know it’s a different time. But it’s still the old protecting versus insulating children (see my offering of 11/21/13). We want to give children wings. And roots.

So this little old lady

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[A humorous repeat from April 2, 2020] So this little old lady is working in a hardware store. She is dusting and cleaning and fussing. In walks a large workman wearing bib overalls and high-top boots.
She smiles “Can I help you?”
“Lady, I need to buy a file.”
She puts her hands together and smiles. “Oh my – we have all sorts of files.” She turns and points to the array of tools.  “We have these.  And these.  And these. . . . .”
“I really need a bastard file,” he says.
The old woman – shocked – puts her hand to her mouth and runs to the manager. She glares sternly and points “that man used a bad word in front of me.  He said he wanted a ‘bastard’ file.”
The manager smiled and said “it’s not a bad word. There are wood files and metal files and a ‘bastard’ file is actually a type of file for metalworking (this is true). Why not go back and sell him the file.”
So she did.

A few days later another big workman came in. He said “Ma’am, I need a file.”
She smiled. “Would you like this bastard here?”
“No” he thought. “I’ll take that SOB* over there. . . . ”                             

*This term is subject to personal preference. 

The last survivor

On By scottpetersenIn Last Civil War veteranLeave a comment

As a kid, I saved newspaper and magazine articles that piqued my interest. I still have folders of such stuff. I recently came across a few articles — from those early days. 

America’s Civil War raged from April 1861 to April 1865. In that time, 2% of America’s population – approximately 700,000 soldiers plus civilians – were killed. That translates to nearly 3,400 soldiers killed every single week. In today’s metrics that’s around 30,000 killed every week.  Unfathomable.

On December 19, 1959, Walter Williams – the last surviving veteran of that unfathomable conflict – died at the age of 117. He was preceded in death by a compatriot John Salling – age 112 – who had died in March. Both were Confederate soldiers with Williams in Company C of General John Hood’s 5th Cavalry. Upon Williams’ death, President Dwight D. Eisenhower declared a national day of mourning – with flags at half staff. Recent legislation had dictated this action. Williams left behind 40 grandchildren, 86 great grandchildren and more than 100 great great grandchildren. 

Mr. Salling – at age 109 confided to a friend that an 82 year old “girl” was flirting with him. He added “who wants a woman that old.” 

A harbinger of spring

On By scottpetersenIn A harbinger of spring, Spring is hereLeave a comment

[A repeat of January 21, 2016] It was about -7 (F) on the thermometer this morning (-20 wind chill) when I got up. I had coffee, some cereal and drove off in shorts and a jacket – in the dark – to the local Fitness Center.  I groaned through a couple of sit ups and a few minutes on the bike and came home for some jelly donuts. I pulled in the driveway and walk back to the curb to get our recycling bin.  The grey fingers of dawn were struggling to come alive. I’m pulling the bin up the driveway and I see something on the lawn. I walk over and pick it up.  It is a golf ball. A Titleist “range” ball.  Brand new.  How it got there – I have not a clue (unless someone had a really bad shot).  I have never found a golf ball on my lawn before.  

I gazed up at the sky.  A faint shade of blue.  Then at the ball.  And I concluded that this “find” has to be a harbinger of spring – which I am very much anticipating.  I mean why wait for a groundhog. . . .

I walked in the house – Donna was at the kitchen table finishing breakfast. “I found something” I said.   “Hold out your hand.” And she did.   Fortunately Donna has known me long enough to know that I’m not going to drop a worm or cricket or mouse in her palm – so she accepted the ball from my closed fist.   “A harbinger of spring” I said with a smile.   She inspected the ball, smiled and peered out at the thermometer.  “Fat chance” she said.  

The man who picks up pennies – Redux

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An update on a post of August 2, 2012.  As a kid, I lived in a 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 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 (including 3 wedding rings -e.g. see 3/17/19) that I find lying in public places.  I always repatriate the identifiable items.  But the few which have no claimants, I keep.  Some items are verrry nice. . . . . 

My habit is to put “found” money in my left pocket (“regular” change is in my right) and toss findings in a bowl when I get home.   Each year, I donate the proceeds (plus some extra) to a charity.  My granddaughters both now keenly watch for pennies on the street.  At age 3, 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) so cars don’t run over them.  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 . . . . .  

Martin O-18

On By scottpetersenIn Corydon Trio, Martin Guitar, Scott and the BookendsLeave a comment

[An oldie from April 20, 2012] In 1962, my parents bought me a guitar.  Not just any guitar but a Martin O-18.  A pristine, unused 1960 model.  It was an extravagance they could not afford — but did. 

My Martin traveled to college with me.  To law school.  I played in a group early on with two girls from my church — “Scott & the Bookends” (yes I know).   If we couldn’t get a gig as “Scott & the Bookends,” we went by the name “The Corydon Trio.”   I played every night for my daughter from the day we brought her home from the hospital and for years (see post of 8/14/11). 

I still have my guitar and I strum it nearly every day.  Usually the same old stuff (mostly Blues) but sometimes new stuff to stretch my brain.   Some years ago, I started taking lessons — every Monday until shortly before my daughter got married.   What a hoot! 

I called the Martin Guitar Company about doing a little fixup (tuning keys, frets, etc.) and they said that if I was the original owner, it was still under (lifetime) warranty.  I found the paperwork and got a “new” guitar back.  

I’ve told Donna that maybe I should try and get the Bookends back together and we could go on the road.  Her response?  “Don’t quit the day job, Elvis.”  (Sigh)  Rock on. . . . . .

To drink all day

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I usually start the morning with a tall glass of H20 and 2 or 3 cups of coffee with milk. My doctor has told me to “stay hydrated.” Sooooo, I usually drink all day — especially when it’s 90 degrees and I’m on the golf course. Drinking all day – or at least periodically during the day – is wise counsel for most folks. Mind you – I’m talking water. However. . . . .

Donna and I have been on several cruises. A favorite cruise line is Regent. It’s room and board, activities, shore excursions and entertainment. Oh – and did I tell you meals — all you can eat. And drink. Most of the folks we encountered on our sabbaticals were decent folks and pretty responsible on the latter “opportunity.” However. . . . .   

A few years ago, we were on a Baltic cruise. Shortly after embarking, Donna and I were toodling around the pool deck. And there was a chap wandering around with a t-shirt (Scout’s Honor) that said “How do you expect me to drink all day if I don’t start in the morning.” Cute. I gave Donna a nudge. She smiled. And I asked her if she wanted a Scotch and water (it was around 8:30 in the morning). She gave me “the look” and we walked on. At lunch on the pool deck, we noticed that this chap sat with his significant other – bringing her trays of cookies and cake. While he was downing one beverage after another after another – if you get my drift. . . . .

After around 1:00 or 2:00 p.m. we never saw the guy. After a few days of this, Donna and I better understood the subtlety of the message on his t-shirt. . . .     

Don’t Get Tired

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[A cold weather repeat from December 15, 2013 – perhaps one to share]

My friend Al reminded me that in cold weather, it’s a good idea to check car tires since the cold will contract air pressure and tires can flatten out.  So, wisely I did.  And sure enough – my front two tires were low. Really low.  It was night.  Freezing cold.  So I drove to a gas station where they have one of those air pumps where you have to pop in 75 cents. I unscrewed the valve caps, had my air gauge at the ready and dropped 3 quarters. The machine kicked in and I applied the hose to the tire valve. Nothing happened.  The hose and valve were frozen.

This is not an issue that I had dealt with before so I went into the gas station where a lone clerk sat behind a thick glass partition. I explained the problem. “Valve’s frozen,” he said.  Hoookayyy. . .  “Stick the hose up your exhaust for a few minutes while the motor’s running and . . . . [he grabbed a lighter from the shelf and passed it under the window] warm your tire valves.”  “Bring back the lighter,”  he added. 

I went out and slid the hose a couple feet up the exhaust.  And let it sit for a few minutes with the car running.  And warm.  Then I fired the lighter and warmed the tire valves.  After a couple minutes, I took a breath, dropped in another 75 cents and applied the hose to the tire valve.  “PFFFFTT.”  It worked like a charm.  Whew!  The tire inflated and I brought the lighter back.  I thanked the clerk (offered him a tip – he declined).  “I used to drive a semi” he said.  “Used to happen all the time.  It’s one of those little tricks you learn.” 

Now you all know the trick.     

On Being a Lawyer

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(A repeat from 12/26/2011)

I

D o

N o t

F i n d

E v e r y

D e t a i l

N o t a b l y

E x c i t i n g.

C o u r t r o o m

L  i  t  i  g  a  t  i  o  n

N o n e t h e l e s s

D e m o n s t r a t e s

U n a d u i t e r a t e d

S a t i s f a c t i o n

A d v e n t u r o u s

S t r a t e g i e s

A r g u m e n t s

S i d e b a r s

L e n g t h y

B r  i e f s

W i n d y

T a l k

A n d

M e

2

By Scott Petersen

As originally published (in shape of diamond) in the Journal of the American Bar Association (February 1979)