My Brother was Killed in the Civil War

On By scottpetersenIn My brother was killed in the Civil WarLeave a comment

Let’s say you meet a chap (his name is “Frank”) who tells you that his brother was killed in the Civil War.  Possible??  The quick answer is sure.  This was a question I recall hearing in grade school or high school though at that time, the brother was killed in the Revolutionary War. 

Frank is 90 years old (born in 1923).  When Frank was born, his father was 90 years old (born in 1833).  Frank’s father first married in 1850 and promptly had a son who became a drummer boy during the Civil War (1861-1865).  In 1863 at the terrible Battle of Gettysburg, the young man – age 12 – was killed in an explosion.  Frank’s father had a few more children, his wife died in 1915 and he remarried to a young woman and in 1923, Frank was born.  Thus if you meet Frank and he says “My brother was killed during the Civil War,” you’d best believe it.   🙂    

Nikes – and I ain’t talkin’ shoes. . . . .

On By scottpetersenIn Nike batteries - ChicagoLeave a comment

When I was very young, I would sometimes visit the Museum of Science and Industry at 57th and Lake Shore Drive in Chicago.  As we rounded the last turn of LSD, we would pass Promontory Point.  And I would stare as we passed.  Because there they were — large radar units and imposing batteries of Nike missiles pointed skyward.   Site C-41 was part of the Army Air Defense Command (ARADCOM).  C-41 was just one of many Nike batteries in Chicago’s Cold War missile defense shield from 1953 to 1971.   There were Nike missile batteries and radar units literally ringing the Chicago area (and surrounding every major city in America).   Waiting.  Watching.  Vigilant.  Prepared to dispatch hordes of missiles skyward at the first sign of a Russian attack.  

I also remember a similar installation across from Northwest Community Hospital in Arlington Heights.  This military compound (C-80) was opened in 1942 to hold about 75 German prisoners of war.  It debuted as a Nike site in 1955.  Today, there are few remnants left of this part of America’s history.  A few old buildings.  Some concrete slabs.  A few photos like the one below.  And the memories of those who remember. . . . .        

Coincidence

On By scottpetersenIn Coincidence, Lyric OperaLeave a comment

You meet someone you know in a faraway place. Wow! What a coincidence. You meet someone that has your name. Wow! What a coincidence.  We’ve all had that moment of coincidence when we slap our forehead and go “that’s pretty cool.” 

I’ve had my share of coincidences but none more profound than happened when I was dating this girl I’d met on a blind date.  Donna.  I was in law school and she in grad school.  Donna had a subscription to the Lyric Opera.  One seat in the upper balcony.   I asked her where she sat.  “Maybe I’ll come join you one of these evenings” I offered.  She handed me an old ticket stub and I stuck it in my pocket.  A few weeks later, a night class was canceled and I had the evening off.   I thought tonight’s Donna’s opera night.  I’ll go to the opera.  So I walked over to the Lyric’s box office and was directed to the 7th floor (as I recall) where there was a ticket office.   I pulled out the dog-eared ticket stub and handed it to the woman behind the counter.  “I’d like to get the seat next to this one for tonight.”  The woman looked at me like I was an idiot.  “Sir, tonight is Rigoletto.  We’ve been sold out for six months.  And we have a loooong waiting list.”   At that moment, the stars and planets fell into alignment.  All of the sages of the ages seemed to nod in somber agreement.  At that very moment as I was about to turn away, a woman walked from behind a partition and said “here’s a cancellation.”  And handed the woman I’d been talking to a piece of paper.  The woman looked at it.  And then at my ticket stub.  “Oh my. . . .” was about all she could say.  The cancellation happened to be precisely, exactly, the seat next to Donna’s seat. 

The woman looked at me.  “I know we have a waiting list but I’m not sure I could give this to anyone else. . . under the circumstances.”  And she sold me the ticket for Rigoletto.   I arrived late.  The lights were out.  And I sat down, waited a brief moment and grabbed her leg.   She jumped and let out a whoop like Gilda, the soprano.  And the rest – as they say – is history.  What a coincidence. . . .   

The Poor Canary

On By scottpetersenIn Humor1 Comment

A small canary was under the weather and went to the doctor. “Doctor,” the small bird said “I don’t feel so well.”
“Well take off your feathers and let’s have a look.”

The doctor examined the small bird, sighed and said “I have bad news for you. You have a canarial disease. It’s chirpes. And it’s untweetable.”

Seven Gardens

On By scottpetersenIn Gardens, Keeler AvenueLeave a comment

I like flowers as much as most guys. They’re easy on the eye. They smell good. And they make decent gifts in a pinch.  I like gardens which are chock full of flowers.  And when I drive, I’m often attentive to the gardens I pass.  Seeing them turns a simple ride into a botanic journey.  Now my definition of “garden” and yours may differ.  Mine is simply an aggregation of different flowers in an actual flower bed.  A few daffodils in a pot or a line of petunias along the driveway is nice but it doesn’t qualify.  I like gardens. . . . . .  

When I go to play golf, I often take a shortcut on an 11 block stretch of Keeler Avenue in Skokie.   As you might imagine, I have gotten to know the route, the stop signs and the cross streets.  And I have paid attention to the homes on Keeler as well.  For the most part, the homes are nice-looking, well-maintained and properly landscaped.   Many probably have gardens in the back yards where the owners can enjoy them.  But there are only seven gardens (by my count) in the front yards of that stretch of Keeler.  One is an uber garden which is quite beautiful.   And there are a couple wild natural gardens.  Many of the homes have a few flowers out in front which is good.  Some offer only grass and some bushes.  But those seven gardens make the ride pleasant and get me in the mood to whack the elusive white pellet.  It’s only when my golf ball gets lost in a flower bed or bushes that my enthusiasm for gardens diminishes. . . . . $%#&^X*! gardens. . . . .    

The One That Got Away . . . .

On By scottpetersenIn Minocqua, The one that got away1 Comment

In my post of June 28, 2012, I spoke of fishing for (and cooking) “Walleyed Pike.”   And of going to Minocqua, Wisconsin, to visit my friend Dan.  We were just up in Minocqua again and as in the past Dan and I went fishing and had the best guide in the North Woods, Jim W.  After a day on Trout Lake, we had nearly caught our limit.  But that’s not the story. . . .

Dan and I each had one of those “aha” or “wow” moments while fishing (actually it was more like a “fasten your seatbelt” moment).   It was early afternoon.  Hot sun.  Cool wind.  Suddenly Dan’s line went taut and the pole bent in half.  For a good five minutes, it was reel, slack, reel, slack.  Dan had hooked a monster.  Jim stood ready with the net.  And then – as often happens – the line released.  The monster fish had gone free.   Obvious disappointment. 

Then it was my turn.  The boat was rocking gently.   I was close to dozing.  Thinking of dinner.  When there was this sharp tug on the line.  Eyes  snapped open.   I pulled and nothing happened.  Seaweed I thought.   And I relaxed.  And then the telltale pull.  Then a heavy tug.  And a steady drain of line.  A fish.  A big fish. . . .  And I yanked up the rod to set the hook and began reeling.  For a few minutes.  Reel, slack.  Reel, slack.  And then I saw it.  This huge leviathan rolled upside down.  White belly.   A yardstick away.   It looked to be about six feet long.  No seven.  Maybe. . . . Anyway, I stared at this giant rolling over and thought of the classic line of Roy Scheider as Chief Brody from the scene in Jaws where the big guy makes his first appearance.  He says to Quint “You’re gonna need a bigger boat.“   I had seen Jaws.  Right under the boat.  And with that, Jaws reared up, ripped the lure off the line and descended into the deep.   Aha.  Wow!    

Act Your Age. . . .

On By scottpetersenIn Bob Rotella, How old are you?, Satchell PaigeLeave a comment

Every once in awhile, Donna and I will be out and Donna will lean over and hiss “act your age.”  Or sometimes it’s “how old are you?”  So I take the lampshade off my head or take out my novelty buck teeth and act contrite. But frankly, I look at this rare scolding as a good thing.

ÜberBukk Teef

I just finished (for the second time) Bob Rotella’s classic book – Golf is Not a Game of Perfect.   Among other things, Dr. Bob talks about golf and age.   He mentions Paul Runyan (1908-2002), the great PGA champ and master golf instructor.  Paul was active in golf (and other things) well into his 80’s.  According to Rotella, Paul and his wife Bernice embodied the old Satchel Paige aphorism about age.  Someone once asked Satchell (who was in his 40’s before segregation ended and he made it to the Major Leagues) if he could still pitch at his advanced age.  Paige replied “How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you was?”  Wow. . . . .    

I’d seen that quote before but this time when I read it, it resonated a wee bit more.  I don’t feel my age.   I don’t feel much different than I did when I was 25 or so.  Yeah, I know — the aches and pains.  But for the vast majority of people, age is a state of mind.  As Bernard Baruch, the great financier, once wrote — “I will never be an old man.  To me, old age is always 15 years older than I am.”  Amen. . . .

    

Four Husbands. . . . .

On By scottpetersenIn Four Husbands, HumorLeave a comment

The local news station was interviewing an 80-year-old lady because she had just gotten married for the fourth time. The interviewer asked her questions about her life, about what it felt like to be marrying again at 80, and then about her new husband’s occupation. “He’s a funeral director,” she answered.

“Interesting,” the newsman observed.

He then asked her if she wouldn’t mind telling him a little about her first three husbands and what they did for a living. She paused for a few moments, needing time to reflect on all those years. After a short time, a smile came to her face and she answered proudly, explaining that she had first married a banker when she was in her 20’s, then a circus ringmaster when in her 40’s, and a preacher when in her 60’s, and now – in her 80’s – a funeral director.

The interviewer looked at her, quite astonished, and asked why she had married four men with such diverse careers.

She smiled and explained “I married one for the money, two for the show, three to get ready, and four to go.”

Bowling

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My father used to go bowling when I was a kid.  He would sometimes take me along.  He’d want me to watch (“zzzzzzz”) but I’d go play the pinball machines over by the exit.  Ready to make a fast getaway.    My dad’s team members all wore the same color short-sleeved shirt (gray) with their names stitched on.  “Pete” “Dave” “Carl” “Al” and so on.  But the stitching was in pink which I never understood.  I still have my father’s bowling shirt in the closet.  Or attic.  Somewhere.  I remember trying to bowl a few times.  As I recall, my best game ever was a 141.   

Does anyone “bowl” anymore?  And if so, for what purpose?   You have this big heavy ball.   And you throw it — trying to knock “pins” down.  You spend time in the alley.  And then you’re in the gutter.   You do well and you get a “strike.”  Just like what unions do — which is always bad.  Do okay and you get a “spare.”  Like a spare tire.  And if you do poorly, and don’t knock the pins down, people avoid looking at you (like this dude is really bad. . . . .).

I have never understood bowling or why the fuss.  I haven’t bowled in years.  I may never again.  The last time was some neighborhood thingee 30 years ago (“Let’s all go bowling“).  Donna said “oh please” so I smiled, drove to the bowling alley, rented the shoes (have you ever smelled the shoes they rent at bowling alleys?) and I didn’t bowl.  I drank some Dos Equis beer and looked at the pinball machines.  But I had the shoes on.  And a Hawaiian shirt.  I guess I looked like a bowler.  But my feet haven’t been the same since.  I just can’t understand.  Rolling a big, heavy black ball around.  Trying to hit some far off target.  Makes no sense whatsoever.  I’m going golfing. . . . .

Edward Snowden — Hero?

On By scottpetersenIn Edward Snowden, NSA1 Comment

Edward Snowden recently blew the whistle on the colossal culture of government eavesdropping and spying on Americans.   He didn’t do it for money.  He says it was to alert the American people. 

Washington condemns his actions and demands his return from sanctuary.  The Administration is filled with rage.  The mainstream media (which seems biased and politically-motivated) echoes these sentiments.  Yet one might examine the operative question of whether Edward Snowden is a traitor — or a hero. When you have Glenn Beck, Oliver Stone, The New Yorker, Rand Paul, Rachel Alexander (of the Christian Post) and Michael Moore (and so many others) all calling Snowden a “hero,” you have to wonder if there isn’t more to the story than is being pressed on the American public by the government and the press.   

The issue raised by these strange bedfellows is as much about an encroachment on civil liberties as it is about an alleged traitor who is spilling secrets.  Which is worse?   Should Americans accept growing intrusion and oversight?  Should Americans question the IRS’s granting not-for-profit status to liberal political organizations but not to conservative ones?   Is there concern about spying on the Associated Press?  Are we worried that the White House has decreed that the Census Bureau (with all of its statistics) must now report to the White House and not to the Commerce Department (where it belongs)?  Do we go along with the silence and misdirection on the murder of Americans in Benghazi?   One has to wonder what’s coming down the road. . . . .