CTA Holiday Train, 2014

A video of the CTA Holiday Train from 2014. Happy holidays!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HEt54IY5-Ok

The Tale of the Tchotchkes

Tchotchke is a Yiddish word meaning knickknack or trinket. More generally, it means stuff, junk, or, if you have delusions of grandeur, collectables. I have a lot. And to me they are indeed collectables. Once I’m gone and someone else has to deal with them, they will be junk and most likely end up in the trash.

Writing in The Guardian, Blanche Marvin, age 93, says she’s “never lonely in this house, because I have my life with me.”* I know how she feels. Each time I look at, for example, the shelf pictured above, I am flooded with memories.

The little white polar bear I picked up at the San Diego Zoo on a visit there with my dear friend Mollie; the piece reminds me of Mollie, more than of the zoo. The wooden cart near the back on the left I picked up in Costa Rica; what a flood of memories from that trip. The hand-turned wooden container was made by my brother, Ken, who also made the pens inside it. The maroon vase on the far right was a gift from my friend Roger; Roger is gone now, but the vase always brings back memories of our many years of friendship. The little sea bird I picked up on one of my many trips to Port Aransas, which evokes memories of that quaint seaport, Shorty’s Bar, and my friends Crickett and Brad with whom I often traveled there. And the black grand prize ribbon was given to me at my sixtieth birthday party; it says, “Older Than Dirt.” Indeed, especially 16 years on.

And that’s just one shelf. More items are scattered over the apartment and some are even stored in a box in my closet; I rotate items occasionally.

I keep thinking I should clean up this stuff, downsize this junk. And should I get an expiration date due to some disease or other, maybe I will. But otherwise, I think I’m just leaving these precious items. Let someone else worry about them after I’m gone. Years and years in the future, of course!

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*https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2018/nov/24/blanche-marvin-theatre-critic-flat-recycling-reuse-nonagenerian?CMP=Share_iOSApp_Other

Three-Quarters of a Century

Turning 75 wasn’t a particular bother for me; I knew it was coming, after all. My birthday came and went, my age was noted by me and others, and I moved on. And then, for some inexplicable reason, it hit me: 75 years is three-quarters of a century! Holy crap. I mean it’s the same number of years. But for some reason outside the realm of common sense and rationality, I saw my age in an entirely different light.

And then, just to torture myself further, I looked up life expectancy. Big mistake: for my age, it was 76.91years, giving me about a year to go. That’s for white males in the United States in Illinois, number 26 from the top (surprisingly, the District of Columbia with 82.07). I could still be in Texas, 75.63, or Oklahoma where I would already be dead: 73.74*.

Okay, these are just numbers. And there are many websites, many with different numbers. I can’t even vouch for the accuracy of this site’s figures.  One site had me shuffling off at 63. Still, it’s an interesting number if not of any particular use.

The statistic is further disconcerting when I consider how many of my friends have died. Just recently Joe, back in Texas, a pilot in Vietnam, wounded twice. And then there Bil (yes, one L), here in Chicago, who battled bone cancer for the eight or so years I knew him, but who finally succumbed. And then there was my beloved Donna, dying of ALS: “Dying by inches,”** as someone put it. I met Donna on January 2, 1968. But I need another whole blog to write about her. And then my parents and grandparents . . .

So, what does all this mean? I’m not depressed by these thoughts; instead, there is a mild curiosity, not helped by the fact that we can’t, usually, know when the lights will go out. And I’m not philosopher enough to dredge up any meaning from it all. I just thought it was interesting and something to mull over--as I have a probably unhealthy cup of coffee and shortly to have a probably unhealthy two cocktails, as is my evening wont, and eat a probably unhealthy dinner of too much fat and calories.

May as well enjoy that final descent into oblivion.

And I do hope readers aren’t depressed by this meditation on death. I’m not.

*https://www.worldlifeexpectancy.com/usa/life-expectancy-white-male

**I was unable to find the original speaker of this quote; it has been used by many people, including Charles Darwin, but I have no idea who said it first.

Train and Bus Karma

I wanted to make sure I really knew what the term karma meant before I used it in this blog: “[A]ction, seen as bringing upon oneself inevitable results, good or bad, either in this life or in a reincarnation; fate; destiny.” Well, I have no truck with reincarnation, but the rest applies. What I’m talking about is the tendency to arrive at platform on the L just in time to see the train pull away—without me. Same for the bus. Of late, I have somehow angered the public transportation gods as I have missed or had to wait an inordinate amount of time for every single train or bus I have wanted to catch.

What did I do to upset the universe? The photo above is of a train pulling off just as I stepped out of the elevator. Of course in the old days, I wouldn’t have taken the elevator; I would have raced up the stairs and hopped into the train just as the doors closed. But I’m not racing much these days; hell, I’m not racing at all. And while I can still use the stairs, I prefer the elevators (although not all stations have them). So, there I am, unhappily looking out the glass windows of the elevator as the train pulls away—and then the elevator door opens.

It’s a very similar story with the buses. In the old days I would see a bus half a block away and I would dash for the door. Now, ancient, decrepit old man that I am, I just keep walking and watch as the bus pulls away, mere feet from the door.

My only saving grace is the “Transit Stop” app. This tracks the buses and trains and allows a minimal chance of predicting their arrival. It’s fairly accurate for trains, since they make all stops, whether there are people there or not. With buses, it’s much harder to predict, as a bus only has to stop if someone is waiting or someone wants off; so, a bus can sail quickly past any number of stops, thus arriving early and insuring I’ll be standing there watching it roar off, with only the smell of the fumes left for me.

But I can’t complain too much: it was my decision to sell my car and come to rely on public transportation. And in spite of my whining, I think that was a good decision, and although I end up spending far too much time waiting for transportation, that’s a far better choice, at least in a city like Chicago which has excellent public transport, than paying our exorbitant parking fees, license fees, tag fees, insurance fees. And, even if this old man can’t race to meet a train or bus anymore, I get the senior discount on fares. Life is good; karma be damned.