Fear of Walking

I’ve fallen four times since I’ve moved to Chicago.  It may be a factor of age, or, more likely, something to do with the fact that I didn’t walk much until I moved here.  In any event, I’ve taken four tumbles.

The first time I wasn’t watching where I was walking, stepped on a raised section of sidewalk and fell forward (I always fall forward for some reason); I caught myself with my arm which was the only damage: I couldn’t lift my arm above my head for a couple of months.  The second time I was walking to Sunday breakfast, stepped off the sidewalk onto a bricked area, which I saw, and for some unknown reason fell face forward.  My glasses were bend out of shape and there was a lot of blood—and I had a lovely shiner for some days.  The most notable thing about that fall was the man who came to my rescue; after making sure I hadn’t broken anything, other than my glasses, this total stranger went back to his apartment, got a damp towel, came back, cleaned my face, and sent me home with the towel.  I was too muddled to get his name; I thanked him, of course, but I would have loved to send him a nice gift; imagine doing all that for a total stranger?  I’m still touched by his concern and actions.  The third time I was walking with Roger on a perfectly smooth sidewalk and fell—again forward.  And again a bloody face, glasses bent totally out of shape, and my dignity damaged.  But only my dignity, and my glasses, were permanently damaged.  The fourth fall was a different story.

After a nasty bout with what was surely the flu, I developed some troubling symptoms of infection.  I called my doctor and his office advised to me to go to the emergency room immediately.  I go outside of my apartment building, use my iPhone to summon an Uber, and as I’m walking around the car to get in, I fall again.  And again I have no idea why I fell; the pavement was smooth.  This time I hit really hard, had a bloody nose, and there was massive bleeding everywhere.  The Uber driver came around to help as did a woman passing with her child; I think she’s the one who called an ambulance, although I’m not sure.  In any event I ended up in the ambulance and there I was, in the emergency room just as I had started out to get to.  A very expensive way to get there, I might add, although I’m still dealing with the insurance.

But I had a different reaction to this fall.  Whether it was the ambulance and the ER or just the accumulation of falls, I became afraid of walking.  Well, I live in Chicago without a car; I have to walk.  At first I limited my walking as much as I could.  I would catch a bus or train, even just to the next stop.  Anything to keep from having to walk too far.  And when I do walk I am constantly watching the sidewalk and pavement; I don’t want to trip over a slight incline in the pavement, or a small pothole.  As I walk I see nothing but the ground ahead of me.

Based on absolutely nothing, I have decided that I had developed an “old man’s shuffle.”  So in addition to watching carefully as I walk, I concentrate on raising my feet.  Not enough, I hope, to look like I’m wading through a Florida swamp, but enough so I don’t trip again over some minor change in the pathway.  It must be working, as I haven’t fallen again.  But walking is not fun any more.  I’m still counting on trains and buses as much as possible.  I’ve cut back on concerts and plays, at least those that involve too much walking (Chicago Shakespeare Theater is out for next season, for example).  

How will this end?  Me with a walker?!  No, not yet.  My friend Jodie suggested it’s time for a cane.  No, I’m not ready for that yet either.  So for now I'll just be careful, keep an eye on the sidewalk, and try not to look like I’m stepping over a gaggle of puppies.

A Pleasant Burden

When my friend Roger died in November, he was in the process of working with his publisher, Untreed Reads, to reissue all of his earlier books in the Dick Hardesty series that were out of print.  They had worked on several, including the first one, The Butcher’s Son, which tells the story of how Dick became a private investigator.  Additional books that were republished include The 9th Man (which was actually written before The Butcher’s Son), The Bar Watcher, The Hired Man, The Good Cop (a particular favorite of mine), and The Bottle Ghosts.

As Roger’s executor and beneficiary, the task of editing the remaining books has fallen to me.  It’s a job I enjoy, even as I know the responsibility is enormous: correcting errors, of course, but also looking for any contradictions or inconsistencies, and yet always remaining true to the books as Roger published them.  Fortunately, I am working with KD of Untreed Reads, their CEO, who has simply been marvelous, encouraging me and being patient with me as I struggle with Microsoft Word, a program I was totally unfamiliar with (I’m used to paper and red pen!).  I’ve done two now, The Dirt Peddler, which has just been released, and The Role Players, which is due to be released later this month.  The remaining books will be released approximately one a month through this year.  Right now I’ve just started editing the next rerelease, The Popsicle Tree.

I’ve spent years editing essays, of course, as an English teacher.  But with those works, there was just me and the essay and the student; now I’ve the additional burden of knowing that many people will read these books.  And always there is the spirit of Roger hovering over me, not menacing, but I never forget that he’s there, not literally of course, but in my mind.  It’s a burden, mostly a pleasant burden, but I’m not sure I’ll ever be completely happy with the job, even while enjoying it.

The proof will come in the sales of the book.  I hope they fly off the shelves (or, since they are also ebooks, zip off the internet).  My task, simply put, is to keep Roger’s legacy going.  Fortunately, these very entertaining books do that job on their own.  And I am honored to have this task.

A Colorful Break from Words

One of Chicago's jewels is the Lincoln Park Conservatory, not far from where I live.  Rather than write a blog, I decided just to share some photos from there; after a very hard winter, I needed some color.  These were taken at various times, many in the orchid room.  The last one is from right outside the Conservatory: who couldn't love Shakespeare with a wreath!

I feel better already!

Roger and Dorien and Back to Blogging

I’ve been terribly remiss in keeping up with my blogs since Roger died.  My readership is small but I could always count on Roger to read it, make comments, and, when needed, point out errors.  While he wasn’t my only reader, he was my most faithful.  Just as he was my most faithful friend.  And it’s been hard to write a blog for someone who no longer is reading them.

Almost three months ago he went into the hospital for outpatient surgery, a relatively minor procedure.  Everything went wrong that could go wrong and he never recovered.  As his executor I have been dealing with massive amount of paperwork and bureaucratic bullshit (oh how he would have hated that!).  But I’m getting through it paper by paper, day by day.  But I don’t have Roger here to bitch to.

I’m working with his publisher, Untreed Reads, to reissue his earlier Dick Hardesty books that have been out of print—published, of course, under the name of Dorien Grey.  Those should come out about every two months this year until all his books are available.  I, along with the publishing house, am editing the books.  That’s a heavy task, as we hate to make any changes that Roger might not approve of, and yet some changes are clearly called for.  One example in the one I just finished was when a character asked for a gimlet—with three onions.  My years as a bartender kicked in: clearly, Roger meant “gibson” with three onions.  Roger drank manhattans, at least until his mouth was damaged so badly by the radiation that he couldn’t handle alcohol anymore, and, I think, was just confused between gimlet (a sweet drink) and a gibson (a martini).  So I don’t think he would mind our changing “gimlet” to “gibson.”  The only other changes we are making are technical ones; his first publisher was a very careless editor.  But what a treat to go back and read these earlier books I haven’t read since they were first published.

I’ll end this blog with two of my favorite stories about Roger; I don’t think he would mind that he was the butt of these tales.  

The first concerns Roger’s total frustration with all things technical.  Any problems with his computer or TV and he would call me to come over—I lived in the next building over.  Usually the problems were quite simple.  One time he called to say he couldn’t change channels on his cable TV.  I raced over.  The minute I walked in the door I saw the problem: he had run his vacuum and set it up right in front of the cable box blocking the remote; he was pointed the remote at the TV and couldn’t understand why the channels wouldn’t change.  I moved the vacuum over about a foot and all was good.  I never let him live it down.

The second story concerns Roger and snakes.  He hated snakes.  He feared snakes.  He wanted nothing to do with them at all.  He visited me once when I still lived in central Texas.  Texas: lots of snakes.  My brother would take us out sailing on Stillhouse Hollow Lake, and afterwards, we would jump off the back of the boat, sit on “floaties,” and sip beer (sailing is hard work).  Once, we were all happily enjoying the sunset bobbing around in the relatively cool water, and my brother casually pointed out a snake weaving across the dock area, a good 20 yards off and moving away from us.  Roger was up the ladder on the back of the boat in two seconds flat, almost losing his bathing suit as he pulled himself out of the water as quickly as he could.  He never got in the lake again, although we went sailing and swimming several more times.  As far as Roger was concerned, the lake was swarming with snakes and would, perhaps, wrap themselves around his legs as he dangled from the floatie.

I’ve told these stories many times and Roger was a good sport about it.  But then Roger was a good sport about most everything.  I miss that about him.  I miss a lot about Roger.  I have to move on, but a friend like Roger is rare and precious; he changed my life in many ways.  And I am grateful more than I can express here.

Bon voyage, mon ami; vous voir à Cannes.

Guilty Secrets

Everyone has guilty secrets.  Most, we assume, are small ones.  I have mine which, at my age, I’m not longer quite so guilty about.  They are small secrets.  I don’t, for example, put panty hose over my head and rob banks (although I could use the money).  There are no crimes, major or minor, in my list of guilty secrets.  But it’s time to clear this particular closet:

—My favorite pizza is Tombstone frozen.  People roll their eyes when I tell them that, especially since I live in Chicago, famous for pizza.  I don’t like our Chicago deep dish either.  But Tombstone pizza, bumped up a bit with more cheese, some fake hamburger, slices of tomatoes, and fresh mushrooms, and you have my idea of a perfect pizza.  So sue me.

—I don’t like my pasta al dente; I want it, if anything, overcooked.  Why eat raw pasta?

—I love Jeopardy! in the afternoons.  Assuming I can get the ABC channel, which I can’t always with my antenna reception.  But I love sipping my afternoon coffee and proving that I really don’t know as much as I would like to think I do.

—I can rarely pass a 7-11 without getting a Slurpee.  But I am a man of discriminating taste: I only drink the cola flavor.

—I don’t buy ice cream often, but when I do I do not dish it up; rather, I eat it right out of the carton.  I’ve never claimed to be elegant.

—I prefer white rice to brown.  I know brown is healthier, but, perhaps because white rice is what I grew up on, I prefer that.

—One of the great joys of retirement is an afternoon nap.  Anywhere from noon to 4:00 you may find me recumbent, snuggled up with my cat Jake.  I never nap for long, usually about half an hour, but it is a regular part of my afternoon and it never seems to interfere with night sleep.  And to make sure I’m not disturbed, I turn the ringer on my phone to silent.

As sins go, this is a pretty pallid list.  But it’s all I’ve got to offer.  But there’s always the chance I might still rob that bank.

Catching Up

I read quite a bit.  Not as much as I used to, what with poor eyesight, knees and a hip that ache if I sit more than 15 minutes, and a multitude of distractions which I no longer seem able to block out.  Still, I do read as much as I can.  In my callow youth I felt like every book I started I needed to finish, no matter how hard or boring.  I’m not sure why I felt that way, but I did.  But since I’ve retired, I’ve let that attitude go, and now I read as long as I’m interested, and then I stop.  But sometimes, in recent years, I’ve stopped reading something I was actually enjoying but put aside for something else—and then haven’t gone back to the book.  It’s time I did some catching up, so I’m resolved to finish some important books that I stopped mid-book for some reason I no longer remember.  Here are the main ones on my list:

Moby Dick I read in college (prior to 1971) and recently decided to read again.  I stopped about halfway through to read something else, probably easier.  It’s time now to finish that sucker off.  And having read it before isn’t an excuse.

Ulysses, by James Joyce, is a famously difficult work.  I was reading it in conjunction with a Teaching Company DVD course on the book.  I’ve not read this one before, and it’s considered a major masterpiece of English literature, so I definitely need to go back and finish it.  Besides, some close friends have read it and, while we’re not in a race, I want to keep up with them.  So, after Moby Dick, it’s back to Ulysses.

The Iliad I’ve read many times, taught once, and studied recently in my four-year Basic Program for Liberal Education for Adults at the University of Chicago.  But after reading Why Homer Matters, by Adam Nicolson, I felt I wanted to read The Iliad yet again.  And about halfway through I got distracted by something, no doubt lighter and less . . . classical.  Alexander McCall Smith?  I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.  But I love The Iliad, and it is certainly worthy of another read.  So that’s number three on my catch up list.

Number 4 is indeed exceedingly difficult: all seven volumes of In Search of Lost Time (until recently usually called, somewhat inaccurately, Remembrance of Things Past).  This famously tough read by Marcel Proust has long been on my list to read; in fact, I’ve read the first two volumes already, some years ago.  And then twice (!) I got about a third of the way through volume three and gave up.  At least I’m not alone there: a little research and I found out a lot of people bog down in volume three.  At least that’s what I want to believe.  But I’m not getting any younger, so if I’m ever going to read all of In Search of Lost Time, I shouldn’t tarry too long.  Except it’s been so long since I read Swan’s Way and Within a Budding Grove that I’m going to have to start the whole process over again—accompanied by some coffee and madeleines: read Swan’s Way to understand about the madeleines!

There are other classics I need and want to read (Emma and The Prelude, for example), but that’s a different category.  And then there are some classics I will never read (Finnegan’s Wake is one).  But the four just listed I started and didn’t finish.  It’s time to bring those books to a close.  I’ll keep you posted on how I do!

Making Pickles

I can be, and have been, called a lot of things.  “Domestic Goddess” is not one of them.  Although there have been a few times in my life where I cooked on a slightly higher level, there haven’t been many.  And recently, most of my cooking involves reading the instructions on a frozen dinner from Trader Joe’s.  But I recently ran across a recipe for refrigerator pickles which looked good—and easy.  And so it turned out to be.

Refrigerator pickles are canned in the ordinary way, except the final steps of pressure cooking, sterilizing, and preserving for all of eternity are not used; the pickles are simply kept in the refrigerator until eaten, and they can be kept for “up to” three months, whatever that means.

Over several days I collected all the ingredients (see the recipe below), followed the instructions to the letter (with some minor exceptions), and the results you see above: delicious pickles!  And they aren’t going to last three months, either.  I’ve already gone through two jars and am on the third (of five).

My next kitchen magic:  madeleines!  These are the small sponge cakes, baked in a special muffin tin, each mold shaped like a seashell.  They are always associated with Proust and the opening of In Search of Lost Time.  I’ve already got the pan.  I just need to get the Moxie, and a few ingredients, to attempt them.  No doubt I’ll give a full report here.  I should also, while I’m at it, finish reading In Search of Lost Time.

In the meantime, here is the refrigerator pickle recipe for interested parties:

Brine:

10 cloves garlic peeled

2 cups white vinegar

6 teaspoons kosher salt

Several sprigs fresh dill

1 teaspoon celery seed

1 teaspoon coriander seed

1 teaspoon mustard seed

1/2 teaspoon black peppercorns

Vegetables:

6 Kirby cucumbers, quartered lengthwise [I used organic, unwaxed cucumbers]

6 medium carrots, peeled and cut in half lengthwise

A handful of green beans

A few pieces of cauliflower

2 jalapeños

Instructions:

1.  In a medium saucepan, boil 4 cups of water; reduce to a simmer and add garlic.  Cook 5 minutes.  Add vinegar and salt; boil.  Stir until salt dissolves.  Remove from heat.

2.  In two 1-quart mason jars [I used 5 1-pint jars], add dill, seeds and peppercorns.  Using tongs, remove garlic from brine and add to jars.  Pack jars with vegetables and chilies.

3.  Bring brine to a boil and pour over vegetables, to cover.  Cool, cover and refrigerate.  The pickles are best after a few days and keep for up to 3 months.

[Source: June/July 2015 issue of AARP Magazine]