Tag life

Happy Birthday Oncle Boob!

JT Twissel 19 Comments

My Uncle Bob was born on April Fools Day 1936 and died last March. I was not invited to the celebration of his life for a couple of reasons: 1.) His wife is an ultra Maga in a deep red part of Florida and 2.) She didn’t appreciate my depiction of her third husband in Happy Hour and Other Sorrows. Honestly I don’t think she read beyond the first few chapters otherwise she would have seen that the main character is an ungrateful dimwit who comes to appreciate her unconventional uncle, warts and all.

Uncle Bob and his sister-in-law, my crazy Auntie Dottie – I’m sure they’re having many chuckles up there in Heaven at Gram’s expense!

I did hear from one of my cousins that many, many people showed up to share their love for our uncle. That didn’t surprise me in the least. He was a people person, always willing to dive into any crowd of strangers . . . if there was singing and dancing, drinking and the telling of raunchy jokes. Laughing, always laughing. He was also very beloved in the tiny German village where he lived for about three years while working for the US Army.

Uncle Bob with his buddy Bruce at an Oktober Fest beer sloshing event.

When other Americans were transferred stateside, he collected their unused ration cards and bought items at the US Commissary which he knew were beyond the reach of his German neighbors. The year I was there, Rocky Road Ice Cream, Marboro cigarettes and Folgers coffee in the tin can were all the rage! But, anything American would do, even the dreaded peanut butter that Uncle Bob put on EVERYTHING! And I do mean everything. French fries, scrambled eggs, meatloaf . . .

Considered the best brand by UB

I was amazed that somehow he managed to satisfy all the villagers on that first day of Fest Season when he traditionally handed out those rare, exotic treats from America. Each happy recipient slapped him on the back and said in a booming voice as they walked out the kitchen door:

“Danke Oncle Boob!”

I can still remember the look on his face that day when he turned to me and said. “I suppose I have you to thank for this! Oncle Boob – sheesh, neicey – what have you done to me?” (He could be a little overly dramatic.)

I guess the name stuck long after I’d gone because he never forgave me.

Whoops, she did it again . . .

JT Twissel 21 Comments

Almost two years ago I was invited to a postcard party, the purpose of which was to get out the vote in Ohio. At that time I asked my fellow bloggers how would they feel about getting a postcard from a stranger reminding them they could vote by mail. Happily most of you said you would at least read it before dumping it into recycling!

As you can see the postcard simply tells people how they can vote by mail.

Sadly, Amy’s district went GOP and sadly the GOP is dead set on making it harder for Amy to vote at all. But we did what we could and we did it nicely. I thought.

Poor kitty’s just as sad as me! Why, oh why, do people vote against their own self-interests?

Whelp, I did it again. Went to another postcard party along with approximately sixty of my fellow citizens, most of whom I’d never met before. This time the mood was different and the messages we sent were more desperate.

As before, I was only copying the boilerplate text I’d been given. Quite a different message, wouldn’t you say? I added the happy face and the heart . . . too much?

I sat at a table with four women and three men who were all probably beyond sixty, although it was difficult to tell. They talked about their experiences campaigning throughout the state and the country . . . staying in stranger’s houses . . . going door to door in strange neighborhoods . . . trying to spread the word. I must say, their energy was amazing.

Halfway through the session, the organizers came to each table and told us about the March 28 No Kings rally. They’re not planning to march but instead to form a five mile long human chain through Walnut Creek, a city at the base of Mt. Diablo. There will be musicians and organizers every couple of blocks to organize cheers and lead songs. To prepare, there will be sign-making and chant-practicing parties throughout the Bay Area.

Sounds hopeful, doesn’t it? I wish I could say, yes hope was in the air, like the spring blossoming prematurely on that warm day but the atmosphere was much grimmer than two years ago.

I think I know how that band on the deck of the Titanic felt.

TR Wonderful and the Sinking of the Milvia

JT Twissel 19 Comments

In a previous life I worked for a midwesterner named Linda who’d been assigned to help a group of programmers find billable hours before they were kicked off the good ship TR Wonderful where they were being held captive. You see, their ship (The Milvia) had been sunk by the larger and much more powerful Wonderful the year before and now the crew of the Wonderful was doing all it could to make them comfortable. However, the customs of the Milvia and the customs of the Wonderful could not have been more different if they tried.

The Milvia on the high seas of Berkeley California – fueled by all nighters and triple Lattes!

Linda, bless her heart, had no idea what these programmers were capable of but she did have a copy of the TR Wonderful Jobs List updated weekly and faxed to various outposts around the planet from the HQ in Cleveland Ohio.

Its arrival (generally on a Tuesday morning) was always cause for joy. “Jan,” Linda would say to me, “I brought cookies. Tell the gang we’re having a do! The list is here … on time and on schedule.” Of course, one would expect no less from the HQ of TR Wonderful!

Once a giant in aerodynamics, electronics and credit card processing industries before being sunk by The Northrup Grumman

In case you’re wondering, in Linda Lingo a “do” was an informal get-together generally in the coffee room and lasting no more than 15 minutes. There would be an announcement, light refreshments and then everyone would return to work. Fifteen minutes a day of unbillable time was all you were allowed. Every other minute had to be charged to a project, duly noted on a paper timesheet and approved by a manager before being sent on to payroll. If the project you’d been assigned to ended, your name was added to the Availability List. Thereafter you had two weeks to find and be accepted on another project. Otherwise … you walked the plank.

Thus, you can understand why the arrival of the Jobs List was cause for a “do.”

Poor dear Linda really was a sweetheart. I can see her now … a petite blonde of maybe fifty, always clad in a conservative pastel pantsuit with matching shoes and accessories, trying to convince a life long resident of Berkeley California that he would just love Oshkosh Wisconsin. It was, after all, the birthplace of the “dungarees” he practically lived in.

Poor dear Linda. She really was a sweetheart. But it was inevitable what happened.

“Why do they insist on calling it a Layoff List?” She’d ask me almost in tears. “At TR Wonderful we don’t lay people off. We give them every opportunity to remain on board and enjoy all the benefits of a good health care and retirement package. They might have to move far from home but they would remain a part of the TR Wonderful family and what could be more wonderful than that!

I never knew how to respond. In retrospect, companies which encourage their employees to stay aboard with good health benefits and pensions are a dying breed. But, to those of us used to a pirate ship, their corporate ethos felt suffocating. And so I just shrugged my shoulders like a dummy.

“And why are they having all those bashes? Every Friday night — another bash!”

A bash was like a “do” … an impromptu get-together but bashes were held at some nearby “joint” that served alcohol (TR Wonderful did not allow alcohol to be served on site … unless in the boardrooms for executives, of course). We invited her to the bashes, of course, but she never came.

I often think of her on Fridays, sitting alone in her office as we all left to help our friends celebrate their escape from TR Wonderful and the horrors of pleading for billable hours. Poor dear Linda.

Aren’t we all undocumented aliens?

JT Twissel 84 Comments

The day after my father’s cremation, my sister, step-mother and I stopped to get something to eat at a McDonald’s before the long flight back to the mainland from the island of Kauai.

Salt Pond Beach – beautiful but deadly

We’d debated stopping at many places on the way to the airport but none appealed to my step-mother. They were too “native” looking.* Thus, it was Mickey D’s or nothing. She was not happy but back in 2006 the airport on Kauai offered only coffee and donuts. Maybe a pineapple but you get the picture.

At first my step-mother didn’t want to leave the car. She didn’t want a hamburger; she didn’t want fries. She didn’t want anything to drink and she didn’t want to leave my father alone in the car. “Your father didn’t like McDonald’s,” she said. It was a hot, humid day and she’d just spent three days being chauffeured:

  • to the beach where he’d died to thank the lifeguards who’d tried to save him
  • to the tiny hospital to thank the doctor who declared him dead and whom she hoped had saved the speedo swimsuit he’d died in (don’t ask why – you really don’t want to know)
  • to the offices of the island newspaper so she could buy an ad thanking all the people of Kauai she might have forgotten to thank, and finally:
  • to the police station to try to expedite the release of his death certificate (they hadn’t even done the autopsy yet). She’d gone bonkers. She needed to eat something other than cookies.

“We’ll bring Dad into the McDonald’s,” I finally said. “He can sit with us.”

“Okay but he’ll insist on paying. That’s just the kind of man he was,” Kathy sniffled, handing me his wallet.

I was exhausted and perhaps a bit hung-over (my sister and I had managed a quick trip to a nearby liquor store) but holding his wallet in my hands it dawned on me that he was gone and all those plastic cards and pieces of paper that were once so necessary were now worthless where he was going, where all of us are going regardless of our immigration status. In the end we are all undocumented aliens.

The funny thing was, the McDonald’s was full of Native Hawaiians who didn’t think that carrying a large urn full of the ashes of a loved one into a fast food joint was at all odd.

I draw naked people

JT Twissel 22 Comments

One of my many hobbies is figure drawing. There’s something meditative about spending a couple of hours intently focused on another human being, the contours of their body as they take different poses, the shadows and nuances of their muscles … I could go on and on. I haven’t done a lot of figure drawing over the past twenty years because it’s difficult to find a group of artists to join. And trust me, you don’t want to ask a friend, neighbor or spouse to strip and pose.

In the first session the five minute poses really killed me! But I had fun making messes.

A lot of people don’t understand that drawing naked people is not the same thing as creating pornography. Figure models generally belong to guilds that have strict rules and regulations. (Everyone can take off their clothes but not everyone can hold a poise for five minutes!) Successful figure models can earn up to 100 dollars per hour and the hours are generally mid-day or in the evening. Perfect for professional dancers.

Here I went a little crazy with a variety of pencils and chalks! I’m still trying to figure out my tools.

When my children were young I lucked on to a sculpture class that focused on the human form. Thus, my children were accustomed to seeing sculptures of naked people all around the house. However, every now and then I’d hear a new playmate snickering over the sight of “naked boobies!” and worry that the local vice squad might be showing up at my door.

This sculpture was done so long ago I can’t remember what I was thinking. We certainly weren’t beheading children and using them as props.

The group I was lucky enough to join meets in a room at the local community center that is also used for children’s art classes. It’s delightful to see their drawings posted all around … however, last session I needed to leave early and inadvertently left behind my sketches. Whoops. Naked boobies in the children’s art space.

Experiments with chalk – it’s soooo delightfully messy.

I hope the janitor finds them and throws them away before the kids show up for their class! I don’t want to get arrested for warping young minds with naked boobies!

If I don’t show up for a while, send bail money!

The Fourth Quarter

JT Twissel 25 Comments

It’s hard to believe we are teetering on final quarter of the year. For me, it’s time for reassessments. Am I going to accomplish what I set out to do in January? Generally the answer is “no” which leads to the question: What can I accomplish before the end of the year without turning into a basket case? I’ve been told that’s one of the pitfalls of being an eldest sister. Eldest sisters, particularly those with working mothers are overly responsible, goal-oriented and guilt-ridden when failing to meet their goals. But you know what? I think I’m on the mend. Perhaps it’s age.

Note the little devils I had to put up with! Forget those impish smiles. “You’re not my mother!” was the only thing they could say.

For example, this year I vowed to:

  • Collect my stories and edit, edit, edit the crap out of them
  • Get more involved with the community
  • Hire a gardener; a handyman; and an electrician
  • Bronze a few of my sculptures with money my mother left me for such a purpose
  • Republish my second book.

Of all those lofty goals, I accomplished just one. The last one.

One of the dozens of sketches for the book. I learnt this year that I am not a skilled cover designer!

I must admit, it felt good to release the story to the world. Really good, considering that I began writing about the wacky world of mein Oncle Boob over thirty years ago.

As for my other goals, well the world will not end if I don’t finish them. It might end … considering how everything is going … but it won’t be because I did not hire an electrician.

Tomorrow I flip the page to a new month on the Wasabi calendar. Any guesses as to which flowering. plant is featured? Here’s a clue: it’s native to Japan where it is considered a great delicacy.

Okay young whippersnappers …

JT Twissel 21 Comments

[Note: this is a political diatribe not aimed at my readers and so I will understand if you wish to skip this post]

Not all people over sixty were hippies. I know many older people who are actively protesting against the current attempt at tyranny who’ve never been on a commune in their lives. Who’ve never gone to Haight Ashbury and worn flowers in the hair; who’ve never rocked out to a Grateful Dead concert and dropped acid. The young whippersnappers who are dissing older protesters by calling them “Elderly White Hippies” are in for a big surprise. Don’t tell them though. They won’t believe you.

Image from BlueSky

Nor were all hippies white although I will concede that the majority of the self-described hippies I met way back when were the children of white or whitish upper middle class professionals. For some of them, being a hippie was just a phase (I fall into that category). And after a few vagabond years, they settled into what could be described as normal lives. But many “hippies” turned their experiences on communes into lives devoted to socially and environmentally aware living. Many did great things. For sure, we changed the world although not as much as we’d naively hoped.

And so, if you’re over a certain age, sing along with me. Even if you’re not, someday, if you’re lucky, you will be. Might as well get prepared for the dissing of the young and clueless whippersnappers.

THEY SAY WE’RE OLD AND WE DON’T VOTE

They say we’re old and we don’t vote
All we do is sleep and watch TV
They don’t know the risk they take
For dissing one’s elders never turns out great.

My granny after a few vodkas and after being dissed – watch out!

Although it’s true, we may smoke pot,
At least I’m sure of all the things we got
We’ve got the time, to organize.
We’ve got the patience, to see it through.
And if they think we’re scared, then they don’t know,
about the Four Dead in Ohio.

Let them say our hair’s too gray
We don’t care. What we’ve got, they cannot take away
So, put your wrinkled hand in mine
There ain’t no hill or mountain we can’t climb.

Apologies to Sonny and Cher

Walk with me

JT Twissel 15 Comments

We finally decided to take the old Prius in for the Necessary Oil Maintenance the dashboard monitor had been displaying for weeks. My husband translated that to oil change which is something he used to be able to handle in the privacy of our driveway for very little cost. But that was before. Prius’ are special … as are most cars started via buttons and not keys. Lord.

From the Orinda Vintage Car Show – a car using manual ignition

So I contacted the dealer we generally use to schedule an oil change. It should take about two hours max, right? I asked. Noooooo, was the snide reply I received. The car needed its 70,000 mile grand nincompoopery of “services.” A dizzying list of valve checks, fluid replacements, tire rotations, brake fluid checks, face lifts, tummy tucks, nose jobs and oh, if there’s rat damage, well you better take out that second mortgage. And … there’s always rat damage. (I’ve long suspected the local auto dealers and repair shops are importing rats from all over the world and releasing them in Contra Costa California with the hearty admonition to go forth and consume the wires, hoses, insulation and whatever else appeals to them in every vehicle … be those vehicles in a garage or in the street! )

For various reasons, I dread going to the Toyota dealer. And so when a coupon arrived from an auto shop within walking distance of my house, I decided to give them a try. They’re a small shop whose owners love vintage cars. Every year they hold a vintage car show that keeps attracting more and more people and so I was surprised they also service newer cars. And they were very friendly; no snide remarks.

I drove over this morning and, as directed, parked the filthy beast behind two mint condition vintage Thunderbirds. After checking in with their staff of amateur comedians (“How long will the service take?” “The rest of the year.”) I decided the weather was perfect for the long walk home. No need for a Lyft. Although the comedians had their doubts. “Try to remember exactly where you are in case you can’t make it and we have to come get you.” Gads. Do I look that old?

Well, I made it. Come with me on my walk, will you?

Above is the beginning of my walk – the sidewalk in front of the community center, library and park. It’s generally a very busy area but not at 8:30 in the morning.

I know I’ve posted pictures of the old Art Deco Theatre before but indulge me once again. The morning light gave it a special glow.

The theater has been putting on various events all summer. The next one involves this guy – seen a couple nights ago passing out fliers.

Can you guess what he was advertising?

The last hill to climb. It’s steeper than it looks but I love passing through the redwood grove. Those trees have been here since before the Pony Express rode through them. The houses are built around them.

It’s gotten hot so the old Prius will probably have to spend the night at the garage. No way I’m walking back over there in the 100 degree heat!

By the way, it was great fun interacting with those of you who checked out my interview on Yvette’s Priorhouse blog! As a result, I look forward to getting to know several new (to me) bloggers and to interviewing Yvette and her fellow writers once their book comes out in October. More on that as it gets closer!

It’s hot but there are signs of autumn all around.

So long … I’m outta here and you’ll never believe why!

JT Twissel 44 Comments

The other day I received a communication of the utmost confidentiality and significance from a Mr. Pauwels Gaetan informing me that his client, Engr. Eldric Twissel, a distinguished business contractor for decades in Brussels had passed away due to a myocardial infarction shortly after the tragic loss of his entire family in a vehicular accident. In case you don’t believe me, here is that very same communication (with a bit of berry pie spilled on it I’m afraid.)

Reading further, I was stunned to learn that I am apparently the last living Twissel on the planet! And, as such, I am eligible to inherit good old Eldric’s 9,995,980.00 (Nine Million, Nine Hundred Ninety-Five Thousand, Nine Hundred Eighty Euros) which will make me – gasp – a billionaire? (I have no idea what the exchange rate is so I’m just guessing.)

After a month of fog, finally the sun! Oh, my happy days are here!

Unfortunately my friends, billionaires don’t blog. But I’ll remember each of you fondly on my yacht.

First … I suppose I’ll have to hire Pauwies to “assist” me through a “entirely legitimate” process with “no legal risks or exposure” to myself. All he expects in return is half of the 9,995, 980.00 Euros! What a gent!

Next, I guess I better head down to my bank to prepare them. Pauweis will undoubtedly want access to my account. You know, to make it easier to transfer the funds. Oh, and I better call my tax guy … perhaps I should relocate to Switzerland in order to avoid horrendous taxes? Oh dear, so many decisions. So much to prepare for!

A bench dedicated to Eldric and the Twissels?

Of course, I’ll have to do something to honor Eldric and all those poor unfortunate Twissels who met their demise in some ghastly vehicular accident. Any suggestions?

Bruce is beyond reproach

JT Twissel 45 Comments

Good Friday always reminds of the Seagrass family under whose wings I spent my high school years. They celebrated every holiday to the max, unlike my family. Easter we might get dressed up and go to church. Or we might not. One year we went to the Lutheran Church because my paternal grandparents were visiting and grandmother insisted that we not only go to church but that we look respectable.

My brother still hates wearing a suit! But my little sister has become quite the fashion plate. Don’t show her this picture. She’ll really pitch a fit!

The cheerful couple in the above picture, Myrtle and RB Senior, met in Fargo North Dakota and spent twenty-five years working on Indian reservations. I never really understood why until I recently discovered that RB Senior was a descendant of White Elk, aka Colonel Alexander McKee and Nonhelema, aka Grenadier Squaw. So living amongst the Native Americans was in his DNA. Unfortunately it was a life that hardened my grandmother to the point that she made RB Senior’s later years miserable. I only remember the quiet, taciturn man who died when I was twenty. But recently, via the miracle of the internet, I discovered he wasn’t always that way.

Oh Bruce, we never knew! Why didn’t you marry Katherine Ladd, whose “winning countenance never fails to influence the judges in forensic contests”? Or her twin sister, Rizpah, the laughing twin, who “plays gentleman friend to all the spinsters on the faculty.” A good laugh is indeed sunshine in a house. Or both sisters! You could have done it Bruce! Although, what was this Ford’s establishment on North Broadway you famously frequented?

Once again I have the ancestors in an uproar! But it is the holiday for forgiveness, right?

Happy Easter all.