Reinke Faces Life

OK, it’s 1967. I’m working full time, going to schools full time, and dating full time. Making great money. Life’s good. She’s basically agreed to marry me when I graduate from school. No ring yet. No date. No telling anyone that we were committed to each other. (Like anyone could not see it.) She was wearing my college ring. (Yeah, I was whipped.)

She’s driving an old Corvair. And, I’m driving relatively new International Harvester Scout.

Her’s uses fan belts every other week.

(You’d love it. She had the spanner and a bar. And a supply of fan belts. She could slap a new one on in in under ten minutes. And, despite what Ralph Nadar said about fireballs, she loved that car. It was cheap on gas. When the girls would go to the shore, they always took Ev’s car.)

My Scout was not very “stylish”. It was OK, but I knew she hated it. (I never understood why? It was a sports model with the “swept back” roof. An injineer’s vehicle. And, every winter I earned my insurance money towing folks out of the snow. NYC always did a lousy job of snow removal.)

So, I said something like “you know we should have a new car. I worry that sometime your going to get stuck. And we’ll have it for when we get married.”

She was concerned about the money, but reluctantly agreed.

We agreed to spend the princely sum of $1700. She decided she like the Chevy Nova. She decided she liked brown. (What a surprise! She loved brown. I used to tease her about it being “Mahoney color”. And, “Aren’t Irish girls supposed to love green?”)

When it came to paying for it, I suggested we borrow from the wedding savings account. “No way. We have to be ready when you graduate.” (OK, nice to know that was still on plan.)

“OK, I’ll get a loan and we’ll go half and half.” “No, I don’t think so. You make more than I do; so you can buy it.” “OK” (Yeah, whipped.)

“And, since I’ll be driving it, we’ll register in my name. It’ll also need more insurance, so you can pay the extra.”

And about a week later, she was driving a brand new Chevy Nova. And, was happy as a … … Well, she was very pleased with it and with herself. Things always went better when they went according to her plan.

So, when we’d go out on a date. I drive to 39W8th street and park the Scout in the train station. Walk across the street and pick her up. And, we’d go out in the Nova.

My reward? I got to drive.

Funny the things we do for love.

I would love the opportunity to do it all again. I wouldn’t change a thing.

# # # # #

Went to WalMart to get a cheap printer. Argh! FML. She said she was fine. We walked into WalMart form the handicapped space, walked the width of the store and she was getting shaky. Stupidly I didn’t suggest she take of the motorized carts. Stupidly I didn’t insist we leave. She dismissed me to go look for the printer, and I like fool went and got it. When I found it and brought it back to the dog food pile she was sitting on, she was gone. Argh! I caught up to her with the basket with a few items in it, looking for the table section. That should have been a tip off she was struggling. It was easy to find. She tired again and I sat her on a barstool. We headed for the checkout. She had to stop on the way. She sent me ahead to check out and like a fool I did it. I really thought she was just tiring. I was on line and I heard some commotion right behind me. When I turned around, it was her on the ground. Argh! FML. I left the cart and went to her straight away. Ripped the crotch of my pants getting there. Needless to say it was a mess. he’s OK. Once she got over the shock. They insisted she sit in a wheelchair. (Good response by the WalMart assistant manager, who really wanted to call 911. She was fit to be tied. But admitted she wasn’t up to walking out to the truck.) She has no memory of the events in WalMart. Only remembers being wheelchaired out to the truck.

We then went to the diner on the way home. She was still shaky. On the way there she checked her sugar and it was above 200. That means it was heart; not sugar. Argh! At the diner, she ordered a full dinner but hardly touched it. I’ve attempted once again to tell her to do less. But got told off, “I can’t do any less”.

Oh an the printer doesn’t work. It’s been used and repackaged. The contents aren’t right and the plastic was opened. FML I’m pissed that this is another example of a return sold as new. I didn’t think WalMart did that. I know Officemax, Staples, and Office Depot do. Back it goes today. Argh!

# – # – #

Maybe H’s right. I need to collect all the stuff I’ve learned over the past year, or the past 5 years, or the past 40 years, and create “The Guide to Patient Advocacy”.

Argh!

# # # # #

Our Girl’s Name

Most folks don’t know that Frau Reinke was named after a cousin, Evlynn Mahoney, who died very young. Given that Our Girl had that high school ring from Saint Dominic’s in Jersey City, her namesake died after high school. Like a dummy, I don’t remember any of the details. That ring was carried in her jewelry box from place to place over the years. It was never lost or far from her thoughts. When diabetes swelled her hands, my class ring and her wedding ring joined that ring in her treasure chest. We got some much larger rings for her to wear and never talked much about the swelling and what it portended.

Her first battle over her “name” occurred when she hit Holy Family Academy in Bayonne. She showed up and gave her name “Evlynn”. Tilt! She’s told: “There’s no saint named ‘Ev Lynn’. No one ever got anywhere arguing with Nuns. So she registered as “Ev E Lynn”. Not happy but that’s life.

Fast forward about four years. She’s graduated from her beloved HFA and it’s time to get a job. Off to AT&T in NYC. I have no idea what led her there? It might be interesting to know. That decision predetermined so many other events. One wonders what might have happened.

So she gets the job and is filling out the forms. She has her diploma, social security card, and her birth certificate. No problem. Turns them into HR and is waiting get her I’d card. Tilt! Big hub bub and consternation. Finally it’s determined she’s not “Ev E Lynn”; she’s “Evlynn” as far as AT&T is concerned. (You really had to her tell the story!)

The story doesn’t end there!

I got in the habit whenever asked “Wife’s name?” to reply “First Name Evlynn Spelled Funny ‘E’ ‘V’ and ‘LYNN’ six letters only one E”.

When we bought our first house, despite all the reminders about name, the papers were all wrong. She had to go through, cross out every misspelling, and initial it. And, had to sign an affidavit to that effect. Boy was she <past tense synonym for urine output> off. She may have even said an Irish Prayer for the lady who did it.

When we bought the shore house, guess what happened?

Yup, another cross out and initial session.

Airline tickets, drivers license, auto title … none ever went easy.

But she was EV LYNN! And, never got rude with the paid help, no matter how they butchered her name. She was much more patient with it than I would be.

# # # # #

In the first of our too few trips to Aruba, we’d had a good time (Except for her sunburn, which I’ll cover another time.)

We’re in this Quonset hut of a “departure terminal”. In those days, like you see in the old movies, they push a mobile stairway up to the side of the plane and you board. The hut was long, aluminum and hot. So we were going through the various “stations” — US immigration, US agriculture, US passport control, US visa, US Customs — heck if I was a bureaucrat, I’d try and figure out a job in Aruba. Then Aruba passport control, visa, etc. etc.

So Frau Reinke and I are free to approach the last station, we discover that Aruba has a $20 / head departure tax. Payable in cash US$ only — no florins (amusing that their Gooferment wouldn’t take its own paper), no credit cards, no checks, no nothing — nothing but cash on the barrelhead.

Half way to the station, we see a young couple — obviously newlyweds — the girl is in tears and the guy looks like he pooped his pants. Naturally, Frau Reinke can’t MYOB. She steps up to the girl, who’s maybe a decade younger than she is, “What’s the matter, Hon.”

Thru the water works, we learn they have no money. They spent it all and had credit cards until they got home.

Frau Reinke says: “Not to worry, Hon. We were lucky this trip and have extra.” (I want to scream “Liar, liar, pants on fire.” We hadn’t won.) She whips out her roll and gives the boy money. 60$ US and says “Here’s two for the tax and one for lunch on us.” Then she turns to the girl, gives her two $50’s, and says “Here keep this. A girl should never be without her mad money.”

Of course, they wanted her address to repay her. She just said: “No, keep it. You’ll help someone else down the road.”

Never saw them again. And, she never told anyone the story. Like most of “her” stories, she never told any of them. She was embarrassed that someone might think she was bragging. I doubt I even know them all. But, I do know that she was the easiest touch for a sob story I ever knew.

Wonder how many people got helped “down the road” because of her?

# # # # #

Frau Reinke came from a family that was rich in love but poor in “earthly treasures”. And she was a proud woman. When she finally did agree to marry me, “we” had to save for the wedding and setting up a home. The wedding is the responsibility of the bride’s family. Well she was one bride who was going to have the wedding she wanted. So each week, I’d hand off a third of my paycheck for the “future”.

(How moonstruck was I? The passbook was in her name since she did all the banking.)

Money was saved. Wedding was paid for. Pattern established.

Fast forward a few years.

We’re living in North Brunswick. She’s been diagnosed with diabetes. And, she wants to work. (Later I’d find out the reasons, but those aren’t germane to this memory.) She goes to work and makes a pretty good sum.

Luckily for the male ego I was making more. Enough to cover all our expenses. So, she gets her own bank account. With the very logical explanation, “What’s mine is mine, and what’s yours is ours.” Smart girl. Who needs a pre-nup?

So, being into finance and the markets, thanks to a preconscious childhood, I offer to help her with “investing”. “No help needed.”

So, she has her passbook, and she’s as happy as a clam. Each year when I did the taxes, I’d remind her that she could be earning more on her money. “No help needed.”

So, finally I get smart. I say: “I should have some money in my name”. She agrees. So I guesstimate how much she has in her passbook. (Not that hard I have her 1099 and can back into the number. Her passbook was paying about ½%.) So I put “my money” in a Dreyfus Tax Free Money Market Fund. (I think it was paying 8 and change at the time.) And, wait until next tax time.

The accountant does the taxes. We get them on a Saturday morning. I sign them without looking and give them to her. She signs them and looks them over. With some venom about “not checking”. I shrug and go to do my homework for my Comp Sci.

(Her 1099 and my “Dreyfus information statement” are attached to the forms. Her money is taxed; mine ain’t. My money is earning about 16 times what her’s is.)

You’d have sworn a cat was run over. She literally screamed. I actually thought something was wrong. It was just a realization taking place. Education hurts.

With the iciest stare I’ve ever seen, she states: “Why are you getting so much interest and I’m getting so little? Did you take more money than I have?”

It was funny.

I patiently explained that the Bank was having their way with her money. (I may have used a more graphic common verb which might be acceptable between married folk.) And, that passbooks were for children and little old ladies who didn’t know any better.

(OK, maybe that was a little harsh!)

Needless to say Our Girl was no fool. Monday at lunch time, she has her passbook converted to a statement savings account. By Wednesday, she has a Vangard Money Market account. And, by Friday, she is making non-tax deferred contributions to her Principal 401k at work.

And, the rest was history.

No more passbooks for her.

And, she never credited me with giving her any help.

ROFL!

The moral of the story is never try to help a headstrong smart Irish woman; just create a learning opportunity and stand aside.

Even today, I can hear that scream in my mind’s ear.

# # # # #

In one of our many trips, there was an interesting incident.

We were on our way to the casino at Niagara Falls. For some reason, we stopped at Turing Stone, an Indian casino. I remember it was out of our way. We hadn’t like it when we had been there before. But she wanted to go there for some reason and despite my lack of enthusiasm.

We were there, played for a while, lost, and eventually I asked if she was ready to go. (I’d lost my stake.) She said “no”. So we set a time, and I went to food court (or whatever you’d call it). Got a cup of coffee and read my book.

At the appointed time, we met up. She was ready to leave.

(I assume she had lost the amount she was prepared to lose. She hated to lose. At anything.)

As we’re walking to the exit, a granmotherly type is sobbing — you know “my dog died” type tears — sitting at a slot machine. Our Girl zoomed right over, put her arm around the woman, and said: “What’s wrong? Are you OK?” The lady sobbed out: “I’ve lost my wallet with my money for the week in it.”

(OK, my fraud alert radar went off. “Danger, Will Robinson”. Scam?)

Our Girl says: “It’ll be OK. We’ll help you.” (We will? Huh!)

Our Girl magically summons a Casino Worker. I hadn’t seen one most of the day. I knew they existed, but like Bigfoot, a legend. After conversation, an alert went out. A Casino Guard showed up. An executive. Another executive.

(At this point, I thought we were done. Not so, Our Girl. She kept her arm on the lady. Reassuring her.)

Shortly, 15 minutes or so, a Casino worker came with a wallet. The woman looked at it and found her Drivers License and credit cards in it. But no cash.

(My fraud alert is going to double alert status. What thief leaves the credit cards?)

The casino folks quietly exited stage left. The woman wasn’t their problem.

The woman started crying again. Our Girl asked why. “I had my money for the month. 200 dollars. I came and cashed my check. Then I played the odd money. But I always kept my money to live on for the rest of the month safely aside.”

Our Girl, without hesitation, whips out her “roll” — anyone, who knows her, knows how she liked cash — and gives the woman three one hundred dollar bills. The lady is profusely grateful and wants her address to pay her back. Our Girl replies: “No need. You help someone else out. I’ll get my reward in heaven.”

So they part company.

(I bite my tongue cause I think we have just been hustled.)

On the way out, at the last row, she says: “I want to play that machine over there.”

(Yeah, again, anyone who knows her, can guess the punchline.)

I whine that we’ve lost enough, getting late, yada yada. She says: “No, I want to play that one.”

“OK”, I reply, “do you want me to get lost?” (She always thought I brought her bad luck when I shadowed her.) “No, you can stay. We won’t be long.”

50¢ machine, 9 lines, 2 per line max.

She summons the “card seller / reloader”, gives a CNote, and gets 100 loaded on the card. Sticks it in. Presses max bet.

…

And, we wait ½ hour to get the tax forms for her $1900 win.

(The taxes were always MY problem. Argh!)

All the time, she just smiled at me smugly. She loved to win.

In the car, she said: “See, I always get back more than I give away.”

And, she did.

(I still think she was scammed.)

# # # # #

She told me once about her first game for HFA. As a freshman, she started. And for the first few minutes she just passed the ball to the seniors. Her coach pulled her out and she sat on the bench for a few minutes. Coach Mac then asked her: “You like being on the bench?” “No.” “If I put you back in, will you shoot?” “Yes.” Went back in at the half and scored 17. I believed her.

I’ll have to see if I can find her clippings. I know she had some. Shoulda grabbed them when I saw them.

# # # # # posted 2011-03-12 07:29