Reinke Faces Life

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

http://www.catholicnewsagency.com/news/fidelity-of-new-pastoral-ministry-program-at-university-of-dallas-questioned/

*** begin quote ***

He also noted that several teachers rely solely upon textbooks by authors who challenge Church teaching on important modern topics such as euthanasia and moral relativism, as well as who oppose Eucharistic adoration as outdated as unnecessary.

*** end quote ***

“euthanasia”

Having been thru a very personal end of life discussion, this line triggered an emotion.

Ever watch a basketball game where the score is lopsided and the end not in doubt. Having seen more than our fair share of them, Frau Reinke would always regard the end of game foul and time out nonsense with disgust. “The time for them to try harder was much earlier. This is just wasting time and postponing the inevitable.”

When her kidneys shut down and the next day’s blood test confirmed the facts of the matter, the decisions were left to me.

Not that there was much of decision. The end was written. It was just a question of how much struggle and pain would the patient be put through postponing the inevitable. It took four days. In one of her periods of clarity, she asked me: “What’s taking so long? When does it end?” All I could say, through tears, was “Soon. Patience. It’s all OK.” One of the things that I stopped was the antibiotic. The medical folks were perfectly happy to put a bottle of antibiotics in every eight hours that would cure an infection two weeks down the calendar. She lasted four days. We saved 12 bottle of antibiotic for some one who could use it. She was left undisturbed by tests, poking, and prodding. And, eventually, time ran out. At the end, there didn’t seem to be any pain. But the outcome was inevitable. I can understand how a loved one has to be let go sooner rather than later. And, I understand that it’s a slippery slope. Who decides? Certainly the people who want the best for the patient might be in the best position to make those decisions. It has to be a collaboration. The burden of that decision is a heavy one.

Even today, I wonder what I could have done differently, sooner, better.

And, we know that the “Shouldas, couldas, and wouldas!” will kill you.

But, issues of life and death deserve the ultimate of care.

# # # # #

Watching the Rutgers Women’s BBall team play on ESPNU.

I remember how we had season tickets to them since 1974. When they played in front of no crowd at College Avenue. Never missed a game in those early years. She used to pick me up at the train station from New York City to get there in time. She always said she was born two decades too soon. I think she saw herself in those girls and what might have been. When one of the “stars” would go Prima Donna, do something especially dumb, or lose their temper, she’s always say: “They have no idea how lucky they were.” A rare judgement of someone on her part. Some how I think she rooting for the RU women to play well. As she always did.

It was not about winning, but doing one’s best at all times. Winning was usually the result of that.

Donna Nobis Pacem!

# – # – #

Footnote: RU won and advanced.

# # # # # posted 2011-03-06 13:53

Just watched the PBS special “Celtic Women”.

I’m reminded of our trip to George Mason University to see them. This when Frau Reinke, while sick, was still able to do a lot. Nowhere near what she had be capable of in the past. After a bundle of screw ups, bad organization on the campus, and poor directions provided on campus. Eventually we figured it out and I was able to drop her right in front of the venue.

She absolutely LOVED the show.

Music, especially Irish music, was at her core. Regardless if it was the Red Garter, the many concerts — she allowed herself to be dragged to too many Judy Collins concerts — PP&M – Ray Charles – multiple folk groups, or endless Irish Pub crawls, she had the music in her heart and soul. She was a different person when the music was playing.

I always looked to get her to the music to see her transform.

In her last days, when she was in and out of consciousness, one day @1300 I had turned the TV to her favorite soap, Days Of Our Lives, which she had grown up with watching with her Mom, that I sarcastically called DrOOL, there it was the opening tune. She roused herself to the music, watched the opening scene, had sip of soda, and went back to the Land of Nod. Such was the power of music over her.

And, I’m sure her and her Mom are listening to the opening tune and watching DrOOL together every day @1300.

Donna Nobis Pacem.

# # # # # posted 2011-03-06 10:17