Reinke Faces Life

http://www.thenewstribune.com/2011/03/30/v-lite/1605041/near-record-sierra-snow-good-news.html

This picture triggered a memory from the mid to late Seventies.

I had an AT&T training mission to San Francisco. She took the time to go with me. I planned the flights to give us a long weekend in Reno. She was excited because we’d never been there before. Side trips to Virginia City and Tahoe. Fly back Tuesday afternoon not red eye; in at 1AM. I had work Wednesday.

Go! Flight out, great. San Fran, great. (But too many Dungeness Crabs fmpov!) She had a ball.

Mission complete. Checkout. Pack unlimited mileage Hertz. Up route 80 to Reno. Thru the Donner Pass. Discussion of the Donner Party. Notice the GIGANTIC snow rods on the roadside. Twice the height of the tractor trailers passing them. Automatic signs with the choices: road closed, 4 wheel drive only, chains required – all vehicles, chains required – trucks, chains recommended, caution, and clear. Made an impression on me. Those signs were new since the last time I drove the pass.

We checked into the hotel, played, and had a ball.

On Friday, I was watching the news. Weather forecasted snow starting Saturday at Noon. I make an executive decision: “Evacuate; Saturday morning.”

Needless to say, Our Girl was not pleased.

With her trademarked “prune face”, “Aren’t you over reacting?” I said: “I’ll take the car back down to Frisco. You can come down by bus or plane and I’ll meet you to go home. I can’t lose my job because of a little weather.” Maybe that scared her. Being alone in a strange city. She knew I’d never leave her unless the circumstances were exceptional. We were always joined at the hip. “Fine!!! we’ll go. What time Saturday?” “On the road by noon.” “Fine!!!” (Definitely not fine, but she was a trooper. No passive aggressive subtle sabotage. Decision was made; she saluted and carried on.) But, I don’t think we went to bed that night. As usual, she packed a lot of living into the time available.

But we were on the road about 11AM. Snow flakes were falling. Radio was reporting a bad storm was starting. I may have sped a little down 80. Hit the pass and the road sign was light “caution”. When we exited the pass about 30 minutes later, the sign was “chains required – all vehicles”. We cruised into San Fran, checked into an airport hotel for the Sat-Sun-Mon stay, dropped bags, and went for crabs. She was mollified. We went to a movie.

Returning to the hotel, the radio reported that the Donner Pass was closed for the next few days with more than 4 feet of snow.

She, in one of the few times I ever remember, says: “That was a good call.”

Treasured that. Didn’t happen too often. Those were few and far between. (Probably because there were few times one of us had to make a tough call and override the other. We always talked our way to consensus.)

I think the Gambling versus Dungeness Crabs tradeoff was a pretty even swap.

The Donner Pass reopened the follow Saturday.

Subsequently, whenever we did the “SanFran-Reno” dodge, she always say “Watch the weather.” I did, but we never had to pull the trigger like that.

Funny the stuff you remember.

# # # # #

They say that you are what you eat. I’d assert that you are what you sing.

Bear with me as I try to prove that assertion.

Now, folk singers, were, at that time, the modern equivalent of the troubadours of the Middle Ages. The words they sung had to be intelligible, unlike today. And, they would usually hit home and you’d attach to them. Invest them with a special meaning.

We were both Mitch Miller’s spiritual children. We both had different memories of the show. Her’s more special; mine less so. For her, it was family time. Although it was followed by the mandatory Gillete Friday Night Fights, which is probably the one time her Father, Jack, got to watch what he wanted. For my part, it was happy times since my maternal Grandmother loved the show, probably only second to Lawrence Welk.

My life had dragged me to the Red Garter, which was like Mitch Miller with beer and peanuts. I wandered into it somehow. It was down the street from the folk song’s spiritual home Gerdie’s Folk City. I was in the village because you could play chess for money, and modestly I was good enough to usually win. Especially if I could play Queen’s Gambit Declined; I had a PhD in that.

(Humorous aside, after my laying off Chess for decades, Luddite decided it was a good idea for us to play Chess. Remember he already had gotten from the Universe one lesson about “books and covers”; guess he needed another. Without thinking, I riffed off the first ten moves on QBD Exchange Positional. My absolute favorite if I could get to it; usually against those who never studied. He sent the message: ‘Wow, you have me stuffed.’ If he only knew how many people I inflicted that on to earn a profit. I told him I had once upon been rated. Not that he knew what that meant. But I did. At that time, I was smart and knew my limitations. And moved on to Gerdie’s. It’s in my book)

So I spent a lot of time in Gerdie’s. Did you know Beth Middler was frequenter? SO I saw this gorgeous blond take the stage and sing ‘Suzzane’. Old then, she had a beautiful voice. Wasn’t hard on the eyes either.

(There was some debate was who had the better single voice: Streisand, Lady Kazan, Beth Middler, or Judy Collins. The marketplace decided it was “barbara streisand”; I’m not so sure of that. Not that I was a qualified voice judge. I knew what I liked.)

So I attached to Suzzane as I dated. I was looking for that girl who would understand one weird fat “old” white guy injineer.

For some reason, Gerdie’s was closed one night. (Fire?) So I moved down to the Red Garter. It was “lively”. The next week, I brought some fellow injineers. It became our hang out.

(Little did I know Our Girl was there. Ships passing in the night. Unseen. For some reason, maybe the Universe had a “cloaking device”. Used it say, “all in due time, children, due time”. I know I would have noticed a hottie like her with a bevy of gal pals. Either my radar was off or that cloaking device was effective. It later turned out she knew all of my friends.)

So during this time, I was working the 4-12 at AT&T on Varick Street. In my section, I listened to a lot of Judy, PP&M, and a bunch of others.

Waiting for “the fullness of time”.

Our second date was at the Red Garter. And, I was hooked. After that, we also would hit Gerdie’s. Fridays at the Garter; Saturday’s Gerdie’s; Sunday’s at Feeney & Addie’s — pizza, beer, and music — in Bayonne (She had early curfew on Sundays).

Any place with music. She loved it as much as life. Her Mom had yelled her about grades with: “If you knew your lessons, as well as you do those songs, …”

We treked to concerts that were great and reflected our rapidly merging tastes: Dylan, Ray Charles, Kingston Trio, Pete Seger, Phil Ochs, Richie Havens, Burl Ives, Joan Baez, Cher, Simon & Garfunkel, just to name the ones I can think of. (I should have saved ticket stubs like Pattie Fife did.) Eventually, it became best represented by PP&M.

In the period after that refused July proposal, “don’t think twice” became the theme song and she’d say: “It’s just too soon. Keep trying. Maybe you’ll get lucky.” It was on the radio. So I had no control over it, but it seemed it got played a lot. We’d laugh that I had PAYOLAed the radio station to play it for our dated. Wish I could have.

But, determined to “win fair maiden’s hand”, I played “follow me” a lot. She’d always say: “That’s not going to work.” But she’d sing along. “For Bobby” would get the response “It would be nice to have a partner and children”. Psych warfare.

Well about 18 February 68, psych war won out.

(It was a Saturday afternoon. I came to pick her up for the obligatory Saturday night date. We weren’t pinned or steadies or any of that, but she did have my MC ring. I don’t know why the apartment was empty. But it was.)

A month before, it was the grades that finally won her over — an A (Yup, one of TWO I had in college), four Bs, five Cs. (No D’s, unheard of.) For a 2.6. She was pleased but was worried about the last semester and if I really would graduate. She was a witch about the details before she’d say yes.

So, I said “Before we go I have something to show you.” I had written a computer program and printed out all my grades and the calculations that demonstrated that in my last semester, if a I just showed up and passed — C’s in majors; D’s in minors, I would graduate. Final index 2.010308! In June 1968. I had Dean Somebody’s signature note “Yes, I agree you’ll graduate. I’m surprised, but you’ll make. This girl, Evlynn, has had a positive impact on you.” (She knew the Deans from the Engineers’ Balls. It was an obligatory howdy. But she’d remember the names. Funny, they remembered her too. And, spelled her name right too! Maybe that’s what it takes to be a “dean”.)

(Yes, I actually hit that “high point” on the nose. Never do too much to get over the bar. No matter how low. Just over by a smidgen. On a technical note. It was NOT possible to get a lower index and still graduate.)

Although, I confessed to her that I was realy worried. She drew in real close and got real serious: “What’s the matter?” With as doleful a look as I could muster, “I may not win the anchor pool and I won’t be able to afford to get married.” She slapped me across my face — hard, exclaiming “You are a clown!”, and then laughed herself sick about how I had sucked her in. When she calmed herself down, she went to the ladies room, and freshened her face from the tears. When she returned, I said “So, I guess it’s official now, we can get married? We’ve satisfied the Moms.” She said very quietly: “Yes”.

(For those of you worried about the “anchor pool”, I won it. Over $900. Intended for the poor soul who barely graduated and would have a hard time finding a job. Yup, that was me. “Poor Soul”. Oh, btw, I also had the highest starting salary in the class. A fact that made Dean What’s His Name shake his head. AT&T promoted me to shift supervisor when I notified them that February I’d fulfilled the requirements for graduation. Upon graduation, and giving them a copy of my diploma, I was again promoted to Programming Supervisor. I was already one of their best programmers in the Treasury Operations Division. Programmers were as scarce as hen’s teeth. They gave me a programmer’s class date. Had to be retrained the Bell System way. But, that had to be deferred until after the USAF. Needless to say we were rolling in dough. At least, I thought so until I hit Wall Street. All through our lives, we used to say “Computers have been very very good to me.”)

At that point, our music taste changed: “blowin in the wind” and “cruel war” became our theme songs.

Graduation, extra courses, the summer of 69, draft, formal engagement, enlistment, and it was all a blur.

In the lead up to 01 February 70, “leaving on jet plane” became our theme.

Things worked out, and 19 December 70, our theme changed again “hawaiian love song”

On the trips to and from Washington, Cher’s “i got you babe” echoed along with “we ain’t got a barrel of money”.

(Air Force pay was shitty. Her brother did our income tax and would laugh wickedly as he’d give me the forms to sign. I’d say: “Laugh now; this too shall pass.” Boy, how she worried about money then.)

Our Girl was the music of my life.

Now the song is “Nothing Lasts Forever” by Judy Collins

*** begin quote ***

Nothing lasts forever you should know that by now Good times, Heartache You’ll get through this trouble though you may not know how Your heart won’t break If you have a vision of your destiny Tears can’t stop you Hidden in your heart is everything you can be You’ll be fine Nothin’ lasts forever, Nothin lasts forever, Nothin lasts forever

*** end quote ***

Yes, you are what you sing. Especially when you have Our Girl as your partner.

# # # # #

Our Girl had been working at Weldotron for awhile. The 401k became a hot item for retirement planning. One of the honchos at Weldotron decided they’d convert from a defined benefit plan to a define contribution plan. Our Girl was not happy. As a Bell System girl, she knew that pensions were important not to be on dog food in your old age. She knew several retirees who had Bell System pensions and some that didn’t. So working on Wall Street, I told her I’d look into the options, but given the stiff penalties for screwing around with pensions I was confident it was on the up and up.

So the number crunchers went to work. Inventoried everyone who was a participant. Did the age adjusted distribution. Then the you know what hit the fan.

(In a surprising fit pique, Our Girl was upset. One of the women lied about her age when she was employed. So, the woman was three years older than the woman told everyone. Thus, was then entitled to more. When the list was produced, Our Girl, who was younger and worked for them longer, got much less than the “liar”. “The woman should be fired for lying.” No matter who explained, including me, or how many times it was explained, she just refused to accept it. Based on an age adjusted calculation, all employees shared “equally”.)

(Boy, was she pig headed! She ranted on that for years.)

So, then the new plan was “turned on”. I told her that now she had the right to make additional after-tax contributions to her 401k account. She wasn’t to sure about it since NO ONE else was doing it. But, I urged her to do it. (She was still saving in her passbook savings account at this point. Although not too long after this, she went to a money market account.) She went to HR, who went to various honchos, who went to the plan attorney, who went to the plan operator. Once Our Girl was onto something, she was unstoppable. Eventually it was opined that she could contribute proportionally up until the plan hit the “highly compensated executives” limit. Since no one else was doing it, she could essentially put in as much as she wanted. (Even two CPAs didn’t know this, but she did. Thanks to the head of 401k plans at Shearson.)

So, spin the VCR up a decade or a decade and a half, Weldotron was spinning the bowl. And, the 401k has to be shut down. Everyone has to identify where they want to roll it over to. No big deal.

Then about two weeks later, Our Girl gets the mail and finds me grousing how the 401k plan screwed up. “The fools sent me a check.” I looked at it and said: “It says post tax contribution. It’s yours.” “No, it’s wrong.” “OK, call them”.

(She calls. Long conversation.)

She calls to me in tears. (You know “my dog died” level of crying.) I asked: “What’s wrong?” I literally had no idea what could possibly be wrong.

“It’s mine. I can’t take it. It’s too much money. How could that be?”

I explain compound returns during a hot market over decades!

“What will I do?”

“Whatever you want, hon. It’s yours.”

“Let’s give ⅓ away. Save a ⅓. And go to Vegas with the rest.”

So that’s what she did. It was a great trip! But we didn’t spend anywhere near a ⅓. It was a BIG check.

(It was very cute. Guess you really had to be there.)

# # # # #

Ev would have been tickled to see this picture. I’d have given anything if she could have seen the twins’ reaction to it. She’d have probably wanted it bigger. :-) You know, nock your socks off bigger. ROFL!

# – # – # – # – # 2011-Apr-01 @ 21:37

Update: I’m told that the twins love it. That would make Our Girl happy. All she wanted was for children to be happy and have their wildest dreams. Guess it was her “early poverty” experience speaking.

# – # – # – # – # 2011-Apr-03 @ 08:32

1967-09-XX Sexy IH Scout

April 1, 2011

I went on a long planned trip to Oregon / Reno / LV / AZ shortly after our second date. If the trip had happened before Ev, who knows if I’d have even come home. I loved the West. She teased me about the Scout, saying “it was one of a kind”, and that “You bought the only one.” When we hit the ground in AZ, I found its “sister”. A photo-ed it to prove it. Why she saved this picture, beats me? Maybe it was the rugged outdoors image of Little Johnie Reinke that she found irresistible? Must have meant something for her to save it. Didn’t girls judge boys by the car they drove? Guess this drove her wild! LOL!!

# # # # #

> Marge says you need to rescan the evy articles…you tried to cram them all on one page and you can’t
> read some of them. Then we can print out here and read!

Don’t have originals. I’ll have to see what I can do with what I got. I read one under a magnifying glass and she scored 15 of the team 30 points. That sounds like Ev.

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. I bet she tossed them as “embarrassing”.

# – # – #

Our Girl told me another story. That I confirmed during one of the few times I met Coach Mac.

It seems that, at Holy Family Academy, some of the teams they played were somewhere between inept and clueless. She never understood why up by 30 against a team that couldn’t score, Coach Mac kept her and the other starters in the game.

(As the fellow, whom she taught everything he knows about basketball, I understand there are several reasons for doing this. You can’t turn your offense on and off. You have to motivate your bench to work harder, get better, and EARN playing time. It’s a game of momentum and runs. Just because you are beating the pants off someone, doesn’t mean that the basketball gods don’t teach you a lesson in humility. And, if an opponent has a glimmer of hope and thinks they can win, then they can.)

She used to say: “Never understood running up the score. Never understood not letting everyone play. I used to try extra hard thinking that if we had a big enough lead, she <Coach Mac> would put the other kids in. In my junior year, when I was feeling my oats, I asked her. She told me gruffly: “I’ll coach; you play.” But she did relent and put in the subs a few minutes later. And even though I hated to sit the bench, I cheered extra hard for the subs.”

Her gal pals were shocked that she said anything to the Coach. No one had ever done that.

That’s Our Girl, fearless. And even at that age, worried about how others felt.

# – # – #

No wonder her grammar school girls teams loved to play for her. She was in it for them and only them.

And, when she had her dream 28-1 team, she never ran up the score. A lesson she learned from HFA.

And, if the flu wasn’t rampant that one Sunday — her two #1 guards, both excellent, were out completely and her #2 guard (the one that shoots) was shaky but had to move to #1 duty, she’d have been perfect. That didn’t bother her; she was just thrilled for “her girls” that they could experience the joy of a great team.

(Her team was so good that year, the league officials wanted to throw her out of the league. Good Catholic gentlemen! All the other coaches and league officials were men; Our Girl was the only woman. Probably couldn’t stand the thought of being beaten by a girl. What could she know! Our girl was upset but too nice to call them on it. … … … However, this was a job for “Grumpy Nasty Fat Young Injineer”. Me! Don’t mess with my wife! I spoke up and threatened to take it to the bishop, the various pastors of their respective churches, and the newspapers. They backed off. They didn’t like it, but there was no more talk of ejecting her team because they were “too good”. I may have even use a few nautical terms in convincing them.)

(She had a friendly rivalry with the coach of the nearby Saint Matthias. He was a star in high school and played college. Not great, but good. He had visions of being a great coach. And I think secretly coaching college. So, Our Girl’s team usually played a 2-2-1 press and a 2-3 zone with a man2man every once in a while to mix it up. During the game, if she yelled “mix it up”, then the girls would play the “mix it up” defense. She knew that this rival coach was after her scalp. So the week before the game, she started the first practice of the with: “OK, how would you girls like to learn something new?” This group was a dream because they were hooked from the word “like”. She taught them a 2-1-2 press and a 3-2 zone with a 1-3-1 zone as the mix up. And instead of yelling “PRESS” or “MIX IT UP”, for that week the words were “BOYS” and “GIRLS”. She floored him. His kids virtually couldn’t get the ball up until the second half. At half time, he adjusted. So did she; she went back to the old tactics. Our Girl was no fool. If he could adjust at half time, so could she. After the game, he came over and gave her a big hug and kiss. “Thanks for not running up the score. You really beat me badly. I was ready for your old team and was stunned that you had a new team.” She grinned and said “Nothing but my best effort for you. It was fun. And, I’d never run up the score. Doesn’t teach kids anything.” And, she laughed about it for months.)

Boy, I miss her, her drive, and that laugh. An Irish Vixen. Although when crossed, she could morph into another word for a female. But, she NEVER had a harsh word for any child. Even girls, who played for her, and played badly or didn’t try, would get encouragement. More than once during a game, I’ve seen her call time out, leave the team with her assistants (Tom and I), and go speak to a father about, as she put it, “encouragement; not criticism”. Fearless protecting “her girls”. Fathers never crossed her lines twice. Would have been interesting to see. While she never usually ever said a bad word, I know she knew them. (Addressed them to me from time to time, when I had some fool idea or did something dumb.) She always was a lady. A fierce competitor. And a real true feminist. Her girls were “winners” to her, even if they lost every game.

Yup, I miss her.

# – # – #

After HFA, she played semi-pro with Coach Mac, in the Bayonne Beer Leagues. I can’t imagine two more fierce competitors. It was during this that she picked up the nickname “elbows”. (Which my Uncle Big John some how found out. I never knew that until he told me. She was in awe of him for being a Golden Glove Champ. So maybe she shared stuff with him. Champ to Champ.) I understand that not only was there some “renumeration for playing”, but there were also “bonuses for winning” depending upon how much the sponsoring bar won. “I’m shocked, shocked to find that gambling is going on in here!” Captain Renault in Casablanca. Me too. Shocking. A fine upstanding young Catholic woman being sponsored and “kept” by a establishment focused on drinking and gambling.

I married her to get her away from all of that sin and bad influences.

(She would have had to quit anyway. Quad leg separations two weeks before our wedding. Doc told her “to wheelchair down the aisle”; she said “wanna bet”. Come to think of it, she had an early start make fools out of docs who predicted things about her.)

I wonder what could have been. If she’d been born two decades later? Or, if she had had the money for college? We’ll never know. But if wither of those had happened, I’d have missed the best 43 years possible in my life.

I know I miss her now. Even sick as she was, she could still make me laugh.

# # # # #

Update: I’ve been corrected it was FIVE weeks before her wedding.

# – # – # – # – # 2011-May-26 @ 11:43

RECEIVED FROM NIECE-IN-LAW (Of whom the State of New Jersey say is no longer related for inheritance tax purposes)

My neighbor sent me a note today- she has been here for many parties- and remembers Auntie Ev fondly. Wanted to share it with you. She wrote:

Dear Megan,

The joy you and your family gave your Aunt was obvious. I can picture her arriving at your house and scanning the activity taking place. As she discovered the where-abouts of each of your children her face would light up. It didn’t seem possible, but as each of your children acknowledged her presence her face brightened even more. Whether their greeting was a distant wave, a hug, or showing or telling your aunt some news, she was delighted by the interaction. I am sure you have many memories of your Aunt to treasure. I am glad I have this one.

Sincerely,
XXX

# – # – #

Thanks. Nice to know that it was seen by even strangers.

# – # – # – # – # 2011-Mar-28 @ 13:27

Our Girl was always great with my family. Sometimes I though that they loved her more and I was the tolerated in-law. She always went out of her way to accommodate them; even when it was clearly unreasonable. Mowing Grandma’s lawn even though it meant she had to drive the slow riding lawn mower around the block once a week in the hot sun with the dog on a leash for Grandpa. “Meals on wheels” for my Mom. And, doing all the things that needed to be done that needed a woman’s touch. All without complaining.

One reason that Grandma and Grandpa loved her was that, as sound as she realized they were both deaf as stones, she “spoke” to them at the top of her lungs. She used her “basketball court voice” that she developed coaching. When she called a play, teams in the next county were trying to run it. She’d often come home horse and I’d have a headache. But they loved her visits.

So, we’re on one of our road trips in New England. Our Girl pipes up, as were coming down 95, “Let’s swing up Route 7 and visit your Aunt Marion.” Huh? I barely knew that she knew that I had an Aunt. Guess my look said it all. “Grandma was worried so I told her we’d check on her. And, I called Aunt Marion and said we might be by.” Guess it slipped her mind to mention it to me, or maybe she didn’t want to deal with my reaction. It really wasn’t that big a deal. Turn left at Route 7 and three hours or so of more driving, and we’re at Aunt’s house.

We visit. Now Aunt Marion and Grandma were sisters that look alike, dress alike, and sound alike. Our Girl carries on a conversation with Aunt about all sorts of things. With her “coach voice”. Eventually Aunt goes to the WC. I say sotto voce “Ev, it’s Aunt Marion, not Grandma. Aunt’s hearing is perfect.” She looked like she’d kissed a frog, or a fat old white guy injineer.

Aunt comes back and Ev apologizes profusely. Aunt generously says: “That’s fine child. I knew what you were doing. When I talk to Sister, I have a sore throat after. She’s really vain about the hearing aids Micky bought her.” Ev was red. But by the end of the trip, she was laughing about it. We had to go directly to Grandma’s, despite the hour, so Ev could report in. I suggested we do it the next morning because it was so late. Our Girl vetoed that with her trademark scowl. So we went.

She was right! Grandma was sitting up alone in the middle of the night waiting for Our Girl’s report. They sat and chatted and Ev gave her all the details. We got home when the Sun was coming up.

Maybe that’s why I love her? She was a kind soul that would go out of her way to reassure a pair of Sisters to whom she had no real obligation to. And, she even tolerated me going along. Not that I had a choice. It was always her way. And, that way usually turned out to be right in so many ways.

She made the world a better place and me a better person. And, I miss her more each day.   

# # # # #

MEMORIES: Went down the shore, but …

… It’s just not the same.

On the way down, I didn’t listen to the political shows. Like you tolerated. When you were having those bad days, I put the oldies. I know you were back going to the shore with your gal pals many decades ago. I didn’t want to disturb the happy illusion. Even when you sang the ”Bayonne” lyrics to Petula Clark’s Downtown. That’s how I knew where and when you were.

It was your kind of day. Cold. Street breeze. Tiny waves, sorry.

Parked by the house. Test the size of the posters. Yeah, you’d be suitably embarrassed. They are large. I’ll need H’s help to put them up correctly. Have to behind the faux frame. They should last eons. Much to your chagrin.

Some tourists taking their pics in front of the Jersey Shore house. What rubes! To worship at a shrine to what?

Left the car by the house, walked to Casino Pier, for the exercise, played poker. In those dumb machines.

I was going to have fries if I lost. And lunch if you won. Just like we always did. Cheapest beer if I had to pay. Top shelf if it was on you. … All to hear you pseudo whine “sure when I’m buying, nothing but the best”. Ahh the games we used to play.

But the casino pier manageress broke the spell and asked where you were, looking around for you. What could I do but tell her?

I just finished and left. Unable to complete the mission.

But Jimbo’s was still closed for the season. Any way.

So I went to Klee’s but it’s just not the same.

Maybe it just too soon?

Can’t even think of a good “Church” quote to cover it!

Argh!

# # # # #

Song lyric when I was driving down: “And what am I gonna do when the best part of me was always you.”

# # # # #

John,

I just wanted to offer you my deepest sympathies and condolences at this time. I’ve not seen this sooner otherwise I would have replied earlier.

I’ll always have very fond memories and even though we only met and knew each other for a short time, I will certainly always remember the way she welcomed me into her home and life.

With sympathy,
Matt

# – # – # – # – # 2011-Mar-26 @ 07:58

In going thru her jewelry box, I found “my” id bracelet. Boy did that bring back memories.

Remember I was in college when we met, the “meat grinder” in Viet Nam was in full operation. All college students were automatically granted a student deferment. So I was given that deferment when I entered Manhattan College.

As a result of arm twisting by both our mothers, she “decided” that she wanted to wait to marry until I graduated. I wasn’t overjoyed at that, but it was 3 against 1. And these were all “pig headed” Irish women. You might convince one; three, never!

I graduated in 1968.

But, since MC offered, I took advanced electronics courses which extended my deferment until June, 1969. Minutes after my fifth year (automatic) deferment extension expired, I was drafted. Based on the “meat grinder”, I wanted to wait to marry until we understood what my military obligation would be. It wouldn’t be fair to her to make her a young widow. She had girl friends, who had that happen to them, and they were destroyed. If something happened to me, it would be bad. (Especially bad from my point of view.) If we were married, it would be far harder. Maybe even with children? I had options in the military — get drafted into the Army (And off to the Republic of.), Naval Aviator (Yeah, with my eyesight, they’d give me a plane? Over Viet Nam!), and USAF with no promises at all (But a lot less percentage involvement in the “meat grinder”?).

We talked about it. I volunteered for the USAF and took my chances. They gave me a report date of 2/1/70. Hey, six months of partying! And, I could continue to work at AT&T to pay for it.

Long story short, she wasn’t happy about waiting. I egotistically thought that she thought I was being a reluctant groom having second thoughts. Even after I reassured her that she had me “hooked”, she was still on edge. She really understood why I wanted to wait but never shared her fears. Maybe I was stupid, but I really hadn’t thought about it at all. I thought it would be a good six months; what did I know. She was zoned on the news reports from “Republic of”. I didn’t know it then, but I did later that she was imagining the worst. And the long six months took a terrible toll on her.

We’d already been saving for the wedding and starting a new life. So, during this six month extension, “we decided” to accelerate that savings. She “would help me” manage “our” money. (And I had no prenup.) Each payday, all my overtime and a good chunk of my pay went into the “wedding” passbook savings account at Pramapo Bank. Every Friday, she’d take her paycheck and also make a deposit. (I was never privy to that bit of “high finance”. And, would tease her mercilessly about it. But, she never let me see the bank book. For fear I’d want to spend some?) The six months just flew. Thanksgiving, Christmas, my birthday, we just lived. The uncertainty was never discussed.

Finally it was January 31st, I was bunking over on her Mom’s couch. We spent that night just holding on. Neither of us slept much. As the dawn broke, I got ready to leave. I was taking the PATH to the Subway to the Brooklyn Induction Center on Jay Street. Had to report at 10AM. We had adopted “Leaving on a Jet Plane” as our song and had agreed that my first leave after finding that I wasn’t going to “Republic of” we’d wed. As I was ready to go, she gave me a present.

I opened it and it was the afore mentioned ID bracelet.

She made me promise to wear it so that she would know for sure. She didn’t have say sure of what, but that was obvious as the MIA counts went up daily. I knew that I couldn’t wear it on duty, but I humored her. She spent very little money on it. It was obviously very cheap. She told me she did that deliberately so that it wouldn’t be stolen by a body robber. That was grim. We were grim. She left me at the landing. She wasn’t crying. My allergies were acting up when I hit the street for my cab up to Journal Square.

Fast forward.

After basic training, I got the word that I was going to be assigned to Maryland for Language School for a year, then some schools, and then assigned to USAFSS in Laurel MD. I called her collect; she was ecstatic. (Would not be so happy when she got the phone bill!)

I hit language school 01 October and they gave us the schedule. It stated we were on mandatory leave at Christmas time. Another collect call and she went crazy. Not about the future phone bill, but the time interval. I told her we could wait until I got another leave in June. She wasn’t hearing that and pulled together a great wedding in record time.

The rest was history. Since it’s purpose was past, I returned the ID Bracelet to her when I outprocessed from USAF in December 1973. (Maryland was never invaded while I was on duty.) She was happy to take it back. I hadn’t seen that bracelet until the other day when I was cleaning out the jewelry box.

I’ll carry that from now on.

# # # # #

As most reading this will know, we affectionately refer to Evlynn as ‘our girl’ … most everyone does when referring to her.  It’s like a badge of honor, being allowed to say “she was our girl” … proud to have had the opportunity to know her.

My relationship with Ev goes way back to 1971, when I was working at NSA while in the Navy, and I had met this great guy John who was in the Air Force at the time, and also working at NSA.  We hit it off quite well, and he even helped me learn how to program in FORTRAN … which proved to be quite valuable, as I am working on 40 years now in Information Technology.  If I didn’t thank you back then buddy, I certainly do now!

But back to Ev … I found out that my new buddy John was pretty smart, because he had married Evlynn! John had invited Marge (my wife) and I to a ‘hootenanny’ (don’t ask, it was a 70’s phenomenon … and that’s a whole other story in itself!) with he and his new bride. We had both gotten married around the same time it turns out, and John wanted us to meet ‘his Evlynn’. Well we had a blast at that hootenanny, and then at several other times with John and Ev…at their apartment, and at ours … young military newlyweds with a lot in common (we liked board games and card games, except John won all the time!).  We also liked an adult beverage on occasion, and sometimes on several occasions!  [You know how those young people are.]

I could write tons about “our girl” Evy, about how caring she always was, how super generous she was, and just someone that you wanted to be around … she made you feel good.

But for this memory moment, for this time of thinking about Ev … I have decided to comment on something that John mentioned on his blog … about Ev and her basketball prowess, and how she humiliated several of his ‘macho’ buddies.

One weekend we all decided to head out to Williamsburg, VA, and we stayed at a beautiful golf resort called Kingsmill on the James (nothing but the best for us!). I think we went to Busch Gardens and then maybe to dinner one night … when we got back to the ‘condo’ it was still light out so we decided to take a walk around the resort property. Well we stumbled upon a huge building and were curious about what was inside … we peeked in and it was a full gymnasium!  Complete with basketballs laying around, and open nets waiting to be ‘swished’.  We started fooling around, shooting some shots and passing the balls around … and Ev says, “Hey Frenchy (my nickname), want to shoot a game of HORSE?”

My first reaction was to laugh … and I think I did, something like “Are you kidding?  Play HORSE against me?”  And Ev said, “Sure, why not?”

I wasn’t any superstar by the longest shot, but I played some intramural basketball in high school, and I had a pretty good shot.  I think I asked if she wanted ‘a spot’, you know…like I have to play until I get HORSE, but she only had to get to HOR to win…something like that.  I think I insulted her … because she said “NO, just shoot”, and passed me the ball.  Well the rest is a short story, I think she beat me “H” to “HORSE” … in other words she spanked me bad.  I recall asking for a rematch, since that had to be a fluke.  But then I think she shut me out the second game … HORSE to zero!

So now my new buddy’s wife, who was also fast becoming our best buddy too … had a whole new level of respect from me! Not only was she a great person, by gosh, she could play some hoops too!

I recall her husband John watching all this with a smug look on his face … he knew how it was going to turn out. Of course it wasn’t until later that I found out how good she was on her high school team, and then also played some semi-pro ball as well!

On some of our later visits to their house in NJ, we used to watch Ev coach “her girls” … at St. A’s where her teams were always sharp in their play, whether they were highly skilled or not. You could see how good a coach she was too … I think one year they only lost one game. So … you can see, “our girl” was something else … multi-talented and a good sport too, I don’t think she rubbed it in too much after my embarrassing defeat.
And it wouldn’t have been so embarrassing if I hadn’t tried to give her a spot at the beginning … that probably just made her mad.  :-)   We love you and miss you girl … just one of the many stories I could tell about Ev, as Marge and I were blessed all these years by knowing her.

Thanks for the memories Ev.

Dear John-

Thank you so much for sharing this great picture. I’ve forwarded it on to my fashionable siblings. I guess I wasn’t old enough to make the cut for the picture.

I have so many wonderful memories of Ev. I used to love when she would take me for rides in her Covair – boy, did I think I was cool then! Taking me for Italian ice, or a burger and a shake on a Saturday afternoon – I so looked forward to spending time with her. Although I was probably her pesky little cousin, I think Ev actually enjoyed my company and took me places voluntarily – unlike my sister who was forced to take me everywhere she went. Joyce must have loved Ev spending time with me too – it meant she didn’t have to! Joyce told me Ev taught her how to drive and also took her to take her driving test. She was like a big sister to both of us. And like everyone else on 8th Street, Joyce, Jeff and I all learned how to shoot hoops from Cousin Ev. Driving home from her funeral, I remembered something about Ev that I had forgotten all about – When I was a Girl Scout at St. Mary’s, one of the other GS troops was going to Palisades Park. MY troop was not going and I was heartbroken. Two weeks later, guess who took me to Palisades Park?? I think she even brought Patty Ann along for the trip – and maybe you were there too? I have to admit, I was none too pleased when you came on the scene thinking she wouldn’t have time for me anymore, but of course, that was not the case! Not only did she continue to make time for me but fulfilled the dream of every young girl and had me as a “Junior Bridesmaid” in your wedding! I tell you, if I thought I was cool riding in her Covair, THAT just topped it all!!

I hope you are coping okay. I can’t even begin to imagine how difficult it must be. She was such a special person and she just touched so many people with her kindness and love. You are in my prayers and I hope you are able to find some comfort in all the great memories you have of her.

If you come across any more of these priceless photos, please share them with me.

Thanks John – Will keep in touch.

Love,
XXX

# – # – #

Ahh, the Corvair! No one probably knows that back in the Eighties when we were flush, I offered to buy her a “fun car” like her old Corvair. She wisely said no, “You can NEVER go back to what you were.” Wise woman.

She loved to be around people. So you probably gave her as much joy as you received.

Your going to Palisades Park story doesn’t surprise me. She wanted every child to be happy. No, I wasn’t on the scene yet. Maybe her old boyfriend. She was a “catch” and I know she could have her pick of the litter. And, I know of at least two suitors were unhappy when he took herself “off the market”.

I’d didn’t see any rejection by any of her family. Once I past the “Peg” test, and she was assured of my honorable intentions, she even gave everyone the word that “I was Ev’s choice”. She was the “energizer bunny” and made time for everyone. It wasn’t until she got sick did she have to recognize her limitations. I’m glad you enjoyed the wedding. She put together her “dream wedding”.

Coping? If feels funny not to have medical people to supervise while cajoling her into going along with the “fun”. She did make an impression on one fat young white guy injineer. Two dates and I was “hooked”. Took me a while to sell her on the idea. Even Peg was worried that we were so different. Guess it worked out.

Thanks for the prayers and kind words. I’ll send you invites to the other pictures. I’m scanning and putting up as I can. It’s a sad chore.

You’re most welcome. I’m happy to “share” her with you again.

Donna Nobis Pacem

# – # – # – # – # 2011-Mar-23 @ 20:11

Over the past weeks, I know that people had a question. One of my old far away friends asked. So I’ll put it out here that others may take a lesson from Frau Reinke’s experience.

We were married a few years and, despite making all the plumbing parts operate, no children were produced.

Her Mom broached the subject and suggested a plumbing check.

We were in Maryland, and I wasn’t comfortable with USAF “medicine”. So we went to an expensive private doctor that we paid with our own money.

So, I went first. (Not too embarrassing.) And, I got a passing grade.

She went through a bunch of tests with no trouble found. (Yeah, and you wonder why I have such a high opinion of “medicine”.)

Her Mom passed. We had the tumult of her coming home to help her Brother and Dad. I got an early out in December and went back to work at AT&T. Her mission at home finished, we got an apartment near AT&T. (Hidden Lakes.)

She wasn’t the housewife type. But, I urged a repeated test. On the theory that two independent doctors might give a different answer. We did them over with an expensive Princeton doc. (Embarrassing Squared! Had to tell the doc about my first test. Then repeat it. That was “unpleasant”.)

Still, no trouble found!

Around that time, she got “sick”. Malaise. Gradually losing all her energy. That was most unlike my “energizer bunny”. So after this “flu” didn’t go away after a week, we were banging on the doc’s door. He diagnosed her with “depression” and RXed her with sedatives. Needless to say, she then was sleeping 20 hours a day. Talk about no energy? She had no life. And I was getting crazed.

About that time, AT&T offered a new idea in healthcare — an HMO. (RCHP) And, it was (a) cheaper; and (b) offered a more complete coverage. So, I figured what could I lose. And, Frau Reinke was in no shape to object. So I signed up. That day I received from AT&T HR an enrollment package. I filled it out immediately. Heath history as best I knew it. Frau Reinke could barely stay awake to talk let alone give me intelligent cooperation. So I put them in the same day, I got them. That was Friday.

Sunday night about 6PM, I got a strange phone call. It was “Doctor Ron” who had been assigned to us. And, he wanted me to bring Frau Reinke to the HMO center immediately. Wow! I did. He did the first of what would be lifetime of finger pricks and a quick blood glucose test. She was “HIGH”. He gave her a shot of regular insulin. Forty units as I remember it. Said to go home have her eat something substantial now, and be back first thing in the morning fasting. He said it was obvious to him from the intake questionnaire that she was diabetic. But it had to be confirmed. When I asked him about “depression”, he said that was absurd. And, that I should sue for malpractice.

The rest of that was history. Then next day the fasting blood sugars with a glucose chaser confirmed Type 1 (“Brutal”) diabetes. She left with a bunch of RXes. We started that day with an N injection in the morning, and R before every meal.

Doctor Ron was kool and Frau Reinke really loved him. His advice was to just do her best but that it would be hard for her to keep her BG in the normal range. His sister was a brutal type 1 so he had empathy. (Only doc I ever heard that told a diabetic it was OK to have some ice cream. But just enough to satisfy a craving.) He was gentle as he gave her the bad news that she’d find it impossible to get pregnant. And, that she couldn’t worry about her weight either. That would be only as controlled as her BG permitted.

So, unfortunately, Ev and I could never have kids. And in those days they didn’t have the turkey basters and chemistry experiments that allow everyone from 70 year old women to strange men to have kids.

But she was a tough girl. She announced: “We can adopt!”

So, we tried to adopt. Spent a small fortune and jumped through innumerable hoops. Only to be told “We didn’t qualify because with the diabetes, Ev would not live long enough to raise a child.” Cross my heart. That’s what she was told. Broke her heart. Cried for hours. Then she dusted herself off and found a little girls bball team to coach. And went and got a job.

She loved children because she was a child herself at heart.

Upon reflection, I should have sued or shot that doctor, strangled that social worker, and litigated the issue of diabetes as a disqualifier.

Lesson to be learned: Never believe a bureaucrat; regardless of whether their Gooferment or from a private agency. Don’t take someone’s “no” for an answer. If you want it, go for it and, don’t let anyone kid you, where there’s a will, there’s a way.

I regret I wan’t as pushy then as I am now. Maybe H is correct? I should write that book.

# # # # #

*** begin quote ***

2010-05-20

{Extraneous Deleted}

This bowel prep has not gone as easily as I thought it would. The GoLitely sucks. I find it had to drink. Hope that I drank enough. Sorry but I should have kept my mouth shut about using up this forty dollar bucket of crap. Hope I never have to do this again. Argh. 63 plus 10 = 73. SO I won’t be doing it again.

What will my life be like in ten years?

Will I be alone? Will I have buried Ev? Odds odd I will have. The Blood Doc wouldn’t give her a five year prognosis. And, the DIABETIC DOC had a hang doc look when she told him. SO clearly we are on the final stretch. What will I do without her. My own laundry for sure.

Where did my life go?

How can I communicate that? Rage at the dying of the light!

Rodney Dangerfield’s performance sticks in my mind. Have to watch that again. Like Groundhog day, it is strangely prophetic.

{Extraneous Deleted}

*** end quote ***

# – # – #

I’m cleaning up old files and notes off McBa. Prophetic? I knew we were drawing to short odds. Makes me mad. Perhaps if the situation was explained better, I’m sure she would have made different decisions about how to spend the time she had. Running from doctor to doctor was a waste of time. I wonder if they really knew it. Argh!

Oh well, water under the bridge.

# # # # #

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.)

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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/

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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.

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“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.

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