Thirteen Fourths

 

Today’s my wife Lucy’s birthday. I’ll be taking her out this coming Friday at the Texas Roadhouse for a steak dinner.  She already has everything in this world she needs or wants, at least that’s the way things appear.  If she needed or wanted anything she’d have had it by now.

She requested I bake a cake for her, a simple wish that I could accomplish without destroying her kitchen. She made sure to supervise and suggest rather than leave anything to chance.  Bobby Flay has nothing to worry about.

I used one of the store-bought cake mix boxes with simple instructions on the back panel. One package of mix, 1 cup of water, 1/3 cup of oil, and 3 eggs (without shells).  To keep it within my range of abilities, this was all placed into a greased 9 X 13-inch clear glass baking dish.  The photo was taken after it came out of the oven.  I’ll spread some store-bought chocolate icing over it once the cake has had a chance to cool down.

You might wonder about the title, Thirteen Fourths. 

When I was about seven or eight years old going to elementary school, we were learning how to work with fractions.  I’d figured out how they operated and considered myself ‘adequate’ in their use. 

My mother’s birthday was in June, and it would be a nice gift if I were to make her a birthday cake.  I’d watched her make cakes before and it didn’t look all that difficult.  All I’d need to do was find the recipe card and follow the instructions.

I should mention that all my mother’s recipe cards were handwritten, a beautiful example of script as was expected of young ladies growing up in her time period.  She liked to use a shade of blue ink that made it look even more refined; each letter or number being defined against the white index card.

I went down the list of items needed, placing each on the countertop. I didn’t think about anything other than following the instructions to the letter.  If I’d been a chef; but I’m getting ahead of myself.

The cake looked like it was supposed to when it came out of the oven.  I spread chocolate icing over the top, placed candles in a neat circle and presented it for the family to enjoy after dinner.

I noticed right away that it was a tad difficult for the knife to cut into as each piece was placed onto a dessert plate.  Eating the cake was something of a challenge as well.  It took quite a bit of milk to be able to swallow a piece of cake.  I was beginning to think perhaps I’d made a mistake while following the instructions.

Mom, being a gentle woman trying to keep my feelings in check asked me to show her the index card, the one I’d used to make her such a beautiful and thoughtful creation.  If that sounds a bit over the top, she was doing her best to keep me from crying.

I showed her the recipe along with the scratch paper I’d used to calculate how much flour was called for.  Ah, therein was the answer. 

Her handwritten instructions called for 1 ¾ cups of flour; however, since I’d learned how to reduce fractions this was literally a “piece of cake”.  There wasn’t all that much space between the 1 and the 3 / 4.  No problem, that was easy to figure out, 13/4.  Divide 4 into 13, comes to…a whole lot more flour than 1 ¾.

So, now you know why Lucy kept an eye on me while baking her birthday cake.

You must know my father, T F Stern

I was on the phone talking with my son on his birthday a little while ago.  The conversation turned to eating out on Valentine’s Day.  Neither of us had wanted to take our wives to an overly crowded restaurant and decided to stay home or go for fast food. I joked that I’d taken Lucy to Arby’s, a really nice place, one that had free refills on soda.

I should explain the joke.  Lucy and I’d watched a television interview where a young woman from the inner city was asked about the kind of man she considered attractive when it came to dating. She thought one of the ways to determine a quality date was being taken to a really good restaurant, one where they didn’t charge for refills.  Let that sink in for a moment.

William acknowledged that Arby’s made a pretty good Ruben Sandwich; but next time we were in town we should go to Victor’s Sandwich Shop for their Ruben’s.  I’d have to agree, Victor’s Ruben’s was better.  But that’s not what I wanted to write about today.

Several years ago…why is it most of my stories start off with, several years ago?  Anyway, back when we were still living in Olde Oaks we had a family living close by and we would visit with them once a month as part of what used to be called Home Teaching, an older version of Ministering. 

Terrell Hunt was an environmental lawyer as was his wife Karen.  They met and hit it off despite social norms.  It was a mixed marriage; Terrell was White and Karen was Black.  Their politics tended to lean left, which made it interesting since Lucy and I were more conservative politically.  It didn’t matter all that much since all of us had a firm testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ and we treated each other as brothers and sisters.  Any time we’d be shopping and see her mother, I’d openly greet her, “Hey, Mom!”  There was a special acceptance that permitted such a lighthearted meeting in public.

After a couple of years of enjoying a mutual friendship, Karen had become more comfortable when we’d come by to visit.  On one such visit Karen explained that she’d been to Victor’s Sandwich Shop, and you were wondering how Victor’s would figure into this; anyway, that afternoon she went to pick up lunch. There was an informal retirement party going on for a police officer with all his friends at Victor’s Sandwich Shop.

Karen waded into their merriment and started off with, “You must know my father, T F Stern. He’s a retired cop too.”  Mind you, Karen is an attractive middle age Black woman and I’m a little past middle age White guy.  Some, if not all the police officers who were enjoying the moment probably knew me as those words rumble around in their heads.

One of them responded with something like, “It must be a different Stern from the one we know”.  The smile on his face must have been too much fun for Karen.

“T F Stern retired a few years ago, you know, he’s also a locksmith, worked night shift for HPD”.  She didn’t wait even half a moment as she added, “He met mom when he busted her for prostitution and, well, they hit it off and here I am.” 

I’d have paid good money to have been a fly on the wall that day.  Karen’s face was all aglow as she related the encounter that evening.  I’m sure there are police officers wondering to this day how much of that yarn was true.

The glue that holds friends together is, in part, a warped sense of humor and the ability to bond despite social norms or expectations.

My friend Terrell suffered a major stroke a few years later and died.  This was about the time we moved to our property in Buffalo, Texas.  We’ve since lost track of Karen but wanted her to know, she always has a place in her old dad’s heart.

  

From Approval to Disgust in Less Than an Hour

 

Various articles get my attention while going down those entered on Facebook.  Today was no different as I stumbled across a photograph of a rapper surrounded by five pregnant women, all of whom he had impregnated.  Most folks would grimace at even the thought of being so reckless, much less bragging about it.  I just laughed, quietly remembering an experience from many years ago.

I had walked Lucy into the front doors of the Maternity Section of Memorial Hospital out off Interstate 10 where the Beltway now crosses.  We were about to celebrate the birth of our second child as I proudly escorted her through the waiting room and left her in the hands of the nursing staff.

When I went to find a chair to spend the rest of the afternoon in, I couldn’t help but notice there was an older gentleman sitting across from me, probably a WWII aged veteran.  He had watched as I escorted Lucy, proudly giving her a hug as she disappeared with the nursing staff.  He gave me a big thumbs up as he nodded in approval for having stood by my wife during her time of need.

A few minutes later, it might have been closer to half an hour, my sister-in-law came to sit by me in the Maternity Waiting Room.  She was also nine months pregnant as she leaned over to give me a hug.  The fellow who’d given me a big thumbs up earlier was no longer thrilled with my having ushered my wife past the hospital doors.  No, he was decidedly not thrilled.

It got even better when my partner’s wife, that being my partner at the police department, strolled into the Maternity Waiting Room.  She was also about nine months pregnant as she came over and gave me a hug in support of our anticipated arrival. 

The look of disgust from across the room was palpable.  I’d gone from, “Way to go young man”, to, “You low life scum” in less than an hour. 

Fortunately, I didn’t let my warped sense of humor take over at that moment.  I was tempted to go over and ask the fellow if he’d like to know more about the Book of Mormon. I’m sure my Bishop would have been proud of me for remaining silent as well.

It’s 908

While cranking up my laptop this morning to catch up with email and news items, the familiar warm-up screen presented itself letting me know what day and time it was.  You know how us old people can never be too sure what day of the week it might be, even wondering what year we’re in.  It was reassuring to see President Ronald Reagan addressing the press.

A bright blue screen announced that it was 9:08 on Saturday, February 8^th.  Silly as it might sound, that always brings a smile to my face.  It’s 908, much more than telling me what time it might be; 908 was the badge number on the blue uniform I wore as a police officer for the City of Houston until I retired in 1992.

When working the near west side of town in the Montrose area, there was a young vendor who frequented some of the same places I liked to visit for lunch.  I couldn’t say what his product was other than he got around on a bicycle instead of a motor vehicle. He was a pleasant individual whose lifestyle was a bit different than my own; nothing too wild, just that he made it a point to let me know I was considerably more conservative.

His greeting was genuine each time we’d cross paths, “It’s Nine Oh Eight!”, as if he didn’t see my name tag, only my badge.  I’d smile back and we’d continue our acknowledgment of each other.  I’d go on to explain that the local banker and I were good friends, that each day he’d flash my badge number up on a big sign atop his bank, once in the morning and then again in the evening.  He’d smile while shaking his head at such a dumb response.

So, yes, anytime I see a clock display the time, 9:08, I smile and remember having worn the uniform, having stored so many memories and been able to share them with folks who might enjoy a momentary distraction.  

Reality Checks and Bad Habits

 

While watching the movie, A Beautiful Mind, there was an interesting exchange between a fellow named Martin who was interviewing Professor John Nash to see if he might be an embarrassment were he to be awarded a Nobel Prize due to his documented life of mental issues which included a full-time cast of imaginary characters.  When asked about the possibility of becoming an embarrassment, John responded, “I’m still crazy”, then he added an important thought regarding his never-ending struggle to separate imaginary individuals from reality.

“They are my past. Everyone is haunted by their past.”

We all have issues that would be embarrassing were they to be brought out on the public stage. I suppose it would make a huge difference if that public stage were broadcast to a worldwide audience as would be the case with accepting a Nobel Prize.

Nash then clarified his ability to fit in with society, despite his ongoing mental issues.

“I’ve gotten used to ignoring them, and I think, as a result, they’ve kind of given up on me. I think that’s what it’s like with all our dreams and our nightmares, Martin. We’ve got to keep feeding them for them to stay alive.”

That one line could be applied to most of the bad habits we might have picked up over the years.  It doesn’t eliminate bad habits; however, it does place it into an isolation room, a place where bad habits are less likely to be a daily challenge.

I remember back in the mid-1970s being told by a doctor that because of having a collapsed lung (Spontaneous pneumothorax) I had to quit smoking cigarettes.  That was a bad habit I’d had for years, and I’d tried quitting without success.  Being faced with a rather bleak future, were I to continue smoking, it was much easier to place the urge to smoke in an isolation room way back in my mind where it could be ignored.

I took up chewing tobacco as an alternative, dipping Skoal was a natural extension of my newest bad habit.  Being crude and not really caring about what anyone thought of my bad habit was an unexpected bonus.  If you wanted someone unpleasant to leave, just spit and without much fanfare the individual would find an excuse to leave.

Then in 1978, when I was about to join the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, the missionaries teaching me of various rules and customs informed me about the “Word of Wisdom” as found in the Doctrine and Covenants, Section 89.  Turns out tobacco products were not to be used for smoking or chewing. 

Some folks would have had a problem deciding how to proceed.  Would they continue using tobacco products and ignore the newly discovered admonition to abstain or would they accept reality, join the Church and live in such a way as to be in accordance with the will of the Lord?

The young missionaries were a bit surprised when I reached into the refrigerator for a newly purchased roll of Skoal that I’d purchased the day before.  Upon handing the Skoal over to them I explained that I’d just quit and for them to do me a favor and dispose of it for me.  I later found that they’d tossed the Skoal over the edge of a bridge into the bayou below while on their way home.

As far as my former bad habits regarding smoking or dipping Skoal, “I’ve gotten used to ignoring them, and I think, as a result, they’ve kind of given up on me.”

Parrot and the Plumber

 

I thought I’d written this story down years ago; but it isn’t in my files.  Either it was misplaced or filed under a title that didn’t match up with my memory.  The cartoon image posted on Facebook reminded me of something that happened back in 1979 or 1980 soon after joining the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Back then there was a program called Home Teaching, basically ministering to members by assignment in the hope that each would feel connected to the Ward through a monthly visit. I had an elderly woman under my stewardship and learned that she was dating a fellow who was deaf. From what I could figure, she intended to take the relationship to a higher level and perhaps even marriage.

The idea occurred to me that I should take steps toward being able to communicate with this fellow in order to more effectively complete the Home Teaching assignment.  That led me to find out where to take a course in American Sign Language (ASL).  It turned out such a course was offered via the Houston Community College that used the Waltrip High School building for night classes; that was only a couple of miles from our house in Oak Forest where we were living at the time.

I can’t remember if there was a charge to take the course, more than likely; but it must have been nominal or I wouldn’t have gone forward with taking the class.  I showed up at 6:45pm for a class that was scheduled to start at 7:00pm.  Before entering the classroom, I noticed several pink slips stuck to the frame indicating classes which failed to meet the required number of students and would be cancelled.  I didn’t see ASL as one of the cancelled classes and so I went in, finding there were only two other individuals who’d showed up as yet.

I took a seat behind them while continuing to wonder if this was the class for ASL since neither of them seemed to notice my entrance.  I quietly asked, “Is this the class for ASL?”  There was no reaction from either; “Must be” was the thought that came to mind as I let out a soft chuckle.

The ASL class was a hoot from day one.  I learned the alphabet along with a smattering of commonly used signs with each new lesson.  The instructor, make that instructors, since members of the deaf community often gave the lessons that were wonderfully entertaining; almost as if this were a late night television show.  They passed along jokes that could be made along with cautions to avoid making signs near your nose as those often-had sexual implications.

We were encouraged to attend a deaf community’s performance of some Russian play that was put on at a small theater near Washington Avenue.  I’ll admit up front that most of the performance went way over my ability to read their spelling of Russian names that flashed by me eyes so quickly as to be a blur. 

There was a final exam that we needed to take to obtain a passing mark in the class.  We were to stand in front of everyone and give a talk about anything we felt comfortable with, using only those signs we’d learned in class.  I thought about what I could talk about for a few minutes during the week prior to the scheduled exam.  That’s when I remembered a couple of the long-winded jokes my father would drop on us while we were a captive audience driving toward a vacation spot.  Dad could draw out a joke for a very long time, miles and miles of Texas roads to work with gave him all the time in the world to drop a really lame joke on all of us.

Let’s see, which one would be a good fit?  There’s the ‘Beer that made Bill Famous walk me’? No, how about the ‘Cush Maker’? No, even that’s too lame; what about the ‘Parrot and the Plumber’?  Bingo! That one could last at least four minutes.

The night of the exam we found out the judges would all be from the deaf community.  They’d determine if we’d learned enough to pass the course. 

I stood up in front of the classroom and began explaining about the plumber who had to walk up several floors carrying his heavy toolbox to reach the apartment where his customer was waiting.  Upon reaching the top of the stairs and being nearly exhausted, he knocked on the door.

The customer apparently was not in the apartment; however, there was a trained parrot who inquired, “Who is it?” 

“It’s the plumber”, came the response.  Waiting for the customer to open the door and waiting some more since the customer wasn’t in the apartment, the plumber again knocked on the door a bit more forcefully this time.

“Who is it?”  The parrot inquired as the scenario played out time and time again to use up the required number of minutes in front of the deaf community.  I could tell from the positive responses on the judges faces that my dad’s joke was being well received.

Getting to the punch line, the plumber’s frustration culminated in his having a heart attack and dropping to the floor outside the apartment door.  The paramedics arrived to treat the man and were asking if anyone knew who he was.  The parrot quickly responded, “It’s the plumber”.

I passed the test according to the judges from the deaf community.  One of them came over to me expressing his delight in my story about the talking butterfly.  You guessed right, I’d used the wrong sign all through the entire joke.

Oh, in case you were wondering; that dear Sister didn’t continue her relationship with the deaf fellow.  I’d had a lot of fun getting to learn ASL and used those skills only sparingly over the years, to the point of nearly forgetting most of what I may have learned so long ago.

 

Between Three and Five Worked

 

Yesterday the Check Engine light came on in our Hyundai Sonata while we were driving near Palestine, Texas.  We didn’t panic as we were only a mile or so away from Walmart where they have an automotive department.  They checked things out and found we were a quart low on oil and suggested that rather than add a quart, perhaps it might be better to do an oil change, replace the filter and check all the fluid levels.  That sounded reasonable and we handed them the key while we went inside the store to purchase some sneakers and blue jeans.  They were finished before we had even cleared the cash register.

The Check Engine light was still blinking; but the fellow said that it didn’t appear to be associated with anything major.   That didn’t sound too reassuring so we decided to drive to O’Reilly’s on our way home where they could put their fancy computer diagnostic thingy on and tell us exactly what was wrong. 

There was definitely something wrong as we couldn’t get the car to accelerate properly.  We managed to get the car up to sixty-one miles per hour; but no further.  The speed limit on the road between Palestine and Buffalo is 70mph; going only 61mph made the hair on my back stand up.

The fancy diagnostic thingy didn’t give much of an answer, only that it might be several items that only the Hyundai folks would be able to fix; but…and this was something of a peace of mind moment…the car could be driven down to Houston without damaging anything, just no faster than 61 miles per hour.

It should be noted that here in Texas, if the speed limit reads Seventy-Five then folks interpret that to mean Eighty to Eighty-five.  Folks in a hurry or just bored tend to push that up to 90 or 95mph which tends to be the speed where the DPS steps in and reminds them to be a little less aggressive. Anyone going less than 70mph is fair game for abuse or worse. 

I decided the best way to get the car into Houston with the least amount of abuse would be to wait until all the bars had closed before heading toward the freeway entrance in Centerville. This strategy was gained from working as a night shift police officers; most drunk drivers have either been arrested for DWI, hit a tree and gone to the hospital or gotten home before 3am.

I hit the on ramp headed south just before 3am going exactly 61mph.  Traffic was very light, mostly commercial trucks that were widely spaced.  I figured I could be on the north side of Houston near the Hyundai dealership before morning rush hour started around 5am.

Most of the time while tooling on down the freeways the idea of having so many 18 wheelers to contend with wasn’t one of my favorite choices; but since these trucks are, for the most part, driven by professional drivers who know the rules of the road, then having them escort my crippled car down to Houston was just what the doctor ordered.

When I’d see headlights moving up from behind at a quarter mile or so, I’d flip on the emergency flashers for a few moments and then switch them off.  Then, as the headlights got closer, I’d flip the flashers on again so they’d figure out I was having some kind of issue.  They were courteous, using blinkers and moving over as they passed.  I flashed my high beams letting them know they’d cleared sufficiently to return to the slower lane.  This went on all the way until I reached Conroe or about an hour and a half from when I left Centerville.

There must be something about getting into a major metropolitan area that brings out the beasts.  I had to be extra careful as Mario Andretti’s kin folk darted in and out from behind large trucks that were only going 75mph.  I had no idea that many race car drivers were up practicing impromptu lane changes at half past four in the morning. 

I arrived at Denny’s at 5am, right across from the Hyundai dealership where I had my appointment scheduled for 7am.  I managed to loosen my grip on the steering wheel long enough to let the blood flow back into those fingers. 

It’s hard to beat a Grand Slam breakfast after passing the advanced driver’s test in Texas.  It was quite peaceful catching a nap in the parking lot there at the Hyundai Service Department waiting for the sun to come up and be greeted once they opened for business.