Blog number Ninety-six 25 June 2007
The myths were; that it was always a rare thing to see a two dollar bill because, as reported in newspapers, that was because nobody wanted them. They were supposedly bad luck. Then fifty cent pieces became a rarity. No reason given to us. When the Susan B. Anthony dollar coins came out, they were not accepted "because people didn't want a woman's picture on their coins." This was also the supposed reason for the nonacceptance by the public of the Sacajawean (sic?) dollar. So they recently made a new dollar coin that has no woman's picture on it. That'll work!
The truths are; two dollar bills were rare because the banks never had any on hand. That's like not having any auto dealerships and then explaining the lack of drivers on the public being afraid of mechanical things.
I use $2 bills, mostly for tips, but also for small purchases, but I have to specially order them and this was a problem for a while because the tellers would always respond to my request with, "it's not possible."
I finally had to ask to see the manager and when asked why, I told the teller that I wanted to order $600 worth of two dollar bills. At the same time I also ordered $200 worth of fifty cent pieces.
I got my order two days later and the girl who had taken my order and gave them to me asked if I would tell her what I wanted them for. She didn't say, "What do you want them for?" She said, "Could I ask you what you use them for?"
I wanted to tell her that I liked to watch them burn, but I didn't. I felt like she thought I was using them for some nefarious activity.
Like funding terrorists.
Or slipping them into lap dancer thongs.
I used to order Susan B. Anthony dollars but quickly gave that up after several times mistaking them for quarters. Whose bright idea was that anyhow, to make them look so nearly like quarters? Don't they have meetings on decisions like this? The reason I didn't like them was not because a woman's picture was on it. I didn't like them because they occasionally cheated me out of seventy-five cents.
When the gold dollars first came out, you could find them occasionally for about a month, then they too disappeared because "nobody wanted them." I went to several banks before I found one that carried them. I don't know why the "powers that be" blame the public for not using stuff that they can't get.
One of the big surprises was the ignorance surrounding fifty cent pieces especially. Several people asked me what they were. Some of these people were in their thirties. One woman said, upon reading the coin, "Huh. A half dollar. How much is that worth?"
One bum, upon receiving a gold dollar looked at it carefully before asking me what it was and if it was worth anything. When I told him it was worth a dollar, he said, "They don't have these in Texas where I come from."
I gave two $2 bills to a girl in a hardware store in payment for some washers and she first marked them with a pencil to see if they were counterfeit, then held them one by one up to the light and then turned her back to me and was peering at something on the desk with them. I thought she was looking a numbered list of counterfeit $2 bills. I asked her what she was doing. She wouldn't answer. I asked again, still no answer. I then asked her if she had a list of counterfeit $2 bills she was looking at. No answer.
She finally turned around and I asked her again what she had been looking at and she told me she looked at them under a black light. She said they didn't get many of them in there. What struck me was that anyone would think that a counterfeiter would counterfiet $2 bills instead of the more common and more lucrative larger denominations. And I would try to pass four whole dollars worth for a net profit of maybe sixty cents plus my washers? Ye gads!
You know, sometimes it just makes sense to ask the very people that use an object just what it is that they do or don't like about it. Funny thing is that people aren't that hard to find. All one of these bright boys has to do is to walk outside their office and lo and behold! Thousands of common people who know exactly why they do or don't use some item.
Is it too much to ask of people who have power over us common little folk that they do a littlesimple thinking once is a while?
Monday, June 25, 2007
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
MY FIRST REAL LIFE HERO (Cont.)
Blog number Ninety-five 06 June 2007 (D Day already?)
Only a few days after we met, I and him and his brother Robert, were walking in the neighborhood - down alleys mostly. We came to one shed and Bud walked in, picked up a pump or something like that - it had a motor on it, painted green or red, I think.
I thought it a bit odd for a six year old to own something like that, and why was he keeping it in a place not his yard? I didn't ask any questions though, and I think I figured out not much later that he had stolen it.
He said he got kicked out of Catholic school for stealing from the poor box. He was still religious though - he made us doff our caps whenever we walked by a Catholic church.
One day we met a group of other boys and two men offered a nickel to whomever would fight. Bud and this larger fat kid said they would do it. The fat kid would swing a roundhouse, Bud would duck under and come up with an upper cut. This went on for a couple more times until the fat kid started crying. Swing, punch, swing, punch. I don't know where Bud learned that. He reminded me of one of the Dead End Kids.
One day we were in a filling station where there was a pay phone. Bud wanted to call a friend that had a phone. We didn't have any money, but there was a slot on the machine that said, "Coin return," So Bud asked a man standing there if he would give him a nickel so he could call, telling him he would give the nickel right back when it came out of the coin return slot. I remember Bud saying to the man, "See? It says 'coin return' right there. You'll get your nickel back."
I couldn't figure out why the guy didn't go for \this. Obviously we were going to get the nickel back so what could he lose?
Another day Bud found an old fly sprayer that had oil in it and was swinging it around and accidentally sprayed a lady's nylons. She cussed and cussed at him. She was mad!
We left Des Moines in 1942 to go live on the farm with my grandparents and I didn't see Bud again until after I was married in 1950. MY then wife and I went to his old house and there he was, lying on the bed with a rifle, shooting flies on the ceiling. He told us he had just gotten paroled for car theft.
Only a few days after we met, I and him and his brother Robert, were walking in the neighborhood - down alleys mostly. We came to one shed and Bud walked in, picked up a pump or something like that - it had a motor on it, painted green or red, I think.
I thought it a bit odd for a six year old to own something like that, and why was he keeping it in a place not his yard? I didn't ask any questions though, and I think I figured out not much later that he had stolen it.
He said he got kicked out of Catholic school for stealing from the poor box. He was still religious though - he made us doff our caps whenever we walked by a Catholic church.
One day we met a group of other boys and two men offered a nickel to whomever would fight. Bud and this larger fat kid said they would do it. The fat kid would swing a roundhouse, Bud would duck under and come up with an upper cut. This went on for a couple more times until the fat kid started crying. Swing, punch, swing, punch. I don't know where Bud learned that. He reminded me of one of the Dead End Kids.
One day we were in a filling station where there was a pay phone. Bud wanted to call a friend that had a phone. We didn't have any money, but there was a slot on the machine that said, "Coin return," So Bud asked a man standing there if he would give him a nickel so he could call, telling him he would give the nickel right back when it came out of the coin return slot. I remember Bud saying to the man, "See? It says 'coin return' right there. You'll get your nickel back."
I couldn't figure out why the guy didn't go for \this. Obviously we were going to get the nickel back so what could he lose?
Another day Bud found an old fly sprayer that had oil in it and was swinging it around and accidentally sprayed a lady's nylons. She cussed and cussed at him. She was mad!
We left Des Moines in 1942 to go live on the farm with my grandparents and I didn't see Bud again until after I was married in 1950. MY then wife and I went to his old house and there he was, lying on the bed with a rifle, shooting flies on the ceiling. He told us he had just gotten paroled for car theft.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
MY FIRST REAL LIFE HERO
Blog number Ninety-four 30 May 2007
I was four years old, maybe five. I hadn't started school yet. In the spring of 1936, the depression was still going on. The farm could not support us, since farm prices were either low or nonexistent, so the family left the farm near Graettinger Iowa to go to Des Moines. My Mom claimed that she ate so much corn and corn products during the depression, that although the rest of the rest of the family relished fried corn meal mush, she wouldn't eat it. She would cook it, but she wouldn't eat it.
My Dad got a job at Lake Shore Tire and Rubber Company. We lived in a house at 2050 Maple Street - an address that was ingrained into my consciousness in case I got lost in the big city. This came in handy when I followed a boy home from kindergarten one afternoon so that we could play together.
When we got to his house, he went inside and left me standing there. I started to walk towards where I thought home was, but I was completely lost. I must have started crying because some adults asked me if I was lost. When they asked me my address, I told them and they said, "Why that's THAT way," pointing back where I was walking from. I didn't believe them at first, but they were insistent. I don't remember whether any of them took me home, but I did make it. I don't remember ever talking to that boy ever again - not on purpose, but that's just the way it turned out.
One day I was outside and the postman came by and said to me, "Hi Bud." I didn't say anything, but I went inside and told Mom that the man had called me, "Bud." She told me that people called people that when they didn't know their names.
The next day I was walking around the neighborhood when I spotted two boys about my age playing in their back yard. I walked up and said to one, "Hi Bud." He looked surprised and asked me how I knew his name. I didn't reply. Kids that age sometimes don't respond because it's too much trouble to explain, or not worth the trouble, or they just never think of it.
His name turned out to be Roland Cathewood, although I didn't find that out until a few years later. His brother's name was Robert. (to be continued)
I was four years old, maybe five. I hadn't started school yet. In the spring of 1936, the depression was still going on. The farm could not support us, since farm prices were either low or nonexistent, so the family left the farm near Graettinger Iowa to go to Des Moines. My Mom claimed that she ate so much corn and corn products during the depression, that although the rest of the rest of the family relished fried corn meal mush, she wouldn't eat it. She would cook it, but she wouldn't eat it.
My Dad got a job at Lake Shore Tire and Rubber Company. We lived in a house at 2050 Maple Street - an address that was ingrained into my consciousness in case I got lost in the big city. This came in handy when I followed a boy home from kindergarten one afternoon so that we could play together.
When we got to his house, he went inside and left me standing there. I started to walk towards where I thought home was, but I was completely lost. I must have started crying because some adults asked me if I was lost. When they asked me my address, I told them and they said, "Why that's THAT way," pointing back where I was walking from. I didn't believe them at first, but they were insistent. I don't remember whether any of them took me home, but I did make it. I don't remember ever talking to that boy ever again - not on purpose, but that's just the way it turned out.
One day I was outside and the postman came by and said to me, "Hi Bud." I didn't say anything, but I went inside and told Mom that the man had called me, "Bud." She told me that people called people that when they didn't know their names.
The next day I was walking around the neighborhood when I spotted two boys about my age playing in their back yard. I walked up and said to one, "Hi Bud." He looked surprised and asked me how I knew his name. I didn't reply. Kids that age sometimes don't respond because it's too much trouble to explain, or not worth the trouble, or they just never think of it.
His name turned out to be Roland Cathewood, although I didn't find that out until a few years later. His brother's name was Robert. (to be continued)
Sunday, May 27, 2007
IF NOT ME, WHO?
Blog number Ninety-four 27 May 2007
I''m sitting in Barnes and Noble reading a book when I notice an employee stacking books on a shelf. He leaves and as a customer walks by, the books drop one after the other until a pile of ten or twelve books lie on the floor. The customer looks back and keeps on walking. The employee is out of sight.
I notice that the book I am reading has a sticky red circle on the cover, obviously left by a soft drink in a glass.
We go to Mimi's to eat. It is very busy - a 25 minute wait. We decide to sit at the counter. We see an employee drop a gob of butter on the tile floor. Waitresses and busboys dodge it to keep from stepping in it and maybe slipping and breaking a bone or two.
Who is there to correct these things? Who is there to correct these things and forestall a feeling of irritation or worse in fellow humans? Who is there to prevent more bad feeling from slipping out into the mass that is humanity?
Ever see a shopping cart left in a parking place in a crowded parking lot? Or left smack in the middle of a parking space so that no one can park there until it is moved? Bet you have.
Ever ran over a nail someone left in the road after seeing it lying there and figuring it was someone else's job to remove it? "I didn't leave it there. Why should I take care of it?"
Whose job - whose responsibility is it to pick up the books, clean the book cover, tell an employee about the spilled butter, put the shopping carts back where they belong, pick up the nail? Is that your job or is it mine?
The first time this question really came home to me, I was sitting at a sidewalk coffee house beside a busy street where a large object had fallen into the middle of the street. I watched as cars veered around it and as other customers commented on the danger of that object lying there. It finally came to me that if I didn't remove it, nobody would. It finally came to me the real meaning of, "If not me, who?"
But listen to this. A different book that I was reading was that "Hate Mail From Cheerleaders" that I told you about. I read about a star basketball athlete that needed a kidney. Six thousand people volunteered to give him their kidney. People that had never met him, but because he was their hero, they would give him a kidney. Now listen to this:
One guy - a guy named Warren, wanted to give the athlete his kidney, but when he started reading about the many thousands of people on a list for a kidney, thought, "Why should this guy receive a kidney simply because he was a star athlete?" So he volunteered to give up a kidney to the first one on the list or to whomever matched his blood type. Now you talk about a service to humanity, what kind of a person could do something like that? Not me.
I''m sitting in Barnes and Noble reading a book when I notice an employee stacking books on a shelf. He leaves and as a customer walks by, the books drop one after the other until a pile of ten or twelve books lie on the floor. The customer looks back and keeps on walking. The employee is out of sight.
I notice that the book I am reading has a sticky red circle on the cover, obviously left by a soft drink in a glass.
We go to Mimi's to eat. It is very busy - a 25 minute wait. We decide to sit at the counter. We see an employee drop a gob of butter on the tile floor. Waitresses and busboys dodge it to keep from stepping in it and maybe slipping and breaking a bone or two.
Who is there to correct these things? Who is there to correct these things and forestall a feeling of irritation or worse in fellow humans? Who is there to prevent more bad feeling from slipping out into the mass that is humanity?
Ever see a shopping cart left in a parking place in a crowded parking lot? Or left smack in the middle of a parking space so that no one can park there until it is moved? Bet you have.
Ever ran over a nail someone left in the road after seeing it lying there and figuring it was someone else's job to remove it? "I didn't leave it there. Why should I take care of it?"
Whose job - whose responsibility is it to pick up the books, clean the book cover, tell an employee about the spilled butter, put the shopping carts back where they belong, pick up the nail? Is that your job or is it mine?
The first time this question really came home to me, I was sitting at a sidewalk coffee house beside a busy street where a large object had fallen into the middle of the street. I watched as cars veered around it and as other customers commented on the danger of that object lying there. It finally came to me that if I didn't remove it, nobody would. It finally came to me the real meaning of, "If not me, who?"
But listen to this. A different book that I was reading was that "Hate Mail From Cheerleaders" that I told you about. I read about a star basketball athlete that needed a kidney. Six thousand people volunteered to give him their kidney. People that had never met him, but because he was their hero, they would give him a kidney. Now listen to this:
One guy - a guy named Warren, wanted to give the athlete his kidney, but when he started reading about the many thousands of people on a list for a kidney, thought, "Why should this guy receive a kidney simply because he was a star athlete?" So he volunteered to give up a kidney to the first one on the list or to whomever matched his blood type. Now you talk about a service to humanity, what kind of a person could do something like that? Not me.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
NO - YOU'RE A HOCKEY PUCK.
Blog number Ninety-three 22 May 2007
Read an autobiography of Don Rickles at Barnes and Nobles this morning. He told of an incident that I had read about before. I like it so much I thought I would share.
Don took a girl to the Sands in Vegas. Sitting at a table, he sees Frank Sinatra come in with a bunch of his friends. Don gets up, walks to Frank's table, says, "Hi, Frank." Frank says, "Hi Don."
Don, "Say Frank, would you do me a favor? See that girl sitting over there? I want to impress her, so I would consider it a great favor if you would come over and just say, 'Hi Don,' Like we were good friends. Would you do that?"
Frank says, " Sure. Glad to."
Don says, "Aw, thanks, Frank."
So Don goes back to his table with the girl and he waits five minutes - no Frank. Ten minutes go by. No Frank. Fifteen minutes. Don is getting concerned. Then Frank comes over, says, "Hi Don. How ya doing?"
Don waits a beat, then loudly says, "NOT NOW, FRANK. CAN'T YOU SEE I'M WITH SOMEBODY!"
Everybody gets quiet. Waiters stop in their tracks. Frank stares at him. Then Frank collapses, laughing.
Read an autobiography of Don Rickles at Barnes and Nobles this morning. He told of an incident that I had read about before. I like it so much I thought I would share.
Don took a girl to the Sands in Vegas. Sitting at a table, he sees Frank Sinatra come in with a bunch of his friends. Don gets up, walks to Frank's table, says, "Hi, Frank." Frank says, "Hi Don."
Don, "Say Frank, would you do me a favor? See that girl sitting over there? I want to impress her, so I would consider it a great favor if you would come over and just say, 'Hi Don,' Like we were good friends. Would you do that?"
Frank says, " Sure. Glad to."
Don says, "Aw, thanks, Frank."
So Don goes back to his table with the girl and he waits five minutes - no Frank. Ten minutes go by. No Frank. Fifteen minutes. Don is getting concerned. Then Frank comes over, says, "Hi Don. How ya doing?"
Don waits a beat, then loudly says, "NOT NOW, FRANK. CAN'T YOU SEE I'M WITH SOMEBODY!"
Everybody gets quiet. Waiters stop in their tracks. Frank stares at him. Then Frank collapses, laughing.
THOSE WEDDING BELLS ARE RINGING FOR YOUSE AND ME
Today is my wedding anniversary.
Teresa's is tomorrow.
(Just kidding)
We been married 51 tumultuous years.
Mostly it's been fun.
Monday, May 21, 2007
RONNIE, BABY!
Blog number Ninety-two 21 May 2007
I just finished reading a book about fans - the people kind, not the cooling kind. I wrote that line to someone else recently. I hope it wasn't for my blog. Signs of senility, ya know. Anyhow, the book was much more interesting and informative than I thought it would be. The author likes to get inside the heads of people - including his own. I like that. One of my favorite day dreams is that I become able to read people's minds - especially that of babies. I very often wonder what they are thinking when they do their "baby" thing. Like staring at their mother's eyes for hours on end.
But I digress.
Not that long ago I realized that memories are completely unreliable. Not that all one's memories are not what they seem to be, but that you can't trust any of them. Surely you have had the experience of remembering something and somebody else remembers it differently? The thing that is amazing to me about memories that two people remember differently is that both of them have a "video" picture of the event running in their minds as they are remembering. It's not like remembering history dates. These are reruns of actual happenings. So between two people remembering an event differently, there are two "TVs" showing the same event differently.
Now back to the fan book. On the last page the author is describing going to view Ronald Reagan's body lying in its coffin. He reminisces with his father about getting Reagan's autograph. "Remember when he (Reagan) thought the fake signature was real, and I said it wasn't, and he said, 'Well, I guess you know better than me' ?"
My Dad, who was also there, said, "That's not how it happened. Reagan said, 'I already signed this,' and you were quiet for a second, and then you said, 'Then could you please sign it again?' "
Amazed, I disagreed. I told my dad that I remembered the exchange as clear as yesterday. Later, though, I started wondering if Dad was right. After all, he, as a father, was focused on his son; and I, as a fan, was focused on my star. The exchange that I remember is more plausible: its last line captures Ronald Reagan's careless affability; it's the kind of thing he would have said. The exchange my dad remembers is just as credible: its last line captures the gentle persistence with which I've always approached the famous, although my own memory adds the cheekiness that drove me, too.
Ain't that weird, about memories?
Yes it is.
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