I will be elderly in less than a month
May 31, 2013
A while ago I declared that I was not ready to go au natural and give up coloring my hair, because I was in denial and freaking out about turning 50. At that time, the impending doom was a year and a half away. Now, the apocalypse is imminent and I remain in denial. The end of my life is merely three-and-a-half weeks away. Even if by some asteroid-collision-extinction chance I had forgotten when my birthday was, there are mechanisms in the general public to remind me. I’m not talking about Facebook’s helpful reminders that today is so-and-so’s birthday.
Two days ago, I received in the mail my temporary AARP membership card. That’s the American Association of Retired People.
They fool you into opening up the envelope. They put it in one of those unmarked things that looks official because you have to fold and tear the edge strips off of to get into it. It looks important. It looks like an income tax refund check. Or at least that $10 rebate from buying the 74-pack of batteries.
Turns out it is official—the official notification that your life is practically over.
According to their website, AARP was founded in 1958 by retired school principle Dr. Ethel Percy Andrus to (among other things) “to promote her philosophy of productive aging.” I guess at that point in US history, it was more likely that people kept their jobs for life and got a pension from their employer when they retired.
Beyond the fact that I personally will work until I drop dead because I am a poor planner of finances, in general people other than me are working many more hours per week than our relatives two generations ago did. And they continue to work far later in their lives.
These days, receiving your AARP card at age 50 seems a little premature. People are productive long beyond then. Age 60 would be much more reasonable. Not to mention that when you become whatever age seemed ancient when you were just a squirt ten years ago, you realize that it’s kind of just another day.
Sign me up for the discounts, Ethel!
Learning to fly
June 6, 2011
I had occasion today to recall being brave enough to make my first bike ride without the training wheels. I don’t remember exactly how old I was, but I can tell you exactly where I was.
This might take a while and I might ramble.
When I was still a squirt (say, ages three through six), we’d spend the summers in Bloomington, Indiana, because my dad was working on his doctorate degree in music theory at Indiana University. It took a while because he only did summers. During the school year, he was a professor of music at Ohio Northern University. That’s a whole other topic, ONU.
There were a few kid milestones that happened during those summers at IU. I won’t claim to remember if they’re in chronological order. But they did happen. Oh blargh, now I’m calling my mom to check. Hang on …
Okay, it was during my ages three through seven that I went. My dad went one additional year without my mom and me.
The main milestone I want to focus on is learning to ride a bike, or more precisely, the day I ditched the training wheels. Because I do remember it. What I didn’t confirm with my mom just now was how old I was, but I feel like it was the summer when I turned six. (I was one of those fortunate kids whose birthday is in the middle of summer and no fuss was ever made in class during the year.)
I had a hand-me-down bike, an old Schwinn from a neighbor. I thought it was copper, my mom said it was maroon. On that momentous day, I was riding up the diagonal sidewalk between the two apartment buildings—the one where we lived, and the other one where my little best friend Angie M lived (Angie was a year older than I). Somebody, probably my mom, I guess, because my dad would have been in class, noticed that I wasn’t putting any balance on the training wheels and said, okay, let’s take them off. And we did. And that was it.
The other thing I remember about that day (and I’m sure it’s entirely possible that I’m blurring events together because, let’s face it, that was forty years ago) is that along that sidewalk, just about where it met the other diagonal sidewalk with which it made an X, I came upon a squirrel that wasn’t too frightened by people and seemed willing to let me walk up to it with outstretched hand. One of the other adults present sternly warned me not to interact with the skwerl because it might be rabid and if it bit me, I’d die. There was some other thing about stray dogs peeing in the sandbox where we kids liked to play. Yay, adults and their scaremongering.
Other things I remember about those years, definitely not in chronological order:
My mom and I would play Poohsticks on one particular little bridge over the Jordan River which ran right through the middle of campus. As you’ve learned, in addition to rabbits, I have a history of Pooh.
We did spend one entire year there, so I attended kindergarten. I got along well with my teacher. She’d walk me home sometimes. In class, I learned the classic “My Napsack on My Back” song (val-da-ree …) On the walks home, she taught me another song that had slightly naughty words, that her husband disapproved of her teaching one so young as I. Maybe she wasn’t my teacher. Maybe she was just a friend of my parents’.
I remember vaulting off a stone wall that I’m going to estimate was at least six feet tall. There were four or five of us kids doing it. We had no fear of mortality.
Angie and I came to be in possession of a shopping cart for a couple of days. We pushed each other around in it, and we turned it over and made a fort out of it.
Angie and I also set up a lemonade stand on the other side of the apartment complex on a busier street. We made a little bit. Angie figured it all out and I remember feeling like I didn’t walk away with as much as should have been my fair share, you know, probably $2.25 instead of $2.75.
IU might also have been where my interest in science kindled. For whatever reason, my dad the music professor had a class in a lecture hall in the geology building. In the lobby was what to me seemed a moon-sized globe, as well as a two-storey pendulum. I found them both to be fascinating. I attended class with my dad one day, and it was on that day that a rare earthquake occurred, the only one I’ve ever been witness to, thankfully. It wasn’t much, just enough to be felt and to cause everyone in the hall to look at each other in “did you feel that?” wonderment.
I think what this boils down to is that I really fondly remember my time at Indiana University. You know, and my childhood.
Post script:
My dad’s doctorate thesis was not approved. He did not get his PhD. Years later when I myself was in college, I took an editing class. We had to come up with a long manuscript to edit and I convinced my dad to let me use his thesis.
Top photo: me, by my mom.
Bottom photo: a youngster who freed herself of training wheels today and was the inspiration for this post but who shall remain nameless, by her dad Tyler, an acquaintance of mine. If I had one of myself peddling around at that age, I would have used it instead.
Kelly D: what???s in a name?
February 21, 2010
Who were you named after? Your grandmother? Your uncle? I was named after a cartoon opossum. Okay, not exactly. I was named after an opossum’s cartoonist. Walt Kelly, to be exact, author and artist of the Pogo strip.
Pogo ran during the 1950s and ’60s; my mom was quite a fan. I guess there was little debate about what my first name would be. For my middle name, it was between Ann and Lynn. I’m glad Lynn won. I think I remember hearing that if I had been a boy, they would have named me Paul.
My mother corresponded with Walt Kelly for a while. It was at least long enough for her to report that I had been named for him. In return, he sent us his original pen and ink artwork for the strip from my birth day, pictured above. (For those of you who know me, isn’t it fun that the character Bun Rab appeared on that day?) When I was a youth, I remember its hanging on the wall where the hall took a little jog to my bedroom. Now that I think about it, I can’t say that I remember that it’s up anywhere in my parents’ current house, to where we moved when I was 15. No doubt it’s in a box in the basement.
As for our last name, no one’s quite sure of its origins. Our bloodlines are very majorly German, with just a wee dab of Scottish and Irish (in this context do you say Scottish or Scotch?). As near as we have figured it’s Bohemian, which is the more romantic-sounding way of saying eastern Slavic. But as I understand it, the first namesake to come to America traveled from England.
Oh, the things you learn when you call your parents to quiz them for information about your blog topic. An hour later and I now know the following.
It turns out that we’re fairly sure our D last name is Welsh. Bohemian was just one of the theories bandied about. The original D namesake, John, son of Henry and Elizabeth, was English and lived from 1728 to 1808. But that’s not the interesting part. He didn’t just “travel” to America from England. No. Young Master John, it seems, was kidnaped at age fourteen from a wharf in England to work as a ship’s helper on a vessel that was sailing for the New World.
“You mean as a ‘swab’?” I asked.
“Well, you could dress it up a little more than that,” replied my mother.
The ship landed in Edgecombe County, North Carolina, where John met a girl and proceeded to father fourteen children. In 1804, they migrated to Belmont County, Ohio. I grew up in Hardin County, Ohio. I had no idea about the details of this part of family history. My Grandpa D was born in 1907, so figuring 30 years per generation, John was my great, great, great, great, great, great grandfather. Not a close enough relative to get me a British passport.
My Grandpa D’s parents were D and Emery. My Grandma D’s were Zimmerman and something else German which I didn’t note quickly enough to pass on here. As I mentioned in the tale of my cuckoo clock, my mom’s side of the family is exclusively German. But yay, I have more English in me than I’ve been under the impression all these years. Instead of one-sixteen Scotch-Irish, I am one-eighth so. But still not enough to get me a British passport.
After I had all the D facts straightened out, I went back to my name. I asked my mom if she really liked Pogo that much or if it just makes a good story to say that they named me after Walt Kelly. She said, “Oh no, I was a big fan when I was younger! I wanted to name you Kelly, so your dad chose your middle name.” The boy name would have been Bruce Allen, my dad’s middle name and my maternal grandfather’s name.
I’m just glad they didn’t name me Pogo.
Well, someone had to say it, it might as well be me.
Pogo cartoon from this source. Check out page 27 for all the comics. It was a different time.
A symbol of my heritage
January 12, 2010
I can think of no better thing than my cuckoo clock to represent my general and personal heritage. I am 15/16 German and the fourth generation to possess this clock. Like many a family history tale, my clock’s backstory involves immigrants and sending help to relatives still in the old country.
From the sounds of it, my Great Grandpa Gross came to America and his brother Herman stayed in Germany. During World War II, Grandpa Gross sent care packages back to Herman and his family. My mom was a little girl and remembers helping. When the war was over, Uncle Herman sent four cuckoo clocks to Grandpa Gross in appreciation. Grandpa and Grandma Gross got the largest one and each of their three children, including my Grandma H, got smaller ones. When Grandpa and Grandma Gross died, their large clock went to my grandmother, who eventually gave it to my mom, her only child. When my grandma died, my mom kept my grandma’s smaller clock. She doesn’t know where her aunt and uncle’s clocks ended up. Four years ago when I bought my place, my mom had the large clock restored and passed it down to me. The clock actually isn’t as old as I thought it was, being “only” from the late 1940s or so. Apparently Uncle Herman was a clockmaker of some sort, though he did not make the cuckoo clocks; my mom thinks he was a watchmaker. During my first trip to Europe with my parents which involved a lot of time in then West Germany, we were fortunate to have the time and be close enough to get together with Cousins Christian and Ute and Christian’s family, who still live in the Black Forest in the Furtwangen and Vöhrenbach area. It is a joy to hear cuckoos every 30 minutes—it’s so quaint in this digital, beepy age. Though a lot of the time, even when I’m sitting in the same room with it, I don’t even notice it. If I’m fully asleep, I don’t hear it at all. If I’m fading in and out, I hear the tinny gong that goes off with the cuckoo which I never notice when I’m awake and which sounds like someone banging a pot around my head. That other 1/16? Scotch and Irish.
Grandma and the car named Hamgravy
November 8, 2009
On June 23, 1930, my schoolteacher grandmother and three girlfriends set out on a road trip in a car named Hamgravy. They left from Janesville, Wisconsin, and spent two months driving around, with Grandma keeping meticulous records in a trip journal the entire time. There is an accompanying photo album.
They took a southerly route through Iowa, Nebraska, Colorado (Denver), Utah (Salt Lake City), Nevada (Las Vegas), dipped into Mexico, then made their way up the coast of California, through Oregon, Washington, up to Canada (Banff, Alberta), down through Montana to Wyoming, where they turned east and headed across South Dakota and Iowa home to Wisconsin. According to statistics noted in the journal, they traveled for 62 days, 9969 miles (50 of which were apparently on ferries), visited 133 towns, and spent a total of $271.04 which worked out to 1-1/2 cents per mile. ???Lena and I met the girls, Edna and Irene, at Janesville this a.m. and we were finally off at 10:30. At 11:15 our most able pilot, Hamgravy, decided to have a flat tire. The man in the Ford garage was the first to inquire if we had a couple of guns with us. At Dixon we saw a statue of Black Hawk on the banks of the Rock River. At 4:30 we crossed the Mississippi River. Landed in De Witt at 6 and had a chicken dinner for 50??. Traveled 166 miles. Temp. 93.5??.??? It looks like the four girls went in together on the cost of buying the car, and had it freshly painted for the journey. There were eight flat tires altogether. They apparently were not opposed to flirting a little with people they met on the way. ???We stopped at Loveland [Colorado] for gas and Lena promised the service man some Schlitz beer next time we come. ??? Otherwise, the car was dependable. ???Yesterday we saw cars towed through the mud and today they were towed through sand in the desert. Found some awful detours but our Ford rambled right along while other cars were standing still. If Hamgravy only knew! ??? It does seem like my grandmother was kind of the captain of things: ???We are driving along the Great Divide and can see many snow-capped mountains ??? Irene gave up driving at Twin Lakes when a fellow told us we still had 30 miles of mountain driving to Aspen. So Hamgravy and I are taking the rest over the mountains by way of Independence Pass ??? an elevation of 12,200 feet. Lost a bit of my courage but got up the steep grades in second. It???s cold up here and we had our pictures taken on a snowbank. We are glad to be over and finally reached Aspen at 3 o???clock for dinner.??? Nightly accommodations were at travelers??? campsites, where the cost of various sorts of cabins and cottages was $1???$3. On at least one occasion, they drove further than they had planned, with some extra adventure and more praise for the car. ???These lodges are expensive places, $14 a day, so we decided to drive 40 miles before we could afford to sleep. At the ranger station we were informed that we couldn???t go on because of forest fires but we followed four fellows to the fire and cars were taken through by forest rangers. Eleven cars went with us and Hamgravy went up the long grade to Summit Inn on high. We passed a Buick on up grade so are we ever proud of our Ford. Some exciting day! Wild bears even crossed our road. Reached cabin at 11:45. Traveled 235 miles. Tent cabin $3.??? After two months on the road, they were anxious to be finished. ???We are going to make home today so are stepping on the gas all the time. ???It???s Janesville or bust!??? We didn???t stop to eat but bought a lunch to take in car.??? On August 22, my grandmother the road-weary traveler reached home in Almond, Wisconsin. ——————— I know there???s a book project in these materials. First, it is simply extraordinary that in 1930, these four young, single women set off on such a journey unchaperoned (well, I???m assuming it???s extraordinary). Second, it???s such a complete accounting of all aspects of the trip that it would be too bad not to share it with others. I suppose I could do the journal and photos, and intersperse history and contemporary events in appropriate places. Remember that bit yesterday about sitting on my ass? It was back in 1993 that I typed up the handwritten journal and scanned all the photos.
Kelly’s Unnecessary Blog 