Peach Pits

When my maternal grandfather was about my current age, and I was in my teens, Victor Canine came, not happily, to live with us in Cleveland. He had a full head of white hair and a full mustache, was slightly built and limped.


He had lived his life in Waveland, Indiana where he operated the only print shop in a small town with neither a stop light or a stop sign.

This picture from Google maps could show where the print shop was located, but Google Earth shows nothing else of Waveland save its church.

Grandpa Canine didn't stay with us for very long; with four kids in the house there really wasn't the room so my parents stashed him in an other city old folks home. I am sure my Mother loved her Father, and my Father was reasonably considerate, but we kids didn't care much for the elderly intruder, nor he for us so his removal was the best for all concerned.

Other than his classic old white guy appearance I don't remember much about Grandpa Canine, but I do have a pointed memory of a hobby he occupied himself with. He carved many little baskets, with handles, from peach pits. I really loved to watch him carve the baskets and then I would handrub the charming little artifacts until I made them smooth.

I never missed him after he left, but a few years later, living in Los Angeles and feeling a little more responsible I found the address of the old folks home and dropped him a line. Sometime later, my letter was returned to me with "dead" written on the envelope. I was sorry I had missed connecting with him, and was angered by the callous notification on the envelope. When I calmed down I realized the word was "descd". Since there was no additional information or sense of concern for my interest, I accepted that this abrupt announcement was all I really deserved for my belated interest.

And now I can only wish I had some little talent to make some little thing that my grandchildren might remember fondly as their years go by.

Workers of the World, Unite!

Players' association executive director Billy Hunter said "(The players) are principled individuals and I think that they realize the struggle that they are incurring," he said. "They may be paid at a higher level but it's the same issue that we see that is endemic right now, not only in our country but around the world -- it's about folks at the top who have the leverage and power who need to impose upon the workers of the world.

"Most of our players when they end playing basketball they are going to be living for another 40 years or so. And so I don't know how long that money is going to last," he added. "Even if they made every prudent investment that they could possibly make, I don't know at what level they are going to be able to live. But I think after a while it just becomes a principle. For a lot of these players that is what it's about."

I think the world's labor force would go along with that. Who wouldn't want to play a youth game in baggy shorts for a few years and be guaranteed a lifetime of luxury thereafter? Thanks NBA Players Association for leading the fight for the rest of us. Solidarity rules!

LA TIMES sports writer chokes under no pressure

Silver is good.

Fresh Air

I miss wind wings. The flow of fresh air, directed as I wished, was one of the true pleasures of driving. A 1968 VW was the last car I drove with wind wings.


But, in a parade of progress, wind wing side vents succumbed to air conditioning, followed quickly by power steering, power windows, cruise control, power mirrors, power seats with lumbar support and memory, power brakes, GPS, back-up video, and more.

I love it all; want every bell and whistle I can afford. But can't I have it with wind wings?

San Francisco Fog

Picking his way through a fog so thick it is difficult to make out the shop lights, a lone tourist steps into an antique shop in the maze of San Francisco's Chinatown. Looking through objects strewn carelessly about the cluttered shop, he discovers a detailed, life-sized bronze sculpture of a rat. The sculpture is so interesting and unique that he feels compelled to pick it up and as he holds it, finds it difficult to put it back down. Though not much of a collector, he reluctantly asks the shop owner what it costs.

"Twelve dollars for the rat, sir," says the shop owner, "and a thousand dollars more for the story behind it."

"You can keep the story, old man," he replies, relieved at the bargain price, "but I'll take the rat," and happily leaves the store with the bronze rat under his arm.

As he crosses the street in front of the store, the tourist sees two gray rats scamper from a sewer drain and fall into step behind him. Clutching his bronze trophy tightly, he walks faster, but every time he passes another sewer drain, more rats pop out and follow him.

By the time he's walked two blocks, at least a hundred rats are at his heels. The fog is quickly lifting and people begin to point and shout. He walks even faster, and then breaks into a trot as multitudes of rats swarm toward him from sewers, basements, vacant lots, and abandoned cars.

As in a nightmare, rats by the thousands are squealing fiercely at his heels. Nearing the waterfront at the bottom of the hill, he panics and starts to run. No matter how fast he runs, the rats keep up, squealing hideously now, not just thousands but millions; a tide of rats pouring from every part of the city and closing in behind and around him.

Running onto a pier, and trapped at the edge, the tourist makes a mighty leap up onto a light post but, grabbing hold, drops the bronze rat. It lands with a bounce on the pier and tumbles into the Bay.

Pulling his legs up and clinging desperately to the light post, he watches in amazement as the screeching tide of rats surge over the end of the pier and follow the bronze rat into the bay. They thrash about wildly, but vainly, and all swiftly, agonizingly, sink into the dark, frigid water and drown.

Shaken and humbled, the tourist somehow makes his way through the returning fog back to the antique shop.

"Ah, so you've come back for the rest of the story," says the owner.

"No," says the tourist, "I was wondering if you had a bronze Republican.

Parmadale

I spent the Seventh Grade in an all-boy, Catholic orphanage outside of Cleveland, operated by the Sisters of Charity of Saint Augustine. Because it interrupted the rhythm of my life at an impressionable age I probably have more specific memories of those nine or ten months than any other comparable time period. Would you like to hear them all? I thought not. However, in view of the priestly scandals now so frequently exposed, I do need pause to consider the event of our daily shower.

Besides the Church, Dining Hall and other service buildings, Parmadale, the orphanage, consisted primarily of about twenty residential "cottages" - actually large brick buildings housing about thirty schoolboys each - plus a team of nuns, the number of which I cannot remember. Nor can I recall any of their names, faces or other personal characteristics. They were nuns wearing habits and headgear showing only pinched, pale faces and were none much distinguishable from the others.

And so the showers. Sometime in the evening. Before dinner? After dinner? Maybe just before bedtime. I can't remember. But I do remember the shower. As decent Catholic boys, we dressed and undressed with discretion, and we went into the shower room wearing skimpy, white cotton shorts. I think the shower room accommodated eight or ten at a time and a Sister of Charity sat at the entrance to monitor our bathing practices and deportment, often reminding a careless bather to reach inside his shorts and wash himself properly.

Basically, that is all I remember about the shower. But in retrospect it seems that Church officials may have realized that young boys were in safer hands with the nuns than with male caretakers, and are not as obtuse to the facts of life as they generally seem.

Bing Crosby to Barri Gòtic

19 years old, driving to work on a TV assembly line in South Central Los Angeles. Music radio in 1950 played Goodies before they became Oldies. One cold morning I heard Bing Crosby on a new record. As time went on and upon hearing other renditions, I came to realize that Quizas, Quizas, Quizas was, and still is, my favorite song. It is always on my radar. I keep a few versions on CD and in my computer.

Last week, in Barcelona, Julie and I were amblin' among the tourists that crowded the Barri Gòtic surrounding the historic cathedral. Circling around the cathedral on a narrow and crowded walking street, I began to hear some soft, but unmistakable notes of Quizas, Quizas, Quizas. It emanated from a small space beside the walkway.



I stopped against the church and let the tourists hurry by. I could barely believe my ears. The quitar notes were crisp and pure. The voice was soft, but perfectly attuned to the guitar and the song. It was the most perfect version of my favorite song that I had ever heard.

How had I happened to come to that spot, at that moment? Don't think serendipity; for me, this experience was bigger than that. Nonetheless, I dropped a coin in his guitar case and we joined the flow through the Barri Gòtic.

Innocence

Alone at coffee this afternoon, reading the New Yorker, when a young Black couple stopped at my table. "You know who you look like," the man asked?

What could I say?

"Clint Eastwood," he said. Which was both amusing and flattering. "That's right," he insisted, Clint Eastwood."

So I admitted, "Years ago, I used to hear that. Now that we're old, I guess I'll hear it some again."

"Do you know Clint Eastwood," he asked?

"I did. Back in the day." (Catchy little phrase, that.)

"Was he a nice guy?"

"Oh, yes," I assured him. "A very nice guy."

"I'd really like to meet him. Do you know where he lives?"

"Up northern California. I don't know exactly where."

"Would he talk to me if I met him?"

"I'm sure he would, just hanging out like he does."

"I'd like to be his friend. I would be a good friend to Clint Eastwood."

I smiled and nodded and wished him and his ladyfriend good luck and a good day as I returned to my magazine. I have no doubt that, somehow, I had made his day.

Hot Wheelin'

My Trooper transmission shift control started flaking out on me yesterday. I pulled in to an Asian car specialist but he couldn't even begin to pin point the problem and suggested I try my regular mechanic, who might have better diagnostic equipment. I took it there, but John didn't want to work on it and sent me directly to the shop that does all his transmission work.

That specialist had diagnostic equipment that identified the problem as voltage, not transmission, and suggested I take it to my battery place for testing and replacement. I drove to my Sears Auto Center in Santa Monica, only to find a large, graded vacant lot in its place. A couple phones calls lead me to a distant Sears, almost fully hidden in a canyon adjacent to a large shopping center.

When I finally located the service department, the battery testing technician informed me that the battery tested good and there was nothing he can do to correct the shift problem and I'd best go back to my regular mechanic.

Manually shifting roughly through the gears and frequently re-starting a car that is alternately overcharging and stalling in traffic, I manuevered back to my regular mechanic, stopping once to re-fuel my now running-on-empty tank.

When I pulled in again, John looked at me with some discomfort and definite disappointment. This was obviously not a vehicle he had hoped to see again. Nonetheless, I set the key on his counter with finality, collected my dog, and hurried home for quick dip into an icy martini.

Dream/Memory

I am in New York. Broadway. 42nd St. High noon. Sidewalks crowded like I've never seen before, not even in Chicago where I went to sleep. How did I get here? George is with me. Now he isn't. Broke in August. Hot and humid. Scrubbing garbage cans behind the restaurant. Rats jump out and scare me. Take my money and go. Dumb western on 42nd St. Wake up with a bloody mouth and sore jaw. Nauseous. Beautiful lunch on a mansion patio in Westchester. Great lawn. Nightime. Sidewalks jumping with rhythm. Birdland. Wow! Tuxedo knocks me down. Huge hand helps me up. Sonny Tufts apologizes profusely. SONNY TUFTS!! Three button, natural shoulder Ivy League suit dominates store window until I walk out with it. Long bus ride at night. Bright tower in Philadelphia. Wake up in Chicago. No. I am in Los Angeles, dreaming a memory. Or remembering a dream.