Water, Water Everywhere

Never much of a handyman around the house—like most Jewish men I know, my handiwork encompasses writing checks that don’t bounce—I’ve been honing my DIY (do-it-yourself) skills of late. Today, for example, using my jig saw and new cordless drill, I built a slanted foot stand on which to stretch my Achilles tendons. Total cost: $14.07. Not bad, considering that physical therapy over the last month has cost almost $300 per session! I also power-sprayed part of our slate patio. Amazing how much dirt can accumulate over 25 years!!!

Today’s successes notwithstanding, I’m in no rush to proclaim myself the next incarnation of Bob Vila. Back in September 1978, I learned the hard way to be humble when it comes to home repairs.

We had just moved into our first house, a 1932 three bedroom Tudor. Gilda was eight months pregnant with Dan. One Sunday evening, while she painted and wallpapered his bedroom (oh, stop rolling your eyes and shaking your head at the thought of her standing on a ladder. We wanted the job done right, after all), I occupied myself with more ground level tasks. I changed the cylinder on the garage door. I fixed the door on the washing machine. I was on a roll. It was now time to tackle the leaky flush ball in the basement toilet. Gilda had bought a repair kit. I simply had to follow the instructions.

I took the top off the tank. I removed the faulty plug from the valve assembly and immediately set off a gusher of cold water. It splashed off the ceiling, drenched me and would not stop. I screamed for Gilda. From two flights above she heard me, raced downstairs and feared she would become a widow from all the water bouncing off the light fixture above me. You idiot, she basically said. Why didn’t you shut the water off? I countered that I followed every instruction provided by the kit she bought. Nowhere, nowhere, did it say, SHUT THE WATER OFF BEFORE YOU START, DUMMY!!!

OK, all I had to do was shut the water off. Modern toilets generally have a shut-off valve below the tank. Did I mention that this house was built in 1932? Back then, at least for this toilet, the plumber didn’t think an exterior shut-off valve was necessary. I tried stuffing towels into the open valve to stem the flow, but like BP and the rest of the world are finding out, it’s not that easy stopping a liquid under pressure that wants to escape. Water was already several inches deep in the bathroom. The only consolation was we already were in the basement and no damage could be done to our living quarters.

We were about to call an emergency plumber when we remembered that during the recent inspection prior to purchasing our home, the inspector pointed out the main water pipe. Now if we could only remember where he said it was. It took several more wet minutes but we located it and managed to turn the water off. I re-inserted the plug, turned the water back on and asked Gilda to call a plumber Monday morning.

Jodie showed up the next day, cheerfully telling Gilda these old toilets are tricky, that if you’re not careful you could easily crack a pipe, which he promptly did. By the time he finished we were hundreds of dollars poorer, but richer in that we had a whole new toilet assembly, with an exterior shut-off valve.

Catching Up

Just back from four nights in Finley-land. It’s a lot easier being a grandparent than a parent. I’m sure all grandparents adore their grandkids, but I must say, had our children been as “easy” as Finley, Gilda and I definitely would not have stopped at two.

As babies, Dan and Ellie resisted going to bed early, and when they did finally succumb they wouldn’t let Gilda sleep more than two hours in any one stretch, even into their toddling years (for those wondering why Gilda suffered and I didn’t, as much, it’s because she was breastfeeding them). Finley, on the other hand, adheres to a schedule. Most nights, without complaint, he’s put to bed around 7 and doesn’t wake up until 3ish, then it’s back to bed till around 7. He takes two hour naps in the morning and afternoon. He smiles a lot, plays by himself, doesn’t require constant holding. He even enjoys the solid, or rather mush, food he’s getting—peaches, peas, bananas and, his favorite, apple sauce. His “dessert” treat is a few swigs of water through a double handled tippy-cup.

Sorry if I’m gushing like a proud granddad. Can’t help it. (For more on the wunderkid, plus pictures, visit http://findingfinley.blogspot.com.)

Being with Finley finally triggered my decision to pick GM as my grandparent name. I had previously rejected GM (Grandpa Murray) in deference to my nephew-in-law’s prior employment with the Ford Motor Co. But the more I thought about it, including my recent blog reminder about Henry Ford’s anti-semitism, the less inclined I was to honor that decision. So GM it is, along with GG for Grandma Gilda.


Fearless Prediction 1: My last political prediction was that President Obama would pick Hillary Clinton to succeed John Paul Stevens on the Supreme Court as a means of diffusing partisan debate on the nomination and also to remove any possibility that she would consider running for president in 2012. I also thought it was important to have at least one Protestant on the court (http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2010/04/justice-for-clinton.html).

Well, unless Elena Kagan really muffs it as she begins today her Senate confirmation process, my fearless prediction will have to wait until another vacancy arises (hopefully on the Conservative—hard to call it simply Republican—side of the bench).

It was no comfort to read Noah Feldman’s Op/Ed piece in today’s NY Times that six Catholics and three Jews on the Supreme Court would be a good thing (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/06/28/opinion/28feldman.html?scp=1&sq=noah%20feldman&st=cse). Feldman may be a law professor at Harvard, but I believe he is wrong. The strength of this country lies in its diversity and acceptance of different cultures. Yes, it’s wonderful that White Anglo-Saxon Protestants (WASPs) no longer have a stranglehold on power. But it is equally important their views and heritage be incorporated into the deliberations of our highest (not necessarily the best) legal minds.


Fearless Prediction 2: The McChrystal debate raged on in Mamaroneck yesterday. Was the four-star general shrewd or not in venting before a Rolling Stone reporter? I’m not going to relate the arguments put forward at the afternoon get-together. But I will go on the record with my next fearless political prediction:

Stanley McChrystal will be touted as a 2012 Republican presidential candidate. Never mind that he doesn’t have any elective office background. Forget that he disregarded the chain of command, that he dissed the president, the vice president and countless other civilian officials. All those “negatives” will be viewed as positives by Republicans, especially Tea Partiers.

Like McClellan during the Civil War and MacArthur during the Korean War, he’s a military man who will seek the White House, or at the very least be sought after as the GOP savior-warrior. Maybe it’s the “Mic” sound at the start of their names that hotwires all these generals to go rogue and defy their commanders-in-chief.

Can you really trust someone who eats just one meal a day? Sounds very Bin Ladenish to me.


Fearless Observation: My observation that Eliot Spitzer was riding high and hard on the rehabilitation trail (http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2010/04/fear-of-falling.html) proved accurate with the announcement last Wednesday that he will co-host a new CNN prime time talk show beginning in the fall. Seems hardly a week goes by without some politician or public figure being ensnared in a sex scandal. The public’s ability to keep track of all the dirty linen would be sorely tested if not for all of the celebrity gossip shows, YouTube videos and our overall fascination with sleeze.

The more I learn about our nation’s history the more I am coming to understand this fixation is not new, that the Internet, TV and gossip magazines are mere instruments of our sexual hangups and curiosity. As far back as Dolley Madison, if not earlier, politicians and pundits wondered if the presidency was sullied, even obtained, by sexual favors.

So let the pols play on. It diverts our attention from such pressing matters as immigration reform, energy policy, peace in the Mideast and any number of other issues that cloud the national debate on whether Al and Tipper or Bill and Hillary are representative of marriage today.


Return of the Wasps: Notwithstanding my earlier comment about the need for more WASPs on the Supreme Court, I was surprised this afternoon by the return of a wasp to my master bathroom. Over the years wasps have filtered down from the attic through the fan vent above the shower. Curiously, this year the fly-ins rarely occurred. I wondered if wasps were suffering the same vanishing fate as bees.

As much as I dislike, even fear, wasps, they do provide a service, eating up other insects. But my tolerance has its limits. Invade my living quarters, and you no longer enjoy my hospitality, as this afternoon’s wasp found out.

The Finley Principle

Trust. The first two definitions in the Merriam-Webster dictionary are: 1a) assured reliance on the character, ability, strength, or truth of someone or something; 2b) one in which confidence is placed.

They’ve trusted me with Finley this morning. Dan went off to work. After putting Finley down for his morning nap, Allison drove off to her former classroom to clean out her belongings. She’s changing jobs in the fall, so it’s time to retrieve all her possessions from the Cabot School where she spent the last seven years.

Someone had to watch Finley. That’s what retired grandparents are for, n’est pas?

Last time I soloed with Finley he was but a few weeks old and it was supposed to be just a few moments while he slept and Allison dashed out to the cleaners. Finley was sleeping in the Beco carrier I was wearing when he woke up unexpectantly and discharged an unmistakable sound. I hadn’t changed a diaper in more than a quarter century (Ellie had toilet trained at 17 months!!!) but I wasn’t going to let him wallow in poop until mom came home. It’s a good thing I didn’t. A few moments turned into more than a quarter hour from poop time because a traffic tie-up forced Allison to take a detour home.

The now 7-month-old Finley started his nap a little after 9 am. Dan called to check in at 10:30, waking me from my nap. Allison called around 11. Ditto result. Finley finally woke up around 11:20, let me change, dress and place him in the car seat in Dan’s Subaru (we had switched cars because my Toyota didn’t have the proper baby seat anchoring system) and patiently awaited our trip to the Cabot School. I reversed down the driveway, adhered to Lady Garmin’s direction to drive “the highlighted route” and then heard a grinding noise come from the rear of the car. It was not coming from Finley. I stopped, got out out and found the rear right tire...flat!

Allison rushed home, AAA changed the tire, but the principle had been set in my mind. I now trust in the Finley Principle—if something can go wrong while I babysit, it will.

A Day in the Life

Went to see The A-Team today on the recommendation of two friends, who shall continue to be friends despite having sentenced me to an eternal loss of two-plus hours of my life. But not all is lost. I did get another installment of my life juxtaposed with reality. It’s stranger than fiction, believe me...

Sitting in the darkened theater waiting for the feature to begin, I watched a commercial for Hershey Park and thought back to the time in June 1972 when Gilda and I were in that area of Pennsylvania and barely escaped with our lives. In researching the details, turns out our brush with danger happened on this exact day, June 22. Eerie.

As explained in a previous blog (http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2010/05/my-first-job-story.html), after graduating with an MA in journalism I traveled to many newspapers searching for that elusive first job. Gilda and I packed up my Buick Skylark for a trip to Delaware, Maryland and eastern Pennsylvania. Riding through northern Delaware we drove in and out of torrential downpours so thick that sometimes we had to stop the car under an overpass because we couldn’t see out the windshield. After each cloudburst, the sky would brighten.

We plied on, heading towards Harrisburg. It was late in the afternoon when we hit Hershey. We stopped at the Hershey Inn, but the price of a room was way too high for a not yet employed reporter. Everywhere else we looked, however, had no vacancies. We were about to swallow our pride and budget and go back to the Hershey Inn when we came across a motel built like an old Victorian home. It had a room, in the basement, next to a steep driveway. Though she was currently renting a basement apartment in Brooklyn, Gilda had no desire to spend the night underground, so we pushed on, fortuitously discovering the newly opened Milton Motel sitting on a slight bluff less than half a mile away. We took a room, ate dinner at a nearby restaurant, went to bed and slept right through Hurricane Agnes which at the time was considered to have caused the worst flooding in U.S. history (http://www.accuweather.com/blogs/news/story/33039/remembering-agnes-flooding-in.asp).

On both sides of the Milton Motel roads were impassable beyond half a mile, and remained that way for more than a day. We weren’t too inconvenienced. We played cards. As the motel still had power, we watched some TV. And we had our choice of restaurants, a fast food hamburger joint to the right of the motel, a fried chicken place to the left. Only one thing kept us from fully enjoying the experience. Within our arc of comfort lay the Victorian-style motel, now submerged in water up to the second floor! Not being a swimmer, I shuttered to think what I would have done if water had gushed into our basement room.

In recent days, floods have killed scores of people worldwide. Had it not been for Gilda’s reluctance to spend another night below grade, I, we, might not be here today, 38 years later.

Father's Day Present, and Past

For Father’s Day, my daughter Ellie gave me a present that reminded me of my mother.

Ellie spent Saturday night preparing kreplach and chicken soup with lots of thick, sweet carrots and thin lokshen (noodles). Kreplach are Jewish wontons. Jewish meat ravioli. Jewish stuffed dumplings. Triangular in shape, at least the way my mother used to make them and Ellie did as well, kreplach are among my favorite foods. Alas, they are also among the foods I rarely get to enjoy, as they are labor intensive and messy to make.

One of the most enduring memories of childhood in Brooklyn is my mother cooking for the holidays. Each Jewish holiday brought different treats. For the night before Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, the signature culinary delight were kreplach. Mom would painstakingly hand-shred well-cooked brisket. With flour dusting up the kitchen and adjacent dinette, she’d roll dough until wafer thin, cut it into squares, place a dollop of shredded meat in the center and fold the edges over into perfectly shaped right angle triangles. Like a general preparing troops for battle, mom would array the boiled kreplach in lines worthy of military precision on the dinette table. It was my job to deliver some of her handiwork to the neighbors. I hated that job, not because as a young boy I’d be embarrassed. Rather, it pained me to part with any of my favorite food.

Ellie’s kreplach easily were two, or even three, times the size of my mother’s, and just as tasty. When I ate them Sunday afternoon in her apartment in Brooklyn I was instantly transported back to the 1950s and 1960s. We couldn’t finish them all, so naturally I took home the leftovers for lunch today. And that’s when the kreplach shifted my memories back to my father.

In keeping with the nostalgia moment, during lunch I turned on I love Lucy. The episodes I watched (yes, episodes; watching I Love Lucy is like eating potato chips—you can’t watch just one) conveyed the continuing story of Little Ricky getting a dog despite Lucy and Ricky’s objections and the Ricardos’ decision to move to the suburbs, to Westport, Conn.

I’ve already chronicled our father’s antipathy to the two dogs we had, each for one year (http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2010/06/no-time-for-pets.html).

Around the time I joined our family in March 1949, we moved from an apartment on Tehama Street in Brooklyn to an attached two-floor row house on Avenue W in the Sheepshead Bay section. “Modest” would be a kind description of its architecture, layout and, most cuttingly, interior decoration, considering the resources available to our father and mother. Yet, I was content there. I think my brother was, as well. Our sister was not. She lobbied long and hard for a move to the suburbs, a move to Long Island. Her friend Pauline’s family moved to Woodmere, if memory serves, right after they both graduated from elementary school. It was the perfect time to transplant the family, right before she would be starting high school, Lee said. Pauline’s dad was no more successful than ours, so why couldn’t we move as well, Lee argued.

Dad had no desire to play the game of “keeping up with the Joneses” (in this case, the Lipsons). He continuously resisted our mother’s entreaties to shed his Buicks and buy a Cadillac (he did so once, then reverted back to form). He had no desire to ride the rails to his factory in downtown Manhattan, and since commuting by car from Long Island had less appeal than hearing Lee kvetch and moan, he chose to stay put, no doubt reasoning that Lee’s tenure at home was maybe four or eight years more, but a move to the suburbs was a life sentence.

So we stayed at 1810 Avenue W, building up memories that to this day can be evoked by the aroma and taste of simple foods made with love by a younger generation, and eaten, maybe, with a tear forming in the corner of an eye.

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes

One year, or as the song “Seasons of Love,” from Rent put it, “Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes...”

A year ago, as publisher and group editorial director of Chain Store Age, I ran a mid-to-high-single-digit million-dollar enterprise encompassing a monthly magazine, a Web site, e-newsletters and several conferences. Today, I run errands. A year ago I supervised two dozen associates. Today, I plan activities for one.

My last commute to the office at 425 Park Avenue took place a year ago today, June 18, 2009. It was a trip I made for more than 32 years, driving to the White Plains Transcenter parking garage, riding Metro North into Grand Central Terminal, walking up Park Avenue to 55th Street, taking the elevator to the 6th floor.

Forced retirement, even if welcomed, as it was by me, has confronted many of my demographic cohorts. The number of unemployed age 55 and over increased 331% between January 2000 and December 2009, going from 490,000 to 2,114,000, according to AARP. To paraphrase a lyric from the song “If I Were a Rich Man” from Fiddler on the Roof, “It’s no great honor being a statistic.”

Yet, please don’t read this and wonder if I am depressed. I am not. I have no regrets about what happened. The economy tanked. Publishing tanked. Our area of coverage—retailing, specifically capital spending by retailers—tanked. We made cutbacks, within my group and within the whole company. They weren’t enough. The role of any manager is to prepare the next generation of management. I did my job well. Two associates were ready to take on my responsibilities. Sure, I would have liked to continue, but the prudent corporate move was to reduce overhead. I was treated fairly.

I’m often asked if I’d like to work full-time again. No, not really. I’ve paid my dues. Publishing is an especially brutal business these days. Not that it ever was a 9 to 5 job, but the Internet has made it even more of a round-the-clock profession. I do miss the recognition. Last week I participated in a retail industry panel discussion and was humbled to hear the other panelist describe how he followed my commentary over the years. For three decades I was the voice of Chain Store Age. Nothing, nothing was published without my seal of approval. But Chain Store Age was not mine to hand down to my family. It was my job, not my equity. In return for value received, I produced value. Call it rationalization, if you will, but I’ve come to the belief that at some point one has to say, “I have enough. Enough to do what I want to do. Enough to live the rest of my life in comfort. Enough to hopefully leave something to my children.” Each person will determine their level of “enough.” Hopefully, I’ve calculated correctly.

I enjoy most days. That’s no different than when I was working. Occasionally I do wish Gilda or some of my friends were already retired so we could have play dates. But even when I was employed my closest work-friends already had left the company. For most of my working life I ate lunch in restaurants with one or more of them. During the last few years I ate too many meals at my desk. Few things were as lonely as eating lunch by oneself. For some reason, it’s not as lonely in retirement.

In case you’re wondering, I keep fairly busy. I don’t sleep late. I usually get up within 30 minutes of Gilda’s departure for work sometime between 7 and 7:30. I rarely nap during the day. I don’t watch much television—usually a DVR’ed tape of the prior night’s Daily Show and maybe The Colbert Report during lunch, and perhaps an old movie. I write several hours most days (these blogs don’t show up mysteriously, you know). I do a little consulting work for a few companies. I exercise, mostly walking in the neighborhood. I run errands, do the shopping midweek to avoid weekend crowds. Once a week I deliver meals to homebound seniors. I don’t nosh—I weigh a few pounds less than a year ago. I play sous-chef for Gilda, prepping salad and other foods for her return from work—as I might have previously written, during our marriage we have divided the chores thusly: Gilda cooks (really well), we both eat (sumptuously), I clean. I am content.

I actually have one regret. I had hoped to read a book a week in retirement. Not even close. I won’t embarrass myself by detailing my paltry output, or should that be input? Whatever.

GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOALLLLLLLLLL

To some degree, to a very small degree, I know how Robert Green feels. He’s the goalkeeper of England’s World Cup soccer team who muffed a seemingly easy save, allowing the United States to secure a 1-1 tie in their first round match on Saturday.

I never played goalie, but in college I headed a ball past a keeper. Too bad he was protecting my team’s net. Ouch. Had it been the deciding goal in the intramural game, I would possibly be scarred for life. But my Brooklyn College house plan (like a fraternity but without national affiliation or dormitory privileges) had already given up too many scores to win the game when a high kick came soaring towards our goal. Playing fullback, one of the defensemen, I retreated towards the net, positioning myself where I thought the ball would land. I miscalculated. Instead of hitting my head square, the ball skidded off the back of my crown. Right past our goalie. GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOALLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!

I never really liked soccer. Like most yuppie parents I brought our son Dan to soccer tryouts when he turned 7. Dan really wasn’t too enthusiastic a player back then, even when he “made” our city’s traveling all-star team two years later. Everyone “made” the team. The better players went onto the A team. Dan was placed on the B team. He played fullback, like his dad, only Dan turned out to be the politest of defenders. If a ball rolled between him and an opponent, Dan exhibited his own brand of sportsmanship by not interfering with that player’s forward motion. It was frustrating to watch, especially since schlepping him to practices was quite inconvenient. On a positive note, Dan was no worse a player than most of the others on the team.

Early October 1987 proved to be pivotal in Dan’s athletic development. His team was playing a four-game weekend tournament in Yonkers. It was a pitiful showing, made all the more gloomy by torrential rains (unlike baseball, soccer is played in the rain). His team lost the first game something like 11-3, the second game 10-2, the third game 13-4. As he waited to play the final game, Dan asked me if he could be goalie. I told him to ask the coach, who quickly said, no, he was still trying to evaluate the team’s goalie. Near the end of a 10-0 rout, the coach relented and allowed Dan to play the last five minutes in goal. Now, with no one except himself as the last line of defense, something inside Dan clicked. He attacked the forwards charging at him. He dove in the mud to make saves. The coach took notice. From that mucky, yucky finish, Dan became the team’s starting goalie, a position he didn’t relinquish even after elevation to the A team and through high school varsity.

I loved watching Dan in goal. He was decisive. Athletic. Demanding of himself and his teammates. He played hurt. One tournament he played four games before the coach realized he had fractured his wrist. White Plains won all four of those games.

I didn’t get to see any of Dan’s high school varsity games because of work. So I made a point of getting to the state sectional match against Mamaroneck in Dan’s senior year. I arrived at Mamaroneck’s field during half-time of a 0-0 game, found a seat in the bleachers and waited for the teams to emerge. Dan didn’t come out. Someone else was in goal. Turns out, Dan had injured his leg thwarting a breakaway. My disappointment, as well as Dan’s, was made even more palpable by a 1-0 overtime loss.

To my knowledge, that was the last organized soccer game Dan played. He shifted his athletic allegiance to Ultimate Frisbee, first at college and then at the club level (http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2010/02/ultimate-serendipity.html). In a little less than three weeks his Boston-based frisbee team will travel to Prague to compete in the world championships. The tournament won’t get the same international attention the World Cup is generating from South Africa, except, that is, among Ultimate’s fanatical base of players and supporters.