Been thinking about the jittery year of Pearl Harbor. Not only were there wars and rumors of wars, but there were under-currents of counter intelligence and leftist political forces of European origins. My neighbor was a detective on the local police force. He was often involved in such investigative assignments within the community.
Early one evening as I walked by his home he was standing on his driveway. "Tec" spoke up and asked if I were interested in a political science observation. When I replied in the affirmative he told me get some older clothes on and return very shortly. I complied with both orders; we left in his personal car.
Of course I was curious and Tec explained that we were going to a "Radical" meeting at a lodge hall across town. An organizer was coming in from New York to address the members and guests he explained. "Just observe and go through the same motions as I do" were his instructions.
As luck would have it we were recognized by a policeman on duty at the door.
"Jeepers" - he boomed - "what are you two doing here?"
Tec picked it up immediately and asked "Officer, what time does the meeting start?"
"Oh - oh - seven thirty."
We entered and sat among a sparse few. It was obvious who was the guest speaker. He reminded me of one belonging to a pawn shop sitting with a battered black brief case on his lap. He made a pencil notation on a railroad timetable then returned both to the brief case.
Following an introduction which without doubt he had supplied, he began a tirade about comrades who were incarcerated in Poughkeepsie, NY on the last glorious Fourth of July. They had assembled without a permit on the town square. He demanded by a show of hands that those in the audience would send telegrams of protest to the President of the United States, to the United States Supreme Court, to the Governor of New York and the mayor of Poughkeepsie.
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Tec raise his hand - I flashed mine.
Whatever else the speaker had to say hasn't stuck through the years.
Returning to the car Tec said - "Now for the railroad station."
"Why?"
"Jeepers - lot of help you are! He sat there checking the train schedule - I'm not going to the bus station."
We sat outside the train station with a good view of the ticket window. The black brief case showed up at the window attached to the speaker of the hour. He bought a ticket and headed for the restroom.
Tec went to the ticket window, flashed his badge, determined the destination; made a phone call; returned to the car and said "I turned him over to someone else - we are going home."
As a matter of conscience every time I think about those telegrams of protest something gets in the way - like leaves falling off trees, Pearl Harbor,...
9/11. Well, I'm still thinking about it. And the training Tec received from me that
night must have looked good on his resume; he was a Lt. Commander in Naval Intelligence during WWII.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
The London Fog
It was almost twenty five years ago that a son informed me that he was in the group to meet the Vice President's plane returning to the home state on December 26 for the Christmas holidays. The son also arranged for me to be included.
Actually I had met the VP earlier - 1964 to be exact. At that time he was campaigning for the U.S. Senate and was ringing doorbells in our neighborhood. He had rung ours and I told him that he impressed me more than the incumbent. We both lost in that election.
The official address for the visit was a house on the grounds of the hotel in the city. The son and I walked into the hotel about 9:00 A.M. on the morning of the 26th. It was cold outside and I was wearing a London Fog topcoat. It was a good year for London Fog for there must have been twenty others wearing the same in the lobby. For a moment I had the idea that I was at a hearing aid convention. All the other LF topcoats had built-in ear radios and shades. I stood out like a sore ear - my coat was minus the radio attachment and no shades.
After an introduction to the local Administrative Assistant (AA) to the VP, he served as a tour guide around the grounds and into the house where the VP was to stay. Strange feeling to walk through a a gate which had a sign "U.S. Secret Service Command Post - KEEP OUT -". It didn't say " this means you so we entered the house. Outside bushes, trees, and culverts were inspected by hearing aid convention goers with shades. After a quick tour of the downstairs, the AA went outside to check the status of a locked door.
Standing alone in the foyer, I heard footsteps clomping down the stairs.
Talk about paranoia - I was three miles south of it.
How do I explain my presence?
Would I be whisked to an uncharted island for interrogation?
Would they contact my family?
What about my toothbrush?
Footsteps supported a completely equipped London Fog coat.
I went to the attack - defense is better that way -
"Hi - how's it going?" I boomed.
"Hi" replied the complete LF and out the rear door it went. (Never did find how it was going. That told me something about my level of clearance.)
Later told the son about this experience. Said he: "If you are wearing that coat in the house in the middle of July you are grabbed before you know what is happening. They look for something out-of place."
They missed a good one - I sure was out of place.
The plane was due to land at an old Air Force Base which supported government projects. Coming into the base reminded me of the opening scene of the former base air base in the movie "Twelve O'clock High". The scene at the fire station on the flight line resembled a Hell's Angels conclave. There were at least thirty police escort motorcycles parked outside.
Entering the building we pawed our way through nineteen cubic tons of cigarette smoke. (Of course this was before the mega-bucks anti-smoking lawsuits.) After adjusting to the smoke motorcycle police and the group of London Fogs became visible. The aura was one of 'anticipatory tension'. An outsider coming into the building would realize that here was a bunch of professionals - but professional what?
The LF in Charge thanked the police escorts for their services - it is paid volunteer duty performed off-time by the local police. (Forgot to find out if the two German Police dogs were on off-time.)
The police sergeant addressed his group:
*All stalled cars are removed from the freeway;
*Each overhead bridge is guarded and is closed to traffic and pedestrians when
the escort passes;
*Do not reveal your position on the radio.
*Make no reference to the main escort.
*After the escort passes your ramp, leave and take the next assigned position.
A background radio squawked out that Air Force II was approaching the base. Cigarettes went out, helmets on; silently the escort group shuffled to their steeds and mounted them. Nine vehicles lined up along the runway. On the ground and on the top of hangars were sharpshooters with high-powered rifles.
The plane landed and the cars absorbed the occupants of the plane.
"And they are off!"
Police car No. 1 burned rubber and squealed out to a quarter mile lead. The rest of the procession followed with a gap of one car length between. Overhead a chopper weaved up and down the highway. Entering the Freeway it was noticeable that there was no inbound traffic except the escort. The motorcycle crew was effective in blocking the access ramps. It didn't take long to realize the importance of our car (the last). As soon as our car reached the access ramp the mounted police officer would take off for his next assignment up the road, leaving the ramp unguarded. Those guys might be there yet if our car had not passed.
We zoomed into the city and as we passed a local park the morning joggers took it in stride. The motorcycle escort dwindled to two front and two rear as we turned into the hotel grounds. The Administrative Assistant went into the house with the Clan.
The VP was standing on the porch and he called our son by name and said "glad to see you." After I was introduced the VP said "We are mighty proud of the work that --- is doing for us".
'And a dove sat on his shoulder and a voice out heaven said "This is my beloved Son in whom I an well-pleased." '
I looked for the dove. This wasn't dove season.
I reminded the VP of our front porch meeting in 1964. Strange that he didn't remember me - I remembered him. He made a profound statement :"1964 - that was a long time ago." He invited us to come into the house to keep out of the cold. I told him 'no thanks that we are just waiting for the A A to come out.' (Didn't tell him I wasn't cleared for 'how's it going'.)
It isn't everyday that I have the opportunity to turn down a VP invitation. Think of the number of people who had paid $XXXX per plate and were fifty - yea a hundred times further away from him than I.
As we turned away I saw a LF standing on the front porch. For once I was in style - except for the hearing aid. And in spite of the rarefied atmosphere I came away without a nosebleed.
Actually I had met the VP earlier - 1964 to be exact. At that time he was campaigning for the U.S. Senate and was ringing doorbells in our neighborhood. He had rung ours and I told him that he impressed me more than the incumbent. We both lost in that election.
The official address for the visit was a house on the grounds of the hotel in the city. The son and I walked into the hotel about 9:00 A.M. on the morning of the 26th. It was cold outside and I was wearing a London Fog topcoat. It was a good year for London Fog for there must have been twenty others wearing the same in the lobby. For a moment I had the idea that I was at a hearing aid convention. All the other LF topcoats had built-in ear radios and shades. I stood out like a sore ear - my coat was minus the radio attachment and no shades.
After an introduction to the local Administrative Assistant (AA) to the VP, he served as a tour guide around the grounds and into the house where the VP was to stay. Strange feeling to walk through a a gate which had a sign "U.S. Secret Service Command Post - KEEP OUT -". It didn't say " this means you so we entered the house. Outside bushes, trees, and culverts were inspected by hearing aid convention goers with shades. After a quick tour of the downstairs, the AA went outside to check the status of a locked door.
Standing alone in the foyer, I heard footsteps clomping down the stairs.
Talk about paranoia - I was three miles south of it.
How do I explain my presence?
Would I be whisked to an uncharted island for interrogation?
Would they contact my family?
What about my toothbrush?
Footsteps supported a completely equipped London Fog coat.
I went to the attack - defense is better that way -
"Hi - how's it going?" I boomed.
"Hi" replied the complete LF and out the rear door it went. (Never did find how it was going. That told me something about my level of clearance.)
Later told the son about this experience. Said he: "If you are wearing that coat in the house in the middle of July you are grabbed before you know what is happening. They look for something out-of place."
They missed a good one - I sure was out of place.
The plane was due to land at an old Air Force Base which supported government projects. Coming into the base reminded me of the opening scene of the former base air base in the movie "Twelve O'clock High". The scene at the fire station on the flight line resembled a Hell's Angels conclave. There were at least thirty police escort motorcycles parked outside.
Entering the building we pawed our way through nineteen cubic tons of cigarette smoke. (Of course this was before the mega-bucks anti-smoking lawsuits.) After adjusting to the smoke motorcycle police and the group of London Fogs became visible. The aura was one of 'anticipatory tension'. An outsider coming into the building would realize that here was a bunch of professionals - but professional what?
The LF in Charge thanked the police escorts for their services - it is paid volunteer duty performed off-time by the local police. (Forgot to find out if the two German Police dogs were on off-time.)
The police sergeant addressed his group:
*All stalled cars are removed from the freeway;
*Each overhead bridge is guarded and is closed to traffic and pedestrians when
the escort passes;
*Do not reveal your position on the radio.
*Make no reference to the main escort.
*After the escort passes your ramp, leave and take the next assigned position.
A background radio squawked out that Air Force II was approaching the base. Cigarettes went out, helmets on; silently the escort group shuffled to their steeds and mounted them. Nine vehicles lined up along the runway. On the ground and on the top of hangars were sharpshooters with high-powered rifles.
The plane landed and the cars absorbed the occupants of the plane.
"And they are off!"
Police car No. 1 burned rubber and squealed out to a quarter mile lead. The rest of the procession followed with a gap of one car length between. Overhead a chopper weaved up and down the highway. Entering the Freeway it was noticeable that there was no inbound traffic except the escort. The motorcycle crew was effective in blocking the access ramps. It didn't take long to realize the importance of our car (the last). As soon as our car reached the access ramp the mounted police officer would take off for his next assignment up the road, leaving the ramp unguarded. Those guys might be there yet if our car had not passed.
We zoomed into the city and as we passed a local park the morning joggers took it in stride. The motorcycle escort dwindled to two front and two rear as we turned into the hotel grounds. The Administrative Assistant went into the house with the Clan.
The VP was standing on the porch and he called our son by name and said "glad to see you." After I was introduced the VP said "We are mighty proud of the work that --- is doing for us".
'And a dove sat on his shoulder and a voice out heaven said "This is my beloved Son in whom I an well-pleased." '
I looked for the dove. This wasn't dove season.
I reminded the VP of our front porch meeting in 1964. Strange that he didn't remember me - I remembered him. He made a profound statement :"1964 - that was a long time ago." He invited us to come into the house to keep out of the cold. I told him 'no thanks that we are just waiting for the A A to come out.' (Didn't tell him I wasn't cleared for 'how's it going'.)
It isn't everyday that I have the opportunity to turn down a VP invitation. Think of the number of people who had paid $XXXX per plate and were fifty - yea a hundred times further away from him than I.
As we turned away I saw a LF standing on the front porch. For once I was in style - except for the hearing aid. And in spite of the rarefied atmosphere I came away without a nosebleed.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Adventure in the Occult?
A friend who was arthritically challenged told me of a personal problem. He said that while reading an old paperback (The Cruel Sea - Nicholas Montsarat) in a local restaurant, the waitress asked if she could borrow the book after he had read it. Although the book belonged to his brother-in-law he loaned it to her anyway. Joy to the world - the book was lost by the receiver. He asked if it would be any trouble to find a replacement since his mobility was limited. Trouble? - I relate to books as a mouse to cheese.
Thus I started making the rounds - Al Gore had not revealed the internet then - one couldn't Google it and get 2,000,000 responses for 'Cruel Sea'. So I hit the main bookstores, flea markets, garage sales, library book sales rooms, etc. I remembered a small sign reading "Books" planted at a street corner. It also had a Halloween witch symbol on a directional arrow. That lead me to a small house in a residential area.
An unkempt male sat in a rocking chair on the porch with a recorder's ear pieces plugged in. Shutting off the device he greeted me with a friendly remark. I told him what I was looking for. "I'm sure we don't have it but go look around." Entering the house I saw several bookcases with books neatly arranged on the shelf. The entire collection pertained to the occult.
Although the Occult is not my field, I could tell that he was to have a cabbage based meal for lunch. Leaving the cabbage aroma adrift from the kitchen I returned to the host on the porch and thanked him for the tour. He said that he would look for the book at a conclave in Texas the following month.
A few days later I saw a store front with a rough sign "USED BOOKS HERE". Entering the store I noticed many, many books 'scattered as leaves before a hurricane fall'.
Ulcer bait to a bookworm. I told the proprietor that I was looking for "The Cruel Sea" by Monsarat .
"Yes, Sir!. Had three copies - sold one copy last Tuesday to Mr. X; last Saturday one copy to Mr. Y., that leaves one copy!" He dashed into another room (background noise of shuffled books) and then he returned with the copy of "The Cruel Sea" in his hand. The search for the Holy Grail was over.
Epilogue:
After locating the book I drove to the Occult house to tell the Greeter of my find. Again the Greeter was seated on the front porch and still connected to his recorder. The Greeter smiled as I got out the car and called out "I'm glad you found your book!"
In retrospect I should have responded with "Did you enjoy the cabbage the other day?"
Thursday, March 8, 2007
Hunch Lunch
This is about "Bye" my maternal grandfather. See "The Snow Slide", a prior Blog.
Bye entered the insurance field when he was in his early twenties. Torn by family responsibilities he became discouraged in the insurance field. One noon during this time he wandered about town mulling over his future. While walking in an affluent neighborhood he noticed a carriage in the driveway of a prosperous businessman's home. Walking up to the front door, Bye knocked and the businessman opened the door. He explained to Mr. X that he had tried for many days to see him about an insurance plan to cover his business.
"Are you on your lunch hour?" asked Mr. X.
"Yes I am," was the reply.
"So am I but come join me at table and present your plan. I don't hinder anyone who wants to work on his lunch hour."
The noontime "lunch hunch" became the base for his success in the insurance business.
Within a few years he was promoted to area Superintendent. A few stories about his work came to me from his contemporaries. Every Friday afternoon he set aside time to review the basics of the policies offered by the company. An agent related how he returned to the office with a signed sale. He reviewed the sale with his 'Super'. The agent was told that he was making the insured 'insurance poor' and advised him to go back and sell an affordable policy.
One time 'Bye' was informed by the bank that it was holding several forged checks drawn on his office account. After examining the checks at the bank he said that he had signed them and they weren't forgeries. The bank official showed him the bank's signature card and it was obvious that the signatures didn't match.
"No, I wrote those with my left hand. I got to thinking that I sign a lot of papers and I have been writing recently with my left hand in case I break my right hand or wrist." He was advised not to practice on legal documents.
The same bank at another time suffered a 'run on the bank' with many depositors lining up to withdraw money. Bye stood in line to the teller's window. The bank president saw him and asked if he was withdrawing money too. "No, I came here to open up another account for the office." Those in line heard the conversation and that stopped the 'run on the bank'.
-
In the 1920's sales within a superintendent's area were part of his retirement base. A friend from Headquarters office told him that a forthcoming change in the retirement policy would lower his retirement income if he waited to retire eighteen months later. The preceding year was a banner year for his area so he retired early under the higher paying plan. Today that is known as 'insider trading'.
His retirement days provided an example in the art of grandfathering.
One afternoon as we were leaving the golf course our grandson Chad said "Hey - I had a good time today." Reflecting through the mist of years I thought "Thanks Bye, and I still owe you for your lessons in grandfathering."
Bye entered the insurance field when he was in his early twenties. Torn by family responsibilities he became discouraged in the insurance field. One noon during this time he wandered about town mulling over his future. While walking in an affluent neighborhood he noticed a carriage in the driveway of a prosperous businessman's home. Walking up to the front door, Bye knocked and the businessman opened the door. He explained to Mr. X that he had tried for many days to see him about an insurance plan to cover his business.
"Are you on your lunch hour?" asked Mr. X.
"Yes I am," was the reply.
"So am I but come join me at table and present your plan. I don't hinder anyone who wants to work on his lunch hour."
The noontime "lunch hunch" became the base for his success in the insurance business.
Within a few years he was promoted to area Superintendent. A few stories about his work came to me from his contemporaries. Every Friday afternoon he set aside time to review the basics of the policies offered by the company. An agent related how he returned to the office with a signed sale. He reviewed the sale with his 'Super'. The agent was told that he was making the insured 'insurance poor' and advised him to go back and sell an affordable policy.
One time 'Bye' was informed by the bank that it was holding several forged checks drawn on his office account. After examining the checks at the bank he said that he had signed them and they weren't forgeries. The bank official showed him the bank's signature card and it was obvious that the signatures didn't match.
"No, I wrote those with my left hand. I got to thinking that I sign a lot of papers and I have been writing recently with my left hand in case I break my right hand or wrist." He was advised not to practice on legal documents.
The same bank at another time suffered a 'run on the bank' with many depositors lining up to withdraw money. Bye stood in line to the teller's window. The bank president saw him and asked if he was withdrawing money too. "No, I came here to open up another account for the office." Those in line heard the conversation and that stopped the 'run on the bank'.
-
In the 1920's sales within a superintendent's area were part of his retirement base. A friend from Headquarters office told him that a forthcoming change in the retirement policy would lower his retirement income if he waited to retire eighteen months later. The preceding year was a banner year for his area so he retired early under the higher paying plan. Today that is known as 'insider trading'.
His retirement days provided an example in the art of grandfathering.
One afternoon as we were leaving the golf course our grandson Chad said "Hey - I had a good time today." Reflecting through the mist of years I thought "Thanks Bye, and I still owe you for your lessons in grandfathering."
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Ear Today
Hearing Test:
Picture rooms in straight line, open-door order: kitchen>dining room>living room. In the living room is elderly Will, grandmother's cousin; mother and grandmother are in the kitchen. Mother is saying "Guess I'd better go into the living room to see if Cousin Will(Transitions -Feb 10) wants tea at supper. He's as deaf as an old post."
From the living room comes a male voice: "Yes,I'd like a cup of tea."
Hearing Test:
While on a visit to a retirement center I observed a family in the reception area
who were greeting an inhabitant. The local asked of the visitors:
"Where's Linda?"
"She's gone to the drugstore to get batteries for your hearing aid."
"Oh my! Does she have hearing problems too?"
Hearing Test:
I was stretched out on the examining table as the ear doctor probed for wax in whatever the technical term is for where he was. In the midst of the procedure I heard a cell phone ring coming from the doctor's belt area.
"If it's for me," I said, "say that I am busy."
Picture rooms in straight line, open-door order: kitchen>dining room>living room. In the living room is elderly Will, grandmother's cousin; mother and grandmother are in the kitchen. Mother is saying "Guess I'd better go into the living room to see if Cousin Will(Transitions -Feb 10) wants tea at supper. He's as deaf as an old post."
From the living room comes a male voice: "Yes,I'd like a cup of tea."
Hearing Test:
While on a visit to a retirement center I observed a family in the reception area
who were greeting an inhabitant. The local asked of the visitors:
"Where's Linda?"
"She's gone to the drugstore to get batteries for your hearing aid."
"Oh my! Does she have hearing problems too?"
Hearing Test:
I was stretched out on the examining table as the ear doctor probed for wax in whatever the technical term is for where he was. In the midst of the procedure I heard a cell phone ring coming from the doctor's belt area.
"If it's for me," I said, "say that I am busy."
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Things Never Change
23 Jan 1942
US Army Reception Center, FT Niagara, NY
Third day in the army and since 0500 (that's 5 am to civilians) I'm on KP in the mess hall. At 0645 I'm slinging some kind of gruel onto mess trays toted by 'faces white from the office light' - those with seniority as great as mine.
"There's one thing for certain, the army is not particular who serves food around here." I looked up and saw a friend for the first time since college graduation. We both exchanged broad grins and he passed on down the chow line and out of my life.
The Mess Sergeant must have out sized a pro-wrestler Man Mountain Dean. The 'Sarge' was huge. He puffed and waddled when he walked. When the GI's quit coming through the breakfast chow line, the Sarge put the largest skillet I had ever seen on the stove. To the skillet he added an equivalent slab of ham. As the ham sizzled he had a dozen eggs frying, sunny side up, in the bubbling grease.
Skillfully sliding the ham and eggs onto a tray, he placed the tray on a butcher's block; a stool squeaked as Sarge plopped onto it next to the block. We stood around watching the operation expectantly.
Then Sarge bellowed - "Whatcha lookin' at? Can't a guy eat in peace? Get yer
butts trew dat line and get some grub fer yerself."
How did that song go? "This is the army, Mr. Jones-"
Summer 1946
Binghamton, NY -Chenango Valley State Park Golf Course
After four plus years I'm finally out of military service and on the golf course.
On the the eight tee I realized that I had left the pitching wedge near the
last green. As I returned to the seventh green a voice called out:"There's one
thing for certain, they are not particular who plays golf around here either."
It was the college friend I had last seen at the Induction Station in 1942!
US Army Reception Center, FT Niagara, NY
Third day in the army and since 0500 (that's 5 am to civilians) I'm on KP in the mess hall. At 0645 I'm slinging some kind of gruel onto mess trays toted by 'faces white from the office light' - those with seniority as great as mine.
"There's one thing for certain, the army is not particular who serves food around here." I looked up and saw a friend for the first time since college graduation. We both exchanged broad grins and he passed on down the chow line and out of my life.
The Mess Sergeant must have out sized a pro-wrestler Man Mountain Dean. The 'Sarge' was huge. He puffed and waddled when he walked. When the GI's quit coming through the breakfast chow line, the Sarge put the largest skillet I had ever seen on the stove. To the skillet he added an equivalent slab of ham. As the ham sizzled he had a dozen eggs frying, sunny side up, in the bubbling grease.
Skillfully sliding the ham and eggs onto a tray, he placed the tray on a butcher's block; a stool squeaked as Sarge plopped onto it next to the block. We stood around watching the operation expectantly.
Then Sarge bellowed - "Whatcha lookin' at? Can't a guy eat in peace? Get yer
butts trew dat line and get some grub fer yerself."
How did that song go? "This is the army, Mr. Jones-"
Summer 1946
Binghamton, NY -Chenango Valley State Park Golf Course
After four plus years I'm finally out of military service and on the golf course.
On the the eight tee I realized that I had left the pitching wedge near the
last green. As I returned to the seventh green a voice called out:"There's one
thing for certain, they are not particular who plays golf around here either."
It was the college friend I had last seen at the Induction Station in 1942!
Monday, February 12, 2007
Sound and Fury
The Pasta Shaque
Hot Springs, AR 719xx
This is in reference to our dining at The Pasta Shaque Sunday , February 11, 2007. The food was of the quality we expect at The Pasta Shaque. For some unexplained reason the hot part of the meal was rushed to the table before we had received the salad.
We appreciate that no staff member used 'guys' or 'you guys'. Those trite greetings have infested the restaurant industry . The Pasta Shaque seems to have avoided the malady.
The sound system is operated at too high a level. When mentioned to the wait-person it was shrugged off with 'it just seems so because the tables are not full'. Later an offer was made to 'try' to have it turned down but we declined as we had finished eating and were leaving. We were in error by not mentioning the noise level during ordering as the wait person asked us to repeat the orders because of the loud sound in the background.
Fortunately we do not have hearing problems. However if we were at the stage where we were wearing hearing aids, we could have turned off the hearing aids and dined in comfort.
Perhaps The Pasta Shaque's operating policy is to launch music at high levels so customers will vacate the tables faster and provide a higher rate of table usage. Just as the chef uses the right amount of spices and flavorings to provide palatable meals, the proper level of music provides a pleasant acoustical surrounding for dining.
If the music is still loud at the next visit it's 'addio signora' and we will leave without eating.
Sincerely,
Hot Springs, AR 719xx
This is in reference to our dining at The Pasta Shaque Sunday , February 11, 2007. The food was of the quality we expect at The Pasta Shaque. For some unexplained reason the hot part of the meal was rushed to the table before we had received the salad.
We appreciate that no staff member used 'guys' or 'you guys'. Those trite greetings have infested the restaurant industry . The Pasta Shaque seems to have avoided the malady.
The sound system is operated at too high a level. When mentioned to the wait-person it was shrugged off with 'it just seems so because the tables are not full'. Later an offer was made to 'try' to have it turned down but we declined as we had finished eating and were leaving. We were in error by not mentioning the noise level during ordering as the wait person asked us to repeat the orders because of the loud sound in the background.
Fortunately we do not have hearing problems. However if we were at the stage where we were wearing hearing aids, we could have turned off the hearing aids and dined in comfort.
Perhaps The Pasta Shaque's operating policy is to launch music at high levels so customers will vacate the tables faster and provide a higher rate of table usage. Just as the chef uses the right amount of spices and flavorings to provide palatable meals, the proper level of music provides a pleasant acoustical surrounding for dining.
If the music is still loud at the next visit it's 'addio signora' and we will leave without eating.
Sincerely,
Saturday, February 10, 2007
TRANSITION
A grandson recently gave us the Marx Brothers DVD 'Night at the Opera'. That set off a chain reaction of memories. 'Back then' it was a standard expression to extend the right hand and flick the last three fingers like Groucho flicking the ashes from his cigar. Today the motion has degraded to the index finger.
The name 'Marx Brothers' also brought back a family memory. My maternal grandparents saw a Marx Brothers movie one afternoon; my parents the following night. Later on my grandmother asked my mother "Did Harpo play 'Silver Threads among the Gold' when you saw it?" "I'm sure he didn't change a note," my mother replied.
I thought that conversation was the most stupid thing I had ever heard until my mother gave an explanation. She said that before movies stage plays were presented a week at a time by touring companies. When there was music songs were often changed from one presentation to the next.
Incidentally my grandmother had a first cousin who was on the stage with such a 'touring company'. While on stage he used the name of Will Bingham. I Googled him and found that he toured in Ohio in the early 1900's.
I remember going to the "silent" movies with the dialog printed on the screen. One highlight day the curtains closed in front of the screen; the theater went completely dark; lights slowly came up; the curtains parted revealing the screen. An actor was standing there on the screen and he said OUT LOUD: "Hello, I am Conrad Nagle, and soon this the-ay-ter will have motion pictures in talk and sound." I believe history will show that I was constipated for a week.
Those were great times -1927-I was in the fourth grade, Lindy flew the Atlantic, Babe Ruth hit sixty home runs, and movies started to talk.
And to the one who gave us the DVD : Hope you will see as many changes - most for the better - as I have.
And to the one who gave us the DVD : Hope you will see as many changes - most for the better - as I have.
Friday, February 9, 2007
The Snow Slide
One winter day large snow flakes floated lazily down to earth. It was not long before they were no longer floating but pelting. To the oldsters the storm was a 'noreaster' and we were in for it. After two days about the length of the yardstick measured the snow's depth.
My father and I helped my grandfather to shovel the snow from the walks. Our shoveling had created a large pile of snow to the right of the front porch steps. Looking up, Grandpa noticed the snow on the slanting slate roof over the porch. He decided it was high time that he clean the snow off the porch roof. Armed with the snow shovel he climbed the stairs to the second floor. Opening a window he leaned out and started to push the snow off the roof with the shovel.
Next Grandpa sat on the sill and leaned forward to get more leverage. Then the shout "Lookout below - I'm coming down." He was sliding feet first down the slate roof into space, and landed in the piled snow.
Arising from the snow pile he retrieved the snow shovel and headed into the house. As he started back up the stairs, grandmother looked up from her crocheting and said "I thought you were upstairs shoveling the snow off the roof?"
"I was - I certainly was," he replied and continued on up the stairs with the shovel in hand.
My father and I helped my grandfather to shovel the snow from the walks. Our shoveling had created a large pile of snow to the right of the front porch steps. Looking up, Grandpa noticed the snow on the slanting slate roof over the porch. He decided it was high time that he clean the snow off the porch roof. Armed with the snow shovel he climbed the stairs to the second floor. Opening a window he leaned out and started to push the snow off the roof with the shovel.
Next Grandpa sat on the sill and leaned forward to get more leverage. Then the shout "Lookout below - I'm coming down." He was sliding feet first down the slate roof into space, and landed in the piled snow.
Arising from the snow pile he retrieved the snow shovel and headed into the house. As he started back up the stairs, grandmother looked up from her crocheting and said "I thought you were upstairs shoveling the snow off the roof?"
"I was - I certainly was," he replied and continued on up the stairs with the shovel in hand.
Monday, February 5, 2007
Footnotes on a Shoehorn
When I say "Footnotes on a Shoehorn" I'm revealing my understanding of music. Thankfully understanding and enjoyment are filtered in different parts of the brain. Within my trivia file there is the retrievable information that music notes are patterned on a staff composed of lines and spaces. The lines are Every Good Boy Does Fine and the spaces are FACE. If pressed I might find a few more terms but not for everyday use.
At one time it was foreordained that I should play the banjo-mandolin because a deceased uncle had played one. I had lessons with a musician who had learned several instruments while growing up in Italy. His main gig was conducting a local symphonic orchestra. He smoked stinking El Cheapo cigars and used the soggy end to point to various notes on the sheet music that I had misinterpreted; often gooey remains drooped from his lower lip; a sight to gag a maggot. I did discover that I could break the strings by striking them on the support edge of the piano keyboard.
During the third, and last lesson, he screeched :"That note has a sforzando!"
I did not know then what 'sforzando'. Hoped it wasn't catching. Didn't see anything except some doodling over the note. Ink blot? Could have been a dripping from his stinking wet cigar butt for all I knew.After looking up the word I still did not and don't understand it. However, that was a happy day. He told me after he collected the fifty cents for the lesson that he was no longer giving lessons on the mandolin - it really wan't his 'spashalty'. My mother had musical ability and she had already recognized that I was hiding behind the door when music talent was passed out.
Once in my grandmother's wonderful attic I found a cabinet with my mother's piano sheet music. Heavy stuff - bunch of foreign names - lots of black black notes. Her playing days ended when she cut a tendon on the middle finger - right hand. After the healing process she was never able to bend that finger.
What happened to the banjo-mandolin is blank. The genes skipped a generation and are with our oldest son.
There was a popular song along the way "Johnny One-Note". I don't even have that and wouldn't recognize it if it bit me. My friend Zim dared me to attend choir practice at the church one Wednesday night. He had me stand next to him in the bass section. The choir director, Pops, was the music teacher in high school but he was fortunate in that I was never included in his schedule.
Sheet music was passed among the choir members, Pops slapped his hands together once and all (minus one) started humming the scale. Then he asked the
choir to hum the music on the sheet he had passed out. Following the humming he got down to business and the choir broke out into song. I was doing great - lip- synching all the way. He had the choir start over again and then clapped his hands together. The music stopped and he said loudly: "Basses, that third note is a sforzando! Let me hear it." I was trapped. How does one lip-synch something he still couldn't identify?
After choir practice Zim and I were talking. Pops approached us and suggested that I find something else to do around the building during the practice hour. His hearing must have been great. Even my lip-synching was in monotone! In spite of that failure I still find myself lip-synching in church, at ball games and in other situations where one is supposed to break out in song. What a break that is for the listening audience.
At one time it was foreordained that I should play the banjo-mandolin because a deceased uncle had played one. I had lessons with a musician who had learned several instruments while growing up in Italy. His main gig was conducting a local symphonic orchestra. He smoked stinking El Cheapo cigars and used the soggy end to point to various notes on the sheet music that I had misinterpreted; often gooey remains drooped from his lower lip; a sight to gag a maggot. I did discover that I could break the strings by striking them on the support edge of the piano keyboard.
During the third, and last lesson, he screeched :"That note has a sforzando!"
I did not know then what 'sforzando'. Hoped it wasn't catching. Didn't see anything except some doodling over the note. Ink blot? Could have been a dripping from his stinking wet cigar butt for all I knew.After looking up the word I still did not and don't understand it. However, that was a happy day. He told me after he collected the fifty cents for the lesson that he was no longer giving lessons on the mandolin - it really wan't his 'spashalty'. My mother had musical ability and she had already recognized that I was hiding behind the door when music talent was passed out.
Once in my grandmother's wonderful attic I found a cabinet with my mother's piano sheet music. Heavy stuff - bunch of foreign names - lots of black black notes. Her playing days ended when she cut a tendon on the middle finger - right hand. After the healing process she was never able to bend that finger.
What happened to the banjo-mandolin is blank. The genes skipped a generation and are with our oldest son.
There was a popular song along the way "Johnny One-Note". I don't even have that and wouldn't recognize it if it bit me. My friend Zim dared me to attend choir practice at the church one Wednesday night. He had me stand next to him in the bass section. The choir director, Pops, was the music teacher in high school but he was fortunate in that I was never included in his schedule.
Sheet music was passed among the choir members, Pops slapped his hands together once and all (minus one) started humming the scale. Then he asked the
choir to hum the music on the sheet he had passed out. Following the humming he got down to business and the choir broke out into song. I was doing great - lip- synching all the way. He had the choir start over again and then clapped his hands together. The music stopped and he said loudly: "Basses, that third note is a sforzando! Let me hear it." I was trapped. How does one lip-synch something he still couldn't identify?
After choir practice Zim and I were talking. Pops approached us and suggested that I find something else to do around the building during the practice hour. His hearing must have been great. Even my lip-synching was in monotone! In spite of that failure I still find myself lip-synching in church, at ball games and in other situations where one is supposed to break out in song. What a break that is for the listening audience.
Friday, February 2, 2007
VIEWPOINT
This is for the CHAD fans with inquiring minds. Chad spent a weekend with us while he was in college. After a black tie affair at the J-ville Country Club, I sat at the computer and showed him the family genealogy program. It aroused him not a bit that his grandmother had roots back to Scotland and Germany. That my roots were Scotch/English/Irish caused not a stir. "SO?" was the response to an ancestor, a Minute Man who, fortunately for me, was a day late getting to the Battle of Bunker Hill. Nor was he impressed that this was my Patriot for membership in the Sons of the American Revolution (SAR).
To it all Chad's response was: "But that's all about dead people."
I took the hint.
The next morning Chad (with his ears supporting a halo) remarked knightly: "Hey: I read First and Second Kings last night!"
"Really, Chad; that's all about dead people."
To it all Chad's response was: "But that's all about dead people."
I took the hint.
The next morning Chad (with his ears supporting a halo) remarked knightly: "Hey: I read First and Second Kings last night!"
"Really, Chad; that's all about dead people."
Thursday, February 1, 2007
Get a Horse
From comments it seems that some anticipate that I will share some nefarious happenings from grandson Chad's background. (A discussion I had with an uncle of Chad's has diverted my ten second attention span: "Guess you thought I was plenty strict when you were growing up," I quizzed quizzenly. "Knowing what I know, you weren't strict enough," he replied knowingly.)
(Back on course.) In this particular situation Chad plays a cameo role, perhaps like the man with the jug of water who was a guide to accommodate the Last Supper; or the carriage driver who brought the distraught sailor to Sherlock Holmes' place of abode.
To set the scene, Chad, a younger cousin, and I were munching on whatever makes Wendy's famous. Chad leaned over to me and excused himself to use the restroom. The cousin finally came up from his plate and realized that Chad was no longer at table.
"Where's Shad?" he asked.
"Gone to see a man about a horse."
"Oh."
Chad returned and we finished the meal.
"Let's head for the hills" I said, or gave some other sign that we were leaving.
"What about Shad's horse?" was the next inquiry.
"Not enough room in the car - let's go!"
(Back on course.) In this particular situation Chad plays a cameo role, perhaps like the man with the jug of water who was a guide to accommodate the Last Supper; or the carriage driver who brought the distraught sailor to Sherlock Holmes' place of abode.
To set the scene, Chad, a younger cousin, and I were munching on whatever makes Wendy's famous. Chad leaned over to me and excused himself to use the restroom. The cousin finally came up from his plate and realized that Chad was no longer at table.
"Where's Shad?" he asked.
"Gone to see a man about a horse."
"Oh."
Chad returned and we finished the meal.
"Let's head for the hills" I said, or gave some other sign that we were leaving.
"What about Shad's horse?" was the next inquiry.
"Not enough room in the car - let's go!"
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Hi Guys
Management, Greasy Spoon Cafe
0 WhereEver Drive
North Jebru, AR 7xxxx
Hi Guys:
This happened today at noon at the Greasy Spoon Cafe:
Greeter: 'Hi Guys. You Guys follow me.'
Waiter: 'Hi Guys, I'm mumble, mumble, what can I get you Guys to drank?
OK Guys-be right back.'
Waiter: 'OK Guys hereyer dranks. You Guys made up your mind yet what you Guys want to eat? Scribble, scribble. Ok Guys-be right back.' (So as not to bore you Guys, I'm omitting the three other 'you Guys' thrown out with reckless abandon.)
As we departed the Greeter turned Exiter bade us a fond farewell with 'You guys have a good day.'
Perhaps some of you management guys should hop down to Books a Million and let one of the guys there sell you guys a thesaurus. Perhaps you guys on the training staff will find another term for customers beside "GUYS".
Gee, Guys, what is wrong with just "You"? e.g.: How are you? Have you decided on your order? etc. etc.
Thanks for listening, Guys. and pass the Pepto-Bismol. The food is still good in spite of the distractions listed above.
Sincerely
0 WhereEver Drive
North Jebru, AR 7xxxx
Hi Guys:
This happened today at noon at the Greasy Spoon Cafe:
Greeter: 'Hi Guys. You Guys follow me.'
Waiter: 'Hi Guys, I'm mumble, mumble, what can I get you Guys to drank?
OK Guys-be right back.'
Waiter: 'OK Guys hereyer dranks. You Guys made up your mind yet what you Guys want to eat? Scribble, scribble. Ok Guys-be right back.' (So as not to bore you Guys, I'm omitting the three other 'you Guys' thrown out with reckless abandon.)
As we departed the Greeter turned Exiter bade us a fond farewell with 'You guys have a good day.'
Perhaps some of you management guys should hop down to Books a Million and let one of the guys there sell you guys a thesaurus. Perhaps you guys on the training staff will find another term for customers beside "GUYS".
Gee, Guys, what is wrong with just "You"? e.g.: How are you? Have you decided on your order? etc. etc.
Thanks for listening, Guys. and pass the Pepto-Bismol. The food is still good in spite of the distractions listed above.
Sincerely
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Get Organized Month
Received an email stating that January was the National Get Organized Month. How sad it is to look at a desk that is neat and tidy. To see a clean desk gives no challenge to 'clean up this mess'. Secondly it eliminates the body exercise of placing extended hands, fingers thrust downward, upon a mass of papers to divine the location of an errant pen or pencil. And lost too is the mental-physical gymnastics required to mentally sort out and extract that piece of paper needed to meet a deadline. It takes an orderly mind to achieve order from disorder.
To show an attempt to enforce orderliness I return to the college years at the Psi Eta Pi fraternity house. After typing a term paper with several sections (this is before a PC computer filing system), I scattered the various pages in selected places around the room -chair, bookcase, floor, on top of shoes, and any other available spot of convenience. My next step meant collating the material into logical order. A requirement known as 'class attendance' intervened .
Upon returning from class I entered the room and into the middle of chaos. My strewn papers had vanished from around the room. On the desk was a neat stack of papers - the layering in random order. I had received a fringe benefit for living at the Psi Eta Pi fraternity house - the 'house-boy' ran the vacuum in my room on that day. This was his "Get Organized Day".
Mal was the 'house-boy'. In retrospect I do believe that Mal was a test case to support the passage of Murphy's Law.
'House-boy' is the term that the Census notes as his occupation. Today the term is 'house attendant' or 'home technician' or some other status enhancing,ill-defining term. Mal was proud that he was a veteran of WWI. He told me once that he had been shot in the Argonne (a vicious WWI battle site). In a joking way I asked if that were near the appendix. He said :"Just above it." A few days later he showed me his Honorable Discharge from the US Army. The reverse side reads: "Wounds received in service: None."
Too bad my room couldn't say the same thing.
To show an attempt to enforce orderliness I return to the college years at the Psi Eta Pi fraternity house. After typing a term paper with several sections (this is before a PC computer filing system), I scattered the various pages in selected places around the room -chair, bookcase, floor, on top of shoes, and any other available spot of convenience. My next step meant collating the material into logical order. A requirement known as 'class attendance' intervened .
Upon returning from class I entered the room and into the middle of chaos. My strewn papers had vanished from around the room. On the desk was a neat stack of papers - the layering in random order. I had received a fringe benefit for living at the Psi Eta Pi fraternity house - the 'house-boy' ran the vacuum in my room on that day. This was his "Get Organized Day".
Mal was the 'house-boy'. In retrospect I do believe that Mal was a test case to support the passage of Murphy's Law.
'House-boy' is the term that the Census notes as his occupation. Today the term is 'house attendant' or 'home technician' or some other status enhancing,ill-defining term. Mal was proud that he was a veteran of WWI. He told me once that he had been shot in the Argonne (a vicious WWI battle site). In a joking way I asked if that were near the appendix. He said :"Just above it." A few days later he showed me his Honorable Discharge from the US Army. The reverse side reads: "Wounds received in service: None."
Too bad my room couldn't say the same thing.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Catskill Eagle
If I make a list of my ten favorite books Moby Dick by Herman Melville is not among them. When the list expands to a hundred favorite books, Moby Dick's fate will not change. However I place it in the top ten of the most forgettable.
The mystery writer Robert B. Parker uses 'A Catskill Eagle" from Moby Dick as a book title and a background theme in a Spenser novel.. Out of the depths of Moby Dick soars a segment which I jotted down for my 'memory bank'.
There is a wisdom that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness. And there is a Catskill eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest gorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible in the sunny spaces. And even if he for ever flies within the gorge, that gorge is in the mountains; so that even in his lowest swoop the mountain eagle is still higher than other birds upon the plain, even though they soar.
Even so the book Moby Dick does not soar so high with me.
On another theme my apologies to Dr. Samuel Johnson , author of the "The Dictionary" , : who wrote about retirement: "Exert your talents and distinguish yourself, and don't think of retiring from the world until the world will be sorry that you retire. I hate a fellow who from pride or cowardice or laziness drives himself into a corner, and then does nothing but sit and growl. Let him come out, as I do, and bark."
I apologize because out of sheer laziness or ineptness I omitted the location of the quote when I first made note of it. Using Dr. Johnson as a retirement guide, from time to time I do put down the crossword puzzle and come out and bark.
The mystery writer Robert B. Parker uses 'A Catskill Eagle" from Moby Dick as a book title and a background theme in a Spenser novel.. Out of the depths of Moby Dick soars a segment which I jotted down for my 'memory bank'.
There is a wisdom that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness. And there is a Catskill eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest gorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible in the sunny spaces. And even if he for ever flies within the gorge, that gorge is in the mountains; so that even in his lowest swoop the mountain eagle is still higher than other birds upon the plain, even though they soar.
Even so the book Moby Dick does not soar so high with me.
On another theme my apologies to Dr. Samuel Johnson , author of the "The Dictionary" , : who wrote about retirement: "Exert your talents and distinguish yourself, and don't think of retiring from the world until the world will be sorry that you retire. I hate a fellow who from pride or cowardice or laziness drives himself into a corner, and then does nothing but sit and growl. Let him come out, as I do, and bark."
I apologize because out of sheer laziness or ineptness I omitted the location of the quote when I first made note of it. Using Dr. Johnson as a retirement guide, from time to time I do put down the crossword puzzle and come out and bark.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Another Crabby Old Man Story
Had a phone call from old friend Eric in Dallas. We exchanged latest health misgivings and I recited my pre-op interrogation. He topped it. Eric is legally blind. When errands are necessary his yard worker becomes the driver. The yard worker obtained a driver's license via the driver's non-language test. Recently he drove Eric to the eye doctor and led him into the waiting area.
The receptionist placed two papers in Eric's hands.
"What are these papers for?" asked Eric.
"You will have to review them and update them by hand," was the helpful reply.
Eric handed them back and said: "If these are my records there is a statement that I am legally blind. That means I can't see to check them. Just call me when it is my turn for the doctor."
Murphy's Law is still active.
The receptionist placed two papers in Eric's hands.
"What are these papers for?" asked Eric.
"You will have to review them and update them by hand," was the helpful reply.
Eric handed them back and said: "If these are my records there is a statement that I am legally blind. That means I can't see to check them. Just call me when it is my turn for the doctor."
Murphy's Law is still active.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Crabby Old Men
Went to a doctor recently and found that I need 'minor' surgery to correct tear duct drainage. Went through the preliminary paperwork screening. When asked if my health was excellent, good, or poor I blew a gasket.
"Look, I'm in a doctor's office arranging for minor surgery and you ask the condition of my health. I'm using a left hip that isn't mine; go every three months to see if a bladder tumor has returned; have had cataract lens implants, my tonsils are gone, wear a bridge on the upper teeth, wear glasses,have had shingles, and I could give other personal deficiencies but won't. However I'm almost 89 years of age; arrived at this office on my own and on time; have outlived most of my friends who were athletes; and still able to recognize and respond to stupid questions. Buzzards are not circling overhead therefore I determine that my health is excellent."
Glad no one checked my blood pressure at that moment.
I think that I will print out that spiel and the next time some inquiring mind jumps the 'no call list' and starts a telephone conversation with "Hello, how are you today?" I'll reply with: "It's obvious that you don't know me and don't give a tinker's whoop how I feel. However since you have inquired I have the authority to tell you."
After reciting what I have had I will then read a list of ailments that I have not had. After that I will 'thanks for calling' and say that I am hanging up because this is the day that my wife is expecting a call from Publishers' Clearing House telling her that she is now a millionaire. CLICK.
It seems as though there is almost daily warfare with those who Murphy's Law to the ineffective level of incompetence, and are shielded with arrogance. The habitat is in areas requiring contact with crabby oldsters; thus leading to crabbier oldsters.
"Look, I'm in a doctor's office arranging for minor surgery and you ask the condition of my health. I'm using a left hip that isn't mine; go every three months to see if a bladder tumor has returned; have had cataract lens implants, my tonsils are gone, wear a bridge on the upper teeth, wear glasses,have had shingles, and I could give other personal deficiencies but won't. However I'm almost 89 years of age; arrived at this office on my own and on time; have outlived most of my friends who were athletes; and still able to recognize and respond to stupid questions. Buzzards are not circling overhead therefore I determine that my health is excellent."
Glad no one checked my blood pressure at that moment.
I think that I will print out that spiel and the next time some inquiring mind jumps the 'no call list' and starts a telephone conversation with "Hello, how are you today?" I'll reply with: "It's obvious that you don't know me and don't give a tinker's whoop how I feel. However since you have inquired I have the authority to tell you."
After reciting what I have had I will then read a list of ailments that I have not had. After that I will 'thanks for calling' and say that I am hanging up because this is the day that my wife is expecting a call from Publishers' Clearing House telling her that she is now a millionaire. CLICK.
It seems as though there is almost daily warfare with those who Murphy's Law to the ineffective level of incompetence, and are shielded with arrogance. The habitat is in areas requiring contact with crabby oldsters; thus leading to crabbier oldsters.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Peconditas
"Think of a number from one to ten."
"PECONDITAS" immediately comes to mind. It was the key to coding the price tag on the merchandise in my father's store. Before WWII Arrow shirts sold for $2.00; Oxford Cloth $2.25; Stetson "Open Road' hats $5.00, Stratoliner with a wider brim $6.00
The clerk's optic nerve was the scanner for the price tag. Thus on the $2.00 shirt the label PNXS translated into $15.50 per dozen - yes dozen - 12. The X meant that the preceding number was repeated.
Recalling that dredges up a specific scene in the store. For display sweaters were neatly stacked in removable trays in shelves according to size and style. This particular day Fritz the clerk had at least two trays of sweaters spread out on the counter to show to an undecided customer. Finally the customer said that she was 'looking for her father". At this point Fritz said "My goodness, Lady, if he came in with you he must be somewhere under this pile."
History will show that Fritz did not have the opportunity to scan the 'peconditas' derivative at that time.
"PECONDITAS" immediately comes to mind. It was the key to coding the price tag on the merchandise in my father's store. Before WWII Arrow shirts sold for $2.00; Oxford Cloth $2.25; Stetson "Open Road' hats $5.00, Stratoliner with a wider brim $6.00
The clerk's optic nerve was the scanner for the price tag. Thus on the $2.00 shirt the label PNXS translated into $15.50 per dozen - yes dozen - 12. The X meant that the preceding number was repeated.
Recalling that dredges up a specific scene in the store. For display sweaters were neatly stacked in removable trays in shelves according to size and style. This particular day Fritz the clerk had at least two trays of sweaters spread out on the counter to show to an undecided customer. Finally the customer said that she was 'looking for her father". At this point Fritz said "My goodness, Lady, if he came in with you he must be somewhere under this pile."
History will show that Fritz did not have the opportunity to scan the 'peconditas' derivative at that time.
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