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Death of a Crow

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Martine at Chace Park

It was another warm day, so I decided to drive to Chace Park in the Marina . stopping at Trader Joe on the way to pick up a salad and beverage for a picnic on the way. I had only a few pages more to read of Virgil’s Georgics and hoped to finish the book while enjoying the sea breezes.

It was not to be. A crow was flopping around on the ground, unable to fly. Several passersby had stopped and were loudly discussing what to do about the poor crow. There were as many opinions as there were people. Eventually, a homeless person picked up the bird and placed it a few feet away in the shade.

What did I do? Nothing. Crows are wild creatures. Any intervention on my part would have terrified the bird at a point when it was dealing with its own problems. I was not about to make a pet of it so that I could brag to my friends that I had “rescued” it.

I was outraged that the people in the park had in some way profaned the final moments of one of God’s creatures.

Perhaps many people would feel that I was being hard hearted because I chose not to interfere. Perhaps I was being kinder to that bird by leaving it alone. After all, I actually like crows.

My Libraries

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The Main Branch of the Cleveland Public Library Downtown

Books and libraries have always played an important part in my life.

When I was a toddler, my mother took me to the branch of the Cleveland Public Library on East 109th Street (now Martin Luther King Drive). Not that I could read, but I could indicate based on the illustrations the books I would be most interested in. She would check them out and read them to me in Hungarian, probably embroidering a bit. The one book I remember from that period was Dr. Seuss’s The King’s Stilts, which I now have in my collection.

In 1951, after my brother Dan was born, we moved to the Lee-Harvard Area on the East Side of Cleveland. For many years, I went to the Lee-Harvard branch which was located on Lee Road, first north of Harvard, and then south of it. The head librarian was a fellow Hungarian, Mr. Matyi, who played the oboe in the Cleveland Philharmonic Orchestra.

During my college years at Dartmouth, I spent many hours at Baker Library, which was modeled after Independence Hall in Philadelphia. What I loved most about it were the frescoes in the reserve room that were painted in the 1930s by José Clemente Orozco.

Jose Clemente Orozco, Murals at Baker Library Reading room, Dartmouth College, Hanover NH; The Machine

Once I moved to Los Angeles, I spent some time at the UCLA University Library, but I liked going to the main branch of the Santa Monica Public Library—which satisfied me until an opportunity opened up with the construction of the E (for Expo) Line of the Metro Rail. Driving and parking downtown was always a major pain. But now I was able to whiz downtown for 35 cents in three quarters of an hour.

I am now hooked on the Central Branch of the Los Angeles Public Library. Not only because of the library’s holdings, but various events sponsored by the library, especially the guided Thursday mindful meditation sessions.

The one library I forgot to mention is my own personal library of some 6,000 volumes, which I am slowly trying to thin by donations.

Bending Time and Space

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It was not until I retired at the end of 2017 that I had any control over my life. First it was my parents, who exercised a mostly benign control over my life. That then shaded into my work life, where for over forty years I felt stressed working for a couple of egomaniacal bosses.

Suddenly, at the beginning of 2018 I was finally able to do what I wanted. Mostly, that entailed extra time for reading and catching up on hundreds of classic movies I had always wanted to see. It would have been perfect if I were able to travel more, but that requires money; and money is always in short supply when one is on a fixed income.

Just before retirement, I started going to the mindful meditation sessions at the L.A. Central Library. Every Thursday—except during the Covid epidemic—there was a free 30-minute mindful meditation session guided by a trained member of UCLA’s mindfulness education center.

I suddenly felt space opening up in my life. Even when I was waiting in the doctor’s office or stuck at a long traffic light, I no longer felt stressed. During these interstices in my life, I would use the time to relax totally while still being attentive to my surroundings. (Compare this to those poor souls who try to relax with a smart phone in their hands.) And I didn’t even hat to sit in some uncomfortable lotus posture.

Previously, I had been prey to insomnia. Now as soon as I slip under the covers, I take three deep breaths, inventory how relaxed I feel from the top of my head down to my toes, and slowly think about my breathing as I drop off to sleep.

At the age of eighty, I’ve never felt happier. I know very well that I am in the endgame of my life. Hard times lie ahead, but I feel stronger and more able to weather them.

ARPANET

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Daily writing prompt
Do you remember life before the internet?
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I was an early user of the Internet. In fact, in the late 1960s, I used the Internet’s predecessor, ARPANET, at System Development Corporation in Santa Monica. ARPANET was the U.S. Department of Defense’s Advanced Research Projects Agency Network. At that time I was around 23 years old.

A Wedding in Temecula

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A Winery in Temecula, CA

Yesterday, I drove 100 miles to the city of Temecula, midway between Riverside and San Diego on Interstate 15. My niece Jennifer Duche was being married to her boyfriend John Margolis at the Falkner Winery east of the city.

The wedding ceremony itself was short and sweet; but as we waited for the outdoor reception to begin, a cold wind from the west set us all to shivering. I was just recovering from a cold from the week before, so I decided to leave before dinner was served.

So instead of tri-tips with chimichurri, I stopped at an In-N-Out Burger in town on my way back to the motel. At least I think I was spared from a relapse.

Temecula is a weird town surrounded by picturesque wineries and neo-Spanish architecture. Most of the restaurants were from regional or national chains. My hotel was brand new, full of elegant suites; and I think I was the only tenant.

The important thing was that I was there to wish Jen and John a good start to their married life together.

The English Teacher

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Daily writing prompt
Share a story about someone who had a positive impact on your life.
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It was September 1958. I had just entered high school and been introduced to my English teacher, the Rev. Gerard R. Hageman, S.M.—a Catholic priest of the Marist order. He was incredibly strict. We had frequent quizzes in which one could only get two possible grades, 100 or 0 (Z-e-r-o). And the numerical grades were averaged out.

Father Hageman had created a one-page mimeographed summary on yellow paper of jis “Random Rules of Grammar and Style.” I will present you with two excerpts. The first are the rules which call for commas. This was abbreviated to D SAPS DT C CINQ MOC. The letters stood for: Direct address, salutation, appositives (I have since forgotten what those were), parentheticals, series, dates (city and state), titles after names, compound sentences, contrasting ideas, introductory adverbial clauses, non-restrictives, direct quotations, mild interjections, omitted words, and common sense.

Here are three random rules from the yellow sheet:

  • Pronouns are weak. If used, they must have clear and definite antecedents.
  • Introductory participles, infinitives, and gerund phrases must refer to the subject; and the subject must come immediately after.
  • Nouns and pronouns used as modifiers of gerunds are in the possessive case.

Imagine the impact on a thirteen-year-old boy and the threat of a zero score for any single violation of the rules.

Father Hageman was relentless. But, you know what? I still follow his rules religiously. The young student who wanted to be a nuclear physicist wound up preferring writing and, maybe, becoming an English teacher.

Unfortunately, Father Hageman returned to the Marist college in Atlanta, where he died suddenly on January 1, 1961. I wish I had a picture to show you, but that was years before the Internet.

In a 2018 interview with the then Catholic bishop of Atlanta, Joel M. Konzen, S.M., the interviewee noted:

All of us who went to Josephinum had a wonderful education there, but particularly wonderful in English. Writing and languages were highly emphasized at the Josephinum in that day. We had a wonderful teacher, Msgr. (Leonard J.) Fick. I think that anyone who went there would tell you the same thing. …

It was … kind of what they say about Father (Gerard) Hageman at Marist, that if you ever had either of those, you knew you were good to go in terms of writing and so I liked to write.

East Side, West Side

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Cleveland’s Shaker Rapid—Way Back When

This was a particularly vivid dream that I had last night. I was visiting in Cleveland, and my mother was still alive. I was wandering the streets of downtown looking for the bus stop of the #71 CTS (Cleveland Transit System) line that went down Pearl Road to York Road, letting me out in Parma Heights where my mother lived.

The stop used to be near the corner of Prospect and Ontario, but in my dream the streets were different; and I didn’t see any bus stops. So I walked to Public Square and around Euclid and Superior Avenues, noting where Schroeder’s Bookstore used to be when I was young.

I gave up and decided to take the Shaker Rapid instead and headed for the concourse under the Terminal Tower.

Entrance to the Terminal Tower Concourse

But wait! Mom lived in Parma Heights on the West Side of Cleveland, while the Shaker Rapid served the East Side, where we used to live in the Lee-Harvard area.

My dream ended inconclusively, as I got stuck in a busy store and then had to deal with a Shaker Rapid ticket seller who pointedly ignored me.

It wasn’t a nightmare: I almost never have nightmares. It was just a curious amalgam of my many trips from home to downtown and back again. It was at a point after my childhood after 1985, when my father died. My widowed mother lived alone in Cleveland until she decided to move to Hollywood, Florida, a number of years later.

My Own Nationality

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A Different Kind of Hungarian

As I get older, I am increasingly unwilling to interact with strangers. Chatting with people I do not know is just something I would rather not do any more. I don’t even like sharing an elevator. The absolute worst is having to interact with American tourists when I am traveling abroad.

And yet I remember helping a group of French tourists in Iceland get guesthouse accommodation in Höfn, Iceland, when they couldn’t find any locals who understood them.

The difference was they didn’t have any expectations of help, whereas many or most American travelers, on the contrary, would. It is at that point that I reply to their question(s) very politely in my off rural Hungarian dialect from the 1930s. I could be telling them in Hungarian to get stuffed, but I actually try to answer them politely in my native language.

There is always the danger that the person accosting me knows the Magyar language. That actually happened to me once in Vancouver’s Chinatown, when the beggar asking for spare change recognized what I was saying and answered me back in Hungarian. I immediately melted and gave him a five dollar bill. He actually invited me for coffee, but I was on my way to a movie screening and didn’t want to be late. Else I would have obliged him.

I am not that way, of course, with my friends and acquaintances. Or even with waiters or cashiers. It’s just that I have a phobia of dealing with demands placed on me by strangers. That even includes the unsmiling visage that I characteristically assume—all to avoid having to deal with the public at large.

Budapest. Keleti Pályudvar. 1977.

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Keleti Pályudvar (Train Station) in Budapest

In the summer of 1977, I joined my parents in Budapest for a visit to locations in Hungary and Czechoslovakia (as it was called then). They flew to Budapest from Hungary, while I flew first to London and bought an Austrian Airlines ticket to Budapest by way of Vienna.

After a few days in Budapest, we decided to take a train to meet my relatives in Prešov in what is now Slovakia. We made our way to the Keleti Pályudvar from where trains went to Košice, where we would be met with our cousin Miroslav driving his trusty Škoda.

This was during the days of Communist rule, when things were a bit disorganized at times. As our train was pulling into the station, we jumped into a first class compartment for six and took our seats. In a few minutes, as the train was departing, another man jumped into our compartment. As it turn out, the man was Romany, a gypsy, or in Hungarian, a cigány.

Central and Eastern Europe are strongholds for many types of racism. So it is not surprising that my father’s first instinct was to grab the interloper by the collar and throw him off the slow-moving train, all the while calling him a büdös cigány (stinking Gypsy).

I sat there shocked not quite knowing how to react. Obviously things were different in this part of the world. This was confirmed for me when we went through a border inspection as we crossed into Czechoslovakia at Čaňa and my father bribed an inspector with a pack of Marlboro cigarettes.

That was an interesting trip. It involved my pretending to be a Hungarian railway worker so that we could use a MÁV (Hungarian State Railways) hostel in Szeged. (My cousin Ilona worked for MÁV in Budapest.) Apparently I was able to carry off the impersonation by grunting whenever spoken to.

PCs and Nizards

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My First Book, Sort Of

Back when I was a toddler in my crib at 2814 East 120th Street in Cleveland, my mother used to tell me stories in Hungarian to help me drop off to sleep. When the stories were her own, they usually involved a fairy princess and a dark forest. But when she was running out of ideas, she would take out children’s story books from the city library on East 116th Street and translate the story into Hungarian while showing me the pictures.

One of them I remember very clearly was Dr. Seuss’s The King’s Stilts. Picture to yourself a kingdom that was below sea level, surrounded by tall dikes covered with trees. These trees were constantly under attack by flying nizards, which went after the roots.

Fortunately, there were legions of patrol cats (P.C.s) deputed by King Birtram to keep the nizards from destroying the trees and flooding the kingdom. When not busy signing proclamations, the king delighted to whizzing around his kingdom on a pair of red stilts.

One day, wicked Lord Droon decided to have the king’s stilts buried by Eric, the royal page, because he thought it was too infra dig for the monarch to be enjoying himself so much. The king was thereupon so despondent that he no longer gave orders to the patrol cats, and the nizards’ attacks were resulting in streams of water flooding into the kingdom.

Fortunately the story has a happy ending. Here, on YouTube, is the Dr. Seuss book, complete with words and pictures:

Naturally, I own a copy of the book. It is a constant reminder of my mother’s ingenuity and love.