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About Those Eyebrows

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Hazleton “Terry” Mirkil III, Associate Professor of Mathematics at Dartmouth

In the Winter Trimester of my freshman year at Dartmouth College, I took the second of my two math courses, which were required of part of the college’s “distributive requirements.” The term refers to courses in fields that don’t interest you so that you could become a well-rounded person. The course was called something like “Introduction to Probability and Statistics,” though it was mostly the former.

There are only two things I remember about the course. The first is that in any random group of thirteen people, there is an even chance that two of the party share the same birthday. (That was more than I can recall about my previous math course on Calculus.)

The other thing I remember were Professor Hazleton Mirkil’s wild eyebrows. In profile, they stood out like wild antennae reaching up to an inch from his brow. His eyebrows come to mind because I seem to have developed the same antenna-like eyebrows. When I get a haircut, my barber trims them for me, though they always grow back thrusting in all directions.

Thinking about Professor Mirkil’s eyebrows, I decided to see what I could find out about him on the Internet. What I found was not much, inasmuch as he had committed suicide in 1967, the year after I graduated from Dartmouth. According to the West Lebanon Valley News:

Hazelton Mirkil III, 44, associate professor of mathematics at Dartmouth College, was found dead Wednesday afternoon in the woods back of Chase Field. Dr. I. A. Dinerman of Canaan Grafton County medical referee attributed death to suicide by shooting. He said that Prof. Mirkil, was “dead at least a month or two,” was shot through the head and found with a revolver in his hand.

Prof. Mirkil was on leave from Dartmouth for the current academic year and had been at the Veterans Hospital at Northampton, Mass. Having obtained leave from the hospital and not having returned,
he was reported missing March 17.

Very likely, my Math prof received a bad diagnosis from the VA Hospital. The above photo was the only one I could find except for a tiny picture in uniform during WW2. That’s typical for people whose lives have ended well before the advent of the Internet.

I never was much good in math. I received a C+ in both Calculus and Probability. I am certainly not a graduate that the Math Department at Dartmouth would be proud of. (Nor the English Department, as I ended that last sentence with a preposition.)

If you fear that I, too, would blow my brains out because of my unruly eyebrows, don’t worry. I am too funny-looking on a number of counts to worry solely about my eyebrows.

Welcome to HallowThanksMas

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Display at the Grier Musser Museum (2015)

It didn’t used to be this way, but now Halloween is now a portal to a ten week holiday season that includes Halloween, the Day of the Dead (All Souls Day), Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years Day, Martine’s birthday, and my birthday. Fortunately, I don’t take it as seriously as most people do; and I even try to enjoy bits and pieces of it.

In past years, I spent much of October reading horror stories and watching horror films. This year, I’ve not been feeling well, thanks to a hideous attack of bronchitis and asthma. Fortunately, I am feeling better now. And the only horror stories I’ve read were in a collection by Robert Aickman entitled The Wine Dark Sea. I particularly recommend the short story of the same name that opens the collection.

Tomorrow I get my Covid and flu shots, to be followed in two weeks by a vaccination for RSV. I know that the whole issue of vaccinations has become politicized, but I just don’t feel like dying of negligence.

Anyhow, I wish you well during he upcoming HallowThanksMas season. Just don’t let it weigh you down.

Like a Boss?

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I Think It’s Time to Retire This Meme

Speaking as a retired person, I am happy to say I don’t have to kowtow to any megalomaniacal bosses any more. I put in some forty years of work, retiring only in my seventies. And not once during that forty years did I deal with a boss who did not behave like a tinpot dictator.

What I would have like to have seen is a company owner who would consider himself as the first among equals, not ruling with the divine right of kings. Although I consider myself a good writer, everything I wrote was “corrected” in such a way that it was worse than my first draft.

Within a year after I retired, my health improved markedly. My blood pressure, glucose readings, and weight all were better. That’s because I was no longer under stress. Had I continued working, the stress would have killed me before 2020. Treat me like a boss? No, I am not a prisoner in a concentration camp.

The funny thing is that my bosses were also under quite a bit of stress. But why is it that that was the only thing they were willing to share with their workers?

What I Look Like with Long Hair

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Carol Burnett and Tim Conway as the Oldest Man

As usual, I have delayed in getting a haircut. So now I look like the Tim Conway character in the Carol Burnett Show when he’s acting the part of the Oldest Man. It’s appropriate, after all, since we’re both from the Cleveland area.

The only difference is that Tim Conway, whatever part he plays, is usually more fashionably dressed than I am.

Scruffiness Is in My Blood

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My Father, An Unidentified Man, and My Uncle

As I looked at this old picture of my father and uncle, I realized something about myself. I’ve never exactly been a fashion plate. It goes all the way back to those two wild and crazy guys from Czechoslovakia, Elek and Emil Paris.

In a dark suit on the left is my father Elek. He has one knee on the ground and his shoes looked slightly scuffed. On the right is my Uncle Emil. He is not dirtying his suit my kneeling on the grass. And—what’s that?—he’s actually wearing spats. Also, note the cufflinks. I would not be surprised if my Dad were wearing a short-sleeved shirt under his suit coat, as I see not a hint of sleeve.

Sometimes, the habits of a lifetime have long antecedents, even though the Paris brothers were identical twins.

By the way, the picture dates back to before I was born in 1945.

Drosophila Part Deux

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Fruit Flies (Drosophila melanogaster)

Let me say at the outset that I hate fruit flies. And they appear to hate me. I love to eat lots of fresh fruit through the Los Angeles summer, but my apartment becomes infested with the damnable bugs. I have several traps filled with apple cider vinegar in which to drown the unwary. Alas, they seem to have caught on and—except for a about 10-12 weaklings per day—avoid falling into the vinegar.

Several times each day, I venture into the kitchen to squash a few dozen of the invasive Drosophila. They retaliate by flying around my head while I am sitting at the computer and playing the insect equivalent of “chicken.” That only annoys me more, so I go and kill a few dozen more.

Last year’s infestation ended when I purchased a kitchen wastebasket with a top, but I think the new generation has figured out a way to sneak through the cracks. I have to now make daily visits to the dumpster with my garbage.

(Excuse me. I am tired of having my head buzzed by fruit flies. I will go into the kitchen and wreak as much havoc as I can on the surviving population.)

There, I have dispatched another bunch to insect Valhalla. But these bugs are getting smarter. When I walk into the kitchen, they start flying, knowing that I have little chance of catching them in mid-air. It is only when they land that I have any chance of crushing them.

Pah, I almost just swallowed one of the little monsters!

Fuge, late, tace

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Big Sur Coastline, Central California

The last two days, I was revisiting one of my favorite authors, Honoré de Balzac. In his novel The Country Doctor (Le Médecin de Campagne), Doctor Benassis visits 5the Grande Chartreuse monastery in the French Alps and finds the following inscription left by one of the monks in an empty cell:

Fuge, late, tace

This is Latin for “Flee, hide, be silent.”

Which reminds me of Stephen Dedalus’s “Silence, exile, and cunning” from James Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. It also makes me think of Russian poet Joseph Brodsky’s “If one’s fated to be born in Caesar’s empire, let him live aloof, provincial, by the seashore.”

I embrace this advice (except for the part about being silent, of which this post is a clear violation). At my advanced age, I have no hope of—or even desire for—success.

To quote the old antique dealer in Balzac’s The Fatal Skin (Le Peau de Chagrin):

Man depletes himself by two instinctive acts that dry up the sources of his existence. Two words express all the forms taken by these two causes of death: DESIRE and POWER. Between these two poles of human action, there is another principle seized upon by the wise, to which I owe my happiness and my longevity [the speaker is 102 years old]. Desire sets us afire and Power destroys us; but KNOWLEDGE leaves our fragile organism in a state of perpetual calm.

Alas, Balzac wasn’t able to follow his own advice. He burned through his life in 51 years, yearning for years to marry the Polish Countess Evelina Hanska. No sooner did he get his wish and return to Paris with his bride than he took sick and died.

The Great Book Giveaway

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Today I took another walk to the (on weekends, anyway) deserted office park. In my bag were three books I donated to the Little Free Library box at 26th and Broadway in Santa Monica. Then I sat down at a park bench and read the last forty pages of Georges Simenon’s The Hotel Majestic, in which Superintendent Maigret of the Paris Police Judiciaire solves a double murder that takes place in the cellars of the Hotel Majestic. When I finished the last page, I donated that book as well.

While I was reading, a very bossy young male voice emanated from the nearby tennis courts where Pickle Ball was being played. Somebody was carrying on a running commentary on the game with frequent snatches of advice. I cannot believe that the voice’s opponent enjoyed the outing.

Although much of the country is mired in a heat wave, there was a delightful sea breeze the whole time which was quite comfortable.

Let me see: At the rate of 10-12 books a week, it will take upwards of ten years to donate all my books. And I haven’t even gotten to the heart of the collection yet. Let’s face it, I probably never will as I am still buying books. I am totally incorrigible, On the other hand, I am living the bookworm’s dream that I dreamed from my earliest years. Never mind that it is not a dream shared by most of my fellow Americans, but it means a lot to me.

Why I Am a Bookworm

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Just a Few of My 6,000 Books

Here I am, in my late 70s and surrounded on all sides by a huge book collection. If my apartment were hit by burglars, my fear is that I would be sued for them because they would get a hernia carrying away my books. In fact, I am in the position of trying to find a home for the books I do not plan to re-read or consult.

What I had been doing is donating books to either a local thrift shop or library, but as the IRS standard deduction keeps increasing, I no longer have to keep records of my donations. All I really want to do is find a home for my discards.

What I have been doing lately is using are the display boxes of the Little Free Library (“Take a Book; Share a Book”), of which there a a number of “free libraries” in my neighborhood. So when I take a walk or go shopping, I usually have three or four books in my bag to donate. How do I make a donation? I simply take the books from my bag and put them on the shelves of the Little Free Library.

How did I ever get in this predicament? Well, to tell the truth, to the extent that I am a fairly happy well-adjusted person, I owe it all to my upbringing (I was lucky with my parents) and to the fact that books were a major form of escape for me—from the age of eight onward.

I remember the time that my little neighbor Patsy Strohmeier got me a hardback of Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. While I was reading the book, my cousin Emil came to visit and was angered to see me with my face in a book. He picked up the novel and slammed it hard on the floor, saying “THIS is what I think of your books!” By that time, I was already so hooked that my first reaction was that he was, in effect, saying “THIS is what I think of YOU!” I wasn’t offended because I knew that Emil was a good-hearted person who just didn’t like to read.

Simply put, I became a bookworm because I was a sickly child. In fact, between the ages of 10 and 21, I was walking around with a brain tumor in my pituitary gland that stunted my growth and, in pressing on my optic nerve, caused severe frontal headaches on most days. Even with a headache, I could still read—though I was useless when it came to baseball, football, basketball, and most childhood sporting activities.

Somehow, in the course of time after I had brain surgery in 1966, I became a fairly healthy person. Oh, to be sure, I am a diabetic, have asthma and chronic rhinitis, but I seem to survived surprisingly well. (Bad rice! Bad rice!)

Work Friends

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Don Kiyomi Yamagishi (1960-2017)

I worked for a quarter of a century for two accounting firms, the second of which was an outgrowth of an earlier firm. During that time, the best friends I had at work were two accountants. Don Kiyomi Yamagishi was a Nisei and in every way more of an American than I ever was. Danilo Cabais Peña was a Filipino. Both passed away in the late 2010s. (Somewhere, I have a picture of Dan Peña; but it will take me some time to find it. When I do, I’ll post it.)

Both of my accountant friends were genuinely good human beings. Surprisingly, that’s not always true in that particular profession, where the temptation to cheat carries both penalties and rewards.

I was greatly saddened that I lost both of my friends—both within the space of a single year. I attended both of their funerals and had to soldier on at work for another year without their wise counsel.

No life is without heartbreak.