Bad Checks and Lollipops

                       My Accountant, My Personal Trainer, My Barista - My Teller

First thing on the to-do list today is go to the bank - deposit a check.

Inside the bank five people are waiting in a ski-lift-like line. I slide in at the end. There are two tellers, a woman helping a customer and a man helping at the drive-up window.

Finally my turn. The man from the drive-up window is back. He is holding papers from the drive-up customer which he sets aside. He looks up, at me. “May I help you?” he says. I take a small step forward and hand him a deposit slip and a signed check.

You may be wondering, "Isn't the drive-up customer waiting?" OK, a moment here to explain something about banks?

                     The Two Things at Once Rule

The very fact that the drive-up customer does not have a live video of the goings on inside allows the bank to implement the famous “do two things at once” rule - applied as follows: Teller takes the drive-up papers, checks, deposit/withdrawal slips etc. then disappears from the drive-up window. The customer is happy. He thinks he’s being cared for. He’s humming an old melody, as he looks for things to do while waiting.  Ooops, spills some coffee reaching in the back for baby’s pacifier. OK got it. Now preening in the rear-view mirror. Still humming. Meanwhile the teller is working with the customer at the counter.
No harm done. The customer in the car thinks he is being cared for.
Back outside, the driver has just separated a rib cartilage reaching back for a CD of old love songs that had slid between the back seats. He now has other concerns, but not to worry, he knows he’s being taken care of. It’s the poor devils behind him that are saying, “Seriously – What could be taking this guy so long?” 
When they move up, all will be forgiven.  
That’s essentially the reasoning behind the “Two things …” rule. 

                 That's a Neat Machine

Back to my teller - he runs my check through an automatic swipe machine. It slides along a U-shaped track as his fingers wait to pluck it from back end. He looks up at his computer screen. Appears befuddled. Seconds pass. Hmmmm. He sends the check through the swipe machine again. Fingers waiting, he looks at the screen.

I cannot see the computer screen but my guess is it's bad news. A bit of a frown this time.
The teller reaches to his right for the papers of the drive-up customer, touches them gently, not looking at them, as if to prevent them from blowing away. Concern shows on his face.
                 
I feel concern also.

“Take care of the drive-up person,” I say, feeling empathy, “I’m in no rush at all.”

“Are you sure?’ he asks. His tone is doubtful, but he sounds grateful.

“Yes definitely,” I reiterate, “no rush whatsoever.”

He fiddles with the drive-up papers – sorts them, turns them over. He runs the drive-up check through the swipper machine. He waits. People behind me are, doubtless, fuming - about me.

“The moment of truth,” I think to myself.

He looks at the screen. Crossed fingers I'm betting the drive-up check is OK. More seconds pass.

Yes we know,  ... some days those bank computers can be slow.

His shoulders drop. “Uh oh,” I think.

Then … a miracle … success! He straightens up - big inhale - some final keyboard activity and it’s back to the drive-up window. “Thank you – have a nice day,” I hear him say.

                        Thank you for your patience

He rushes back to me. He asks the teller to his right if she would take the next drive-up customer. She trots back to the window. No more two things at once for him.

“Thank you for your patience,” he says to me. I feel it's genuine. His head is lowered, eyes concentrated on my papers.

“No problem,” I say, “Not easy doing two things at once.”

He gives a half smile, still looking down. I think kindly of him.

My check goes through the swipe machine a third time, out the other end. More staring - waiting. He appears exasperated. I am about to quip, “Guess it’s a bad check,” but this does not seem the time for frivolity.

That swipe didn’t work, so there is now yet another swipe and some more typing. I try to adopt an expressionless look suggesting that I am a Buddhist monk - currently meditating, couldn’t be more peaceful. He types some more, tapping furiously.

Seriously – what exactly is all of this typing?

 It’s a bank secret, that’s what. Don’t ask.

Still typing on. It's enough for a college application essay, I think. Finally he tears off a receipt for me and thanks me again.

“No problem,” I say. I truly was not rushed and, honestly, was somewhat entertained, albeit anxious for him at times.

How About a Lollipop?

As I turn to leave a young woman in jogging shorts and tank top steps toward the counter from the back of the line. What’s she doing? I think, Cutting ahead? She reaches her hand into a small decorative bucket (think Martha Stewart Living) at the end of the counter and fishes out a lollipop. Hmmmm! She rips off the paper and shoves it into her mouth, then retreats to the end of the waiting line (three deep now). I pass her on my way out.

I am tempted to tell her that she is over the age limit for the lollipop bucket, but pass on this joke even though I think it is funny.

I stay mum because there is, going through my mind, the image of a trying-to-be-funny old man (me) - someone who’s always telling quick one-liners because he thinks he's funny, or worse, clever …  ah … well … Let's just say it's not an image that I feel flatters me. That, plus her, pretty young woman in a  tank top and all.

First Grade Field Trip - Spring 2011

First Grade Field Trip - Spring 2011

Field Trip - Yea!!! Great
The school year is winding down. My assignment today is to accompany grandson Eddie on his first grade field trip to a local “U-Pick-'em” farm for a family picnic lunch, and hayride to the strawberry patch. Of note is that the forecast is for full sun, temperature in the high nineties, very humid. 

  Early Arrival
I arrive, at the farm around 10:20, a bit early. Kids, in school buses, are due shortly after 10:30. I find a spot on the matted grass lot with a view of the complex, a gift shop at the entrance, a half dozen party tents each shading picnic tables, separate fenced-off petting zoo areas for sheep, donkeys, horses, peacocks, and goats etc. Plus the fields - acres and acres of vegetables, fruit trees, and pumpkins, all in various states of blossom. The works - if only I were in first grade.

A handful of mothers gather about the tents, talking mother-speak. There is a grandparent couple – my generation – dressed in long pants and matching white golf shirts. They stand attention-like and apart from the mothers, squinting with a worried gaze fixed on the entryway, anxiously anticipating the bus arrival, but looking as if expecting a tornado.

I amble over. We are well acquainted, regulars at school pick-up. We trade friendly one-liners and gracious laughs. “The buses are a little late,” we say, our brows furrowed.

Finally the yellow school bus shows up. Kids file out directed by teachers and helping-mothers. 

Set the Table
The adults set out the packed lunches as children race about on the grass. “Family picnic” is the designated starting activity. The eating begins. Kids finish in a jiffy and return to tag games. I sit with the grandparents. Hay wagons rumble by in my side view. Thirty minutes in and counting. Various groups scramble aboard and the wagons, pulled by tractors, chug away - dust in their wake - over a hill, out of site. 

Finally it is our turn. Kids and parents march to a waiting wagon, climb up, squeezing into space on hay bale seats. I back away, watching from a safe distance. A few parents wave, beckoning me to come along. I wave them off. The tractor starts, and the loaded wagon inches ahead, kicking up dust. Grandson Ed is on board.  I wait for the wagon to get along, then step out on the same road, hiking solo. I decide not to trail the wagon exactly and I notice some riders looking back at me, laughing. When the wagon turns to the right, goes over a small hill and then out of sight, I continue straight ahead and soon I am alone on an empty road, corn on my left, tomatoes to the right. The farm fields stretch out ahead - like what looks like forever. The farm is much larger than I thought.

I'm Forest Gump
I am feeling very Forest-Gump-like, no humans in view, just green vegetation and the dusty road. Is this legal? I wonder - walking without official escort. The horizon looms straight ahead. I plod along, feeling smaller with each step. Over the hill more fields appear. I finally spot the hay wagon again, far off in the distance and still moving away, matchbox car size. 

Where'd Everyone Go?

I consider that my route may not lead to the strawberry field after all and that possibly I will never meet up with the children. This troubles me. I try to keep the shrinking wagon in view, hoping it doesn’t vanish again. I am feeling decidedly trespasser-like. I breathe some relief as I suddenly notice that the tractor has stopped. OK, if that is so, I must make a right turn somewhere to reach them. I look for a road, or path, but see none. What to do? Turn back? Continue straight – south? To Kentucky - so it seems. 


As the Crow Flies
I decide instead to route myself as the crow flies - through the vegetables patches. This is risky, but I forge on, trying to stay between the rows to avoid trampling plants - a sin punishable by jail I'm certain. It is hard going, very uneven ground, plus now I am a definite felon. I have no choice but to continue. I only hope that I reach the wagon before the return trip begins. How humiliating would that be – passing the wagon - me, senior hiker dressed like a Florida retiree? 

I plod ahead, eyes on the dirt below. I look up. It is still some distance - like miles - to the wagon though the good news is that people are emptying out – or off. Head down again – one foot in front of the other. I look up. Closer now. I can see the kids fanning out into the berry field. More plodding on. At last I arrive. I see that each child holds a pint cardboard box for their berries. I locate Eddie and help with the picking. We fill his box. I look up. No one seems ready to leave. 


Do We Pay for This?
I grab another box; tell Ed to fill it up. Picking continues in full swing. I hear a mother inquire, “Do we pay for these?”

I was wondering that too. Are two boxes permitted?

Answer, “It’s all built in to the trip.”

“Cool”

The strawberries look delicious. I eat more than a few. “Has to be legal,” I think.

Finally the hay wagon director – a college girl, farm employee – barks at us to finish our picking. Every adult quits immediately and starts walking toward the wagon. Enough already. 

Kids ignore her words; stay bent over the berry patch. Another shout to wrap it up. This time helping-moms echo the call and eventually the wagon loading begins. I am one of the first on. I pick out an empty hay bale.

Hay Rides - and My World Record Kiss

The ride back begins. 

May I say something? Hay rides are immensely over rated. 

For one thing there is never enough hay. Today there is no loose hay, only hay bales as seats. Better than nothing. But then I’m expecting nothing. This is not 1952. Nor is it a nocturnal hayride along the country roads of Orange County, NY. Further, I am not twelve and am not sitting next to Nancy Langlitz when, halfway into the trip I raised my arm and draped it over her shoulder. It was just as we passed Brady’s farm. I had vowed to friends that I would kiss Nancy on this ride and heard from same friends that she was OK with it. So we kissed, which was wonderful, but then it seems  - somehow something happened.

So we kissed
I don’t know who decided this; obviously it was either Nancy or myself. The thing was, neither of us knew much about kissing that was not related to a spin-the-bottle game. So, again, someone, Nancy or yours truly, decided that our kiss should never end. So we kissed, lips pressed together all the way down Brady Mountain (4 miles) into the village of Warwick, through town right up to the Village Hall entrance where the ride began and now would end  and where Nancy Langlitz and I ended our world record kiss.

“Was this how big people kiss,” I thought.

OK, where was I? Oh - hay rides – correct? Yes, 2011.

We, parents and field-trippers, made our way slowly back to the original picnic area amid considerable dust and zero shade. Had to be over100 degrees.On the trip home, I crank up the air conditioning. A mother hitches a ride with me. She had come out on the bus, without air conditioning. She tells me I saved her life.

In all – one fine day. 

 

Retirement duties - 2011

Retirement duties - 2011

 

A Pensioner Enjoying Life

I retired from a teaching career, now seven years, and have been gainfully employed since by my daughter. My title is personal assistant, which is a fancy word for a pick-up, delivery and babysitting service that revolves around her three – Emma (9), Eddie (7) and John (4.5).

 

Today I am savoring life. It is a little before ten AM. I have just pulled into a great parking space (always a joy) at Home Depot. I'm here to pick up some Spackle. The wallboard is peeling in my bedroom and having a small container of Spackle sitting on my dresser will go a long way toward relieving my anxiety about the wallboard. I’m not really planning on using the Spackle today. I’ll just set it on the dresser; maybe put a Spackle knife next to it. Then later - not sure when - I’ll do the Spackling.

The Cell Phone Rings

But for now I’m going to enjoy this bright fall morning. I lean back into the car seat and let the sun warm me. I pick up the newspaper, thinking that I could actually take an hour right here in the Home Depot parking lot, watch the people go in and out and read the paper plus drink some coffee which is right at my side, a full cup still warm in the holder. “I don’t need much to make me happy,” is the thought that occurs to me, and it pleases me.

Ooops – there goes my cell phone. It must be daughter Ashley calling to remind me about something. I fumble for the phone. We seniors do this. The vibration stops, ringer starts. I undo the seat belt, fling it at the door. There! I’m still fishing for the phone. It’s still ringing. These jean pockets are tight. I’ll never … OK got it.  

“Hello.” I say – thinking it’s probably too late.

“This is Mrs. DeFranco from Holy Family School.”

“Yes hi, I guess my daughter is ... anyway you got the grandfather. Did you want my daughter’s number?”

Mrs. DeFranco doesn’t want my daughter. She explains to me that Johnny (my grandson, age 4.5) has just announced that he has to go to the bathroom – poopy – and that he will not go unless papa (that’s me) is here to wipe him.”

“OK, but I’m out at Home Depot, now.” I say this in a tone that suggests that I am actually in Home Depot, pushing a cart of stacked two-by-fours, a pencil in my ear, making mental measurements for construction of a new dormer. 

Mrs DeFranco is undeterred. “We’re afraid he will go in his pants.”

“OK,” I say, “I’d say, take him to the bathroom and tell him that I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“OK, please hurry.”

I make the six miles in twelve minutes. I ring the security bell and am let in, no questions asked.

A harried looking administrator greets me in the hall. “He’s in there,” she says pointing to the door-less boy’s room.

I Already Did Poopy

“John,” I say.

“Papa?” he answers. He’s in a stall.

I tug on the door. It’s latched. “OK, John, unlock the door.”

“Papa, I’m on the toilet.”

“I know, get off and come unlock the door.”

“I can’t I already did poopy.”

OK, wasn’t expecting this. I make several more pleas, but John doesn’t relent. I step back and think. I gauge the space underneath the stall door.

I glance out into the hall. There is no one there. No one to whom I might explain what I am about to do. So I kneel down and place my hands stretched out on the floor ahead of me. From there I flatten out face down before proceeding to roll onto my back. I then stretch out, turn my head once more toward the hall - still no one. Pressing the heels of my hands against the floor for traction, I push down and away, inching my way backward, my body sliding on the tile floor. This is a Catholic grade school, not a turnpike restroom I think as my head passes under the door. How dirty can the floor be? After my ribs clear the door, I try to raise myself into a half sit-up position, and reach my hand upward, stretching for the latch. I have trouble with this. I strain a bit more. I roll up my eyes up and tilt my head backward, so that I glimpse the outline of Johnnie sitting on the toilet behind me. He is silent, offering no comment about my actions, but clearly seems to be watching with interest. Finally, the Gods are with me. I reach the latch, my legs still visible protruding beneath the door .

 

May I Help You?

“Do you need help?”  It is an adult female voice from the hall.

“My grandson locked himself in here ... I'm OK,” I say. I assume that the questioner sees my shoes and pant legs and perhaps wonders, “Is he trying to get out? In? Or what?” Regardless she obviously hears my sincere voice and thinks better about coming to my aid. I hope that she goes on her way, which she does.

With much effort, I manage to slide the latch and pry the door. I struggle to come upright with considerable effort, as might be expected for any seventy year old attempting to gracefully rise from back-on-the-floor-prone to upright within a toilet stall in a Catholic grade school.

Finally I stand and listen for voices in the hall. Nothing. Thank God, the Pope, and the archdiocese.

“OK, John, let’s get to it here, are you done?”

“Yes,” John says and I do the job I was called for.

I don’t go back to Home Depot. I move the laundry basket in front of the peeling wallboard. I vow to get the Spackle downtown at the local hardware store.

Houses for Sale

Houses for Sale

I have decided to sell my house. Anxiety has settled in, telling me I need to free up money for other pursuits.

Other pursuits? 

OK the grand-kids. Hockey lessons for one thing, plus train trips and plane trips and car trips - to and from CA where two of my five grandchildren live. Trips aside, there are other sports as well: soccer, swimming, basketball, and baseball. And, as for college costs eight years ahead? Don't ask.

Trust me, youth sports aren't free like the old days (1950s). They cost big-time, and me, like a good number of parents (actually I’m a grandparent), am convinced that my progeny will either play professional sports or, at the very least, be sifting through college scholarship offers as he or she romps toward early adult life with both mind and body in decathlete-like fitness prior to settling on his or her MD in training residency location. OK - that's a joke, but something like that.

Somewhere along this continuum the progeny will fall in love with a self-assured, attractive mate of equal or better intellect and I will move toward a re-classification - that of great grandfather ... and living perhaps ... where? I don't know, think "King of Queens," the TV show where grandpa abides, let's just say, in quarters, that are below the ground floor. 

House will be long sold by then and my power and influence will have diminished as well.

Oh ... and I'll be living ... oh, I don't know ... Kansas maybe.

 Epilogue-1

My Madison, NJ house finally sold, closing date 1/31/2013. New address is the sun-porch of daughter Ashley’s home in Florham Park, NJ, a few blocks north.

 

Just before the house sale, I traveled to Washington, DC by car to celebrate Obama’s inauguration with a dear friend. We spent the overnight in Annapolis, MD then drove to DC the next morning for the main event. I bought a Washington Post at Starbucks and we relaxed with coffee before moving on to a pub in Georgetown where we watched the day's events on TV, which was secretly my preference all along. I just wanted to be in the middle of the capitol on this day.

Came home through a late night blizzard, that began lightly on the NJ Turnpike, but became severely  more treacherous later as the car shifted and slid in snow ruts on the unplowed Garden State Parkway. 

 

Good news is that I lived to tell it.

 

With the house closing approaching, I began the moving process - gathering things, tossing things, and packing things in almost two dozen Staples file boxes. The contents of these boxes were mainly old writing notes and thousands of photographs created from a time before phone cameras and saving pictures on the computer. I had ten days to lug everything to either Ashley's garage (storage for perpetuity) or my tool shed size sun-porch room inside her house. For the heavy items, the last to go, I enlisted help from nephew Bob, twenty years my junior. That finished, I made my usual solemn vow, "I'm never moving again."  

 

OK, solemn? 

 

Frivolous would be a better adjective. Why? Because, among other things, I seem to be an addicted mover that should have long ago joined "movers-anonymous." Not sure if I hold the world record, but with thirteen moves since exiting the US Army in 1970, I think I'm up there. One of those moves was especially cherished as I returned to the same home that I occupied forty-five years prior, 9 Lee Avenue in Madison, NJ. Another was to the same condo complex, same unit. A third was next door to a former home in a development with all same homes. So same home, just next door.

 

No doubt my frequent home moves say something about me. Not sure exactly what or if it's something good.   

 

Hmmm.

With the house closing behind me, I took off for California on Thurs 2/7, where I stayed with west-coast daughter and family for six weeks. 

 

Upon return I began a new life as tenet in the home of my New Jersey daughter. The NJ living space is a first floor sun-porch. It's bright and cozy, with dimensions approximating that of a medium-size tool shed.

I am happy about it, honest.

Once settled, I resumed my perpetual post-move ritual of searching for lost items. Minor success there, or should I say, a work in progress? 

 

 

Epilogue-2

 

 In April 2020 I returned for a second tour in my daughter's sun-porch. Very happy about it. I feel it's the last move.

Backyard Pepper Game*

                                                            Backyard Pepper Game*

Eddie called about 5 PM and left this message: “Papa, can you come over and play baseball with me, bye.” All in one breath. Then he hung up.

I drove over when I returned home. We set up the bases, home plate and the backstop, located the balls and two bats. I pitched to Ed. He hit good, much improved over last year.  I chased the ball down and tried to tag him, always managing to just miss, causing him to giggle uncontrollably as he dashed around the bases. 

Backyard ball field - Spring 2012

Johnny came out and picked up the bat and Ed tried to pry it from him. Failing that, he offered him the other bat.  Johnny would have none of it.

“Johnny’s turn,” I said and he stood on home plate, the bat on his shoulder. I pitched, trying to hit his bat. He swung and to my surprise hit it, or rather, I hit the bat. “Run Johnny,” everyone yelled and Johnny ran, but carried the bat in his hand (he's 4). On the way to first he noticed his John Deere go-cart car sitting idle in foul territory and he re-routed himself. He climbed into the front seat. 

Short attention span was my take.

Soon Emma appeared. She too was an able slugger, hitting my pitches and adjusting her swing, low or high. Everyone had several turns and with each hit I scurried after the ball and pretended to try to tag the runners. There was much laughter and high pitched squeals and it reminded me of the days in the backyard with my dad, never wanting the game to end even as dusk turned to night. It baffled me that my dad, having so much fun, and always enthusiastic and happy throughout, was actually willing to eventually call it a night.

Another aspect of the game today was that Ashley watched the action from the deck just as my mom used to watch dad with John and me from the back porch steps. Ash had a smile on her face, which pleased me. After about twenty minutes she stood up and said, “Let’s go children.”

“Where to?” I said.

“The neighbors,” she said, “for a barbeque.”

I thought about the children. Were they thinking, “Poor papa, had to stop the game. He must be sad.”

I was OK with it. Eddie probably wondered why I didn’t protest more.


*pepper (from MLB.com) -- Pepper is a common pre-game exercise where one player bunts brisk grounders and line drives to a group of fielders who are standing about 20 feet away. The fielders try to throw it back as quickly as possible. The batter hits the return throw. (Pepper games are not prevalent today as they once were. In the 1950s, and before, pepper games were the requisite pre-game ritual in all parks, every game ).

See the following link for info re. the history of pepper games in Major League baseball
http://www.sptimes.com/2003/07/26/Rays/Once_a_revered_ritual.shtml

also
 http://www.baseballlibrary.com/excerpts/excerpt.php?book=house_of_david&page=14

Who am I?

Who am I?

 

At the Bank today I explain to the teller, “I need to withdraw some money in order to deposit it in my daughter’s account in another bank.”

It is a harmless lie, frivolous really.

But the question is, why do I see fit to lie? A silly thought goes through my mind. I don’t want the teller of TD Bank to feel slighted that I am taking money from his bank and putting it in another bank where my checking account is located. So I make up the story about my daughter needing money.

Seriously? That's weird.

                    A Normal Person

Still, I feel that I am a normal person. People seem to think so at least. They see me on the street; they say hello, smile maybe. Why? Because people are friendly. 

And I'm normal.

However, I do have a strange trait or two. For example I like to save impractical things. High on the list are the remnants of do-it-yourself tasks: the worn out headlamp that I replaced in my VW, the replaced lock mechanism from the back door. A scribbled note from a grandchild. 

Please! Am I a hoarder? 

                    Tuesday Morning

Now it is 7:30 AM, a Tuesday.  Hoarder is sleeping. I hear the front door rattling. A morning visitor? Still in bed, I guess that a child is staying home from school, which means early duty for me.

I throw off the covers, stumble to the door. Daughter Ashley is already in the living room with Johnny, 5, in tow. Ashley positions Johnny on the couch, turns on the TV. Finds the cartoon channel. "Hello John," I say. 

No answer. Ash turns to leave for work.

“He may not eat,” she says as she goes out. “Try to give him something.”

That’s it for instructions, except for this final word, “I don’t think he’s really sick.”

No comment from me. I shout, “Have a good one,” as she drives away.

I fetch a blanket and cover John on the couch. He’s fixated on the TV.

I go about my morning routine, coffee and newspaper. After a half hour or so John makes a request.

                  Playing Store
“Do you have a cash register?” he says, “and some bills?”

Cash register? Bills?

I think I actually saw a toy cash register somewhere in the last few days. Had to be in the playroom in the basement I tell myself. I trudge down the cellar stairs.

Voila! The gods are with me. "This is why I save things," I tell myself. I cart the plastic cash register up the stairs. Halfway up a voice startles me. The voice says, “Welcome back.”

Huh?

It's the cash register speaking. Sounds female I think, guessing that I pressed something to trigger a recorded greeting. I take a moment to see if I pressed a button.

Forget it. Toys, talking toys, are weird these days.

I hand the register over to John. “Do you have credit cards, “John asks, “and bills?”

I give him old cards, a file folder of paper scraps (bills I explain) and a coffee can filled with saved coins. He busies himself for an hour, opening and closing the register, putting coins in the drawer, coloring and applying duct tape to the file folder.

The morning passes. I make lunch. We head for the library. Soon it’s pick-up time for the others, Eddie and Emma. The afternoon glides by.  

Straightening up that evening at home I survey the living room. It’s a mess. I arrange the “play store” paraphernalia - papers, coins, crayons, the cash register and a roll of duct tape – more neatly as one might clean up a work desk at the end of the day, except that I merely shift these items around, leaving them on the floor, at the foot of an easy chair. I think of Johnny playing there all morning which brings a smile. I decide to leave the toys in their spot, on the rug by the chair.   

                    Toys on the Floor
A week has passed now. The toys are still on the rug, waiting for the next visit from John. Or so I pretend.

I like the toys there, which makes me wonder – why is that? But I know why.