No, I'm not reminiscing about the years of "Frankie Boy" and the decades that preceded Rock and Roll.
Maybe another time.
My daughter turned two this past week. We celebrated by giving her probably her most expensive birthday gift ever.
We found a super-colossal swing set made of cedar, with three different swings, a rock-climb ladder, overhead bars and of course a slide.
Here's the problem...we received the slide on Thursday and had until Savannah's birthday party yesterday to put this monstrosity together.
We had ordered it late last week, but were fighting with the shipping agent over delivery times, which delayed in our receiving it.
We enlisted the help of my younger brother Heath in getting this put together, as there was nowhere near enough time to get this put together on my own.
This turned out to be more involved than I ever imagined.
Add temperatures hovering close to 100 into the mix.
Now add hardware issues...too much of one screw, not enough of one bolt, and hoping Heath had enough spare hardware to get us by.
Savannah's party was at 4pm. And the clock was ticking.
At 3:30, when it finally appeared done, I asked Heath if we could call this project done. He said yes.
I took a quick shower, got dressed, shaved and was ready to welcome our guests.
And then...
"Honey, are those clamps staying at the bottom of the swings?"
Oops.
I rushed outside and found that my brother still had the drill out. I found the hardware I needed and quickly drilled the holes for the bottom support beam for the swing half of the set...right as my brother-in-law and his brood showed up.
Aside from the tiedown stakes, I called it done. As long as no one got too crazy on it, the stakes could wait a day or two.
And as it turned out, the fun on the swing lasted about five minutes, if that, before the kids tired of the Death Valley-grade heat and sought shelter in our air-conditioned house.
Even Savannah tired of it rather quickly.
She would have much rather spent time getting a bath than be out there.
And she did just that after company left...with her new bath toys.
NEXT WEEK: AC...ACK!!!
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Sunday, July 17, 2011
There's No Business Like Shoe Business
For my regular readers who give me a few minutes of their time Sundays to spout off on anything and everything, this goes hand-in-hand with last week's column, "The Second Time Around".
Almost every town had a neighborhood cobbler. Or a shoe repair shop, plying their trade with posters of 'Give us three minutes, we'll give you new heels', or pictures of new shoes with high price tags, with the caption at the bottom that said 'See Me Instead'.
And it was always busy.
When you walked in, the place reeked of shoe polish and Lysol disinfectant.
But for very little money, those old shoes could shine like new yet retain the 'broken in' feel that often takes months, if not years, to accomplish.
I had purchased my first pair of all-leather dress shoes with my own money in 1984, when I was 15. Size 10 1/2 Stuart Holmes Presidents, which were moc-toe loafers sold by Kinney Shoes.
At the then-princely sum of $48, I was determined to properly care for them, and did so for about four years, and then about freaked out when I saw a seam bursting near the vamp.
By this time I was in college. The last thing I had money for was for new dress shoes. As I was pondering this on one sunny day, I walked past the neighborhood cobbler.
Wonder if he can help, I thought. I brought the shoe in the next day.
And the shop was busy. A woman in her 30s with big hair and a gray business suit with a poofy bowtie was ahead of me.
"Three minutes?" is what she asked the cobbler. "I'm on my lunch break."
"Five today," the cobbler replied. "I'm a little busy today. It shouldn't be more than ten."
The woman nodded approvingly. "Fine." She briskly removed the gray slingbacks she was wearing, handed them to the cobbler, and settled into a chair in her stocking feet and buried her face in a magazine.
He handed the gray heels off to his waiting assistant, then turned to me. I handed him the shoe. He checked it over, and said he could have them ready first thing in the morning. Shouldn't be more than five bucks.
I agreed and filled out a claim slip. Then out came the assistant, holding the woman's slingbacks.
Elapsed time: Four minutes...tops. She probably didn't finish the article she was reading.
"Ma'am, you're all set," he said. "Eight dollars."
"Already?" she said. "I love coming here. You guys work fast."
She handed the assistant a $10 bill and refused her change, jamming her feet into the shoes while walking out the door, obviously in a hurry.
By this time I was sold.
The Stuarts lasted until 1991, when the fourth round of soles finally outlasted the uppers. And perhaps could have lasted longer had I given them the same attention I did as a teenager. But once I got into the working world, free time became a sort of luxury.
Phil Donahue once bragged on his talk show in the mid-80s that his own black loafers he wore almost exclusively on the set were purchased in 1957 and that he regularly had them professionally shined and resoled throughout the years.
President John F. Kennedy was another. For someone coming from so much wealth, this was especially comforting to know.
Unfortunately, the cobbling business is fast becoming a lost art.
Many of the shoe repair shops I know of have either gone out of business or the owner has retired. Other than Gene Montemurro of New Kensington, I don't know of any other shoe repair shops in the area. No apprentices are being trained in this profession.
Think of how many shoes end up in landfills today. More than that, think about how much you spend on shoes nowadays.
Maybe you should "see him instead".
If you can find one, that is.
NEXT WEEK: Swing Shift
Almost every town had a neighborhood cobbler. Or a shoe repair shop, plying their trade with posters of 'Give us three minutes, we'll give you new heels', or pictures of new shoes with high price tags, with the caption at the bottom that said 'See Me Instead'.
And it was always busy.
When you walked in, the place reeked of shoe polish and Lysol disinfectant.
But for very little money, those old shoes could shine like new yet retain the 'broken in' feel that often takes months, if not years, to accomplish.
I had purchased my first pair of all-leather dress shoes with my own money in 1984, when I was 15. Size 10 1/2 Stuart Holmes Presidents, which were moc-toe loafers sold by Kinney Shoes.
At the then-princely sum of $48, I was determined to properly care for them, and did so for about four years, and then about freaked out when I saw a seam bursting near the vamp.
By this time I was in college. The last thing I had money for was for new dress shoes. As I was pondering this on one sunny day, I walked past the neighborhood cobbler.
Wonder if he can help, I thought. I brought the shoe in the next day.
And the shop was busy. A woman in her 30s with big hair and a gray business suit with a poofy bowtie was ahead of me.
"Three minutes?" is what she asked the cobbler. "I'm on my lunch break."
"Five today," the cobbler replied. "I'm a little busy today. It shouldn't be more than ten."
The woman nodded approvingly. "Fine." She briskly removed the gray slingbacks she was wearing, handed them to the cobbler, and settled into a chair in her stocking feet and buried her face in a magazine.
He handed the gray heels off to his waiting assistant, then turned to me. I handed him the shoe. He checked it over, and said he could have them ready first thing in the morning. Shouldn't be more than five bucks.
I agreed and filled out a claim slip. Then out came the assistant, holding the woman's slingbacks.
Elapsed time: Four minutes...tops. She probably didn't finish the article she was reading.
"Ma'am, you're all set," he said. "Eight dollars."
"Already?" she said. "I love coming here. You guys work fast."
She handed the assistant a $10 bill and refused her change, jamming her feet into the shoes while walking out the door, obviously in a hurry.
By this time I was sold.
The Stuarts lasted until 1991, when the fourth round of soles finally outlasted the uppers. And perhaps could have lasted longer had I given them the same attention I did as a teenager. But once I got into the working world, free time became a sort of luxury.
Phil Donahue once bragged on his talk show in the mid-80s that his own black loafers he wore almost exclusively on the set were purchased in 1957 and that he regularly had them professionally shined and resoled throughout the years.
President John F. Kennedy was another. For someone coming from so much wealth, this was especially comforting to know.
Unfortunately, the cobbling business is fast becoming a lost art.
Many of the shoe repair shops I know of have either gone out of business or the owner has retired. Other than Gene Montemurro of New Kensington, I don't know of any other shoe repair shops in the area. No apprentices are being trained in this profession.
Think of how many shoes end up in landfills today. More than that, think about how much you spend on shoes nowadays.
Maybe you should "see him instead".
If you can find one, that is.
NEXT WEEK: Swing Shift
Sunday, July 10, 2011
The Second Time Around
I buy lots of things secondhand...you know, homes, cars, even music and DVDs.
I just can't justify spending money on something new when good pre-owned or gently-used can do the job just fine.
My late great paternal grandfather was a perfect example of this.
Like many of his generation, which history would come to remember as 'the greatest generation', he came out of the Great Depression. And times were anything but great.
One of seven children in his home, he was expected to help contribute to the family income, being the son of Polish and Russian immigrants. He began working in the coal mines at the age of 11, and ended his formal schooling in eighth grade. And when his prematurely aged back could no longer withstand the rigors of coal mining, he took a job as a crane operator for Allegheny Ludlum and worked in this same capacity until taking an early retirement in 1972.
He also had a family to support, made up of a stay-at-home mom, four sons and a daughter.
So for extra income, he often worked as a neighborhood handyman, fixing things as they became broken...for far less than a house call would charge. To help his neighbors even further, he stripped discarded appliances and automobiles of any salvageable parts.
He kept these parts in what he called 'shanties' on the two-acre plot he owned where his house still sits. The house had been a former gas and service station that he completely renovated himself.
The parts were often kept in buckets or boxes, most often labeled with the contents.
"I NEVER throw anything away!" I remember hearing him say.
He sure didn't.
Car radios and tape decks. Gas and radiator caps. Ignition switches. Electric motors, timers and capacitors from washers and dryers. Vacuum cleaners. TV channel tuners. Car batteries, starters and alternators. Wheels. Drive belts. Appliance and extension cords. Even rusted out hand tools and cord-worn power tools were worth a little elbow grease and some time before they were made like new again.
Fortunately, they had a house and yard big enough to hold these things...because, as my grandfather would proudly attest, you never knew when you were going to need something.
And he believed that things made long ago were better than the present model, and if he had the parts to fix something, why not?
If there was any legacy he left to my family, it was never to waste anything. Three of his sons, including my dad, followed suit.
Anytime I need to fix anything, I usually call my dad. Nine chances out of ten, he'll have the part or the know-how to fix it.
Or at least the confidence to try.
That's something I'm still working on.
And hopefully it'll get done in this lifetime.
Because there is no 'second time around'.
NEXT WEEK: Shoe Business
I just can't justify spending money on something new when good pre-owned or gently-used can do the job just fine.
My late great paternal grandfather was a perfect example of this.
Like many of his generation, which history would come to remember as 'the greatest generation', he came out of the Great Depression. And times were anything but great.
One of seven children in his home, he was expected to help contribute to the family income, being the son of Polish and Russian immigrants. He began working in the coal mines at the age of 11, and ended his formal schooling in eighth grade. And when his prematurely aged back could no longer withstand the rigors of coal mining, he took a job as a crane operator for Allegheny Ludlum and worked in this same capacity until taking an early retirement in 1972.
He also had a family to support, made up of a stay-at-home mom, four sons and a daughter.
So for extra income, he often worked as a neighborhood handyman, fixing things as they became broken...for far less than a house call would charge. To help his neighbors even further, he stripped discarded appliances and automobiles of any salvageable parts.
He kept these parts in what he called 'shanties' on the two-acre plot he owned where his house still sits. The house had been a former gas and service station that he completely renovated himself.
The parts were often kept in buckets or boxes, most often labeled with the contents.
"I NEVER throw anything away!" I remember hearing him say.
He sure didn't.
Car radios and tape decks. Gas and radiator caps. Ignition switches. Electric motors, timers and capacitors from washers and dryers. Vacuum cleaners. TV channel tuners. Car batteries, starters and alternators. Wheels. Drive belts. Appliance and extension cords. Even rusted out hand tools and cord-worn power tools were worth a little elbow grease and some time before they were made like new again.
Fortunately, they had a house and yard big enough to hold these things...because, as my grandfather would proudly attest, you never knew when you were going to need something.
And he believed that things made long ago were better than the present model, and if he had the parts to fix something, why not?
If there was any legacy he left to my family, it was never to waste anything. Three of his sons, including my dad, followed suit.
Anytime I need to fix anything, I usually call my dad. Nine chances out of ten, he'll have the part or the know-how to fix it.
Or at least the confidence to try.
That's something I'm still working on.
And hopefully it'll get done in this lifetime.
Because there is no 'second time around'.
NEXT WEEK: Shoe Business
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Marathon Madness
Rrrrrright...like you're going to see ME run 26 miles for no particular reason.
This is a different kind of marathon.
This one involves completing a list of several 'honey do' projects, while the other 'honey' is in Virginia on business.
This can be a bit of a challenge, especially when you have a soon-to-be two-year-old daughter under your feet demanding Daddy's undivided attention.
So, I enlisted the help of my younger brother Heath, who, as a self-employed computer whiz, sets his own hours.
He was only too happy to oblige after I assured him there would be no dirty demolition work like when we remodeled the one bathroom.
I don't think any amount of money would have enticed him back for a second round of that.
But with both of us working (OK, with him working and me helping only after getting Savannah off to bed), we did as much together as the remaining daylight would allow, and from Tuesday to the time Margie returned home Friday night, we had the grass mowed, hedges trimmed, two out-of-control rhododendron bushes tamed to some sembalance of order, a mini-patio laid for the fire pit, the Intex pool cleaned, an unwanted bathroom vanity in the basement cleared out, an erosion-worn gully near the driveway resodded and reseeded, weeds cleared from the side and back of the house, as well as the driveway, and two ceiling fans put up.
Margie was pleased, to say the least. One thing I didn't want to do was spend our entire summer doing outdoor chores, since we have so few good weekends during the summer in western Pennsylvania to have fun with. And I want to make the most of them.
The last thing I want to do in this life is forget how to kick back, relax, and enjoy life when I have the opportunity to do so.
TWO WEEKS FROM TODAY: The Second Time Around
This is a different kind of marathon.
This one involves completing a list of several 'honey do' projects, while the other 'honey' is in Virginia on business.
This can be a bit of a challenge, especially when you have a soon-to-be two-year-old daughter under your feet demanding Daddy's undivided attention.
So, I enlisted the help of my younger brother Heath, who, as a self-employed computer whiz, sets his own hours.
He was only too happy to oblige after I assured him there would be no dirty demolition work like when we remodeled the one bathroom.
I don't think any amount of money would have enticed him back for a second round of that.
But with both of us working (OK, with him working and me helping only after getting Savannah off to bed), we did as much together as the remaining daylight would allow, and from Tuesday to the time Margie returned home Friday night, we had the grass mowed, hedges trimmed, two out-of-control rhododendron bushes tamed to some sembalance of order, a mini-patio laid for the fire pit, the Intex pool cleaned, an unwanted bathroom vanity in the basement cleared out, an erosion-worn gully near the driveway resodded and reseeded, weeds cleared from the side and back of the house, as well as the driveway, and two ceiling fans put up.
Margie was pleased, to say the least. One thing I didn't want to do was spend our entire summer doing outdoor chores, since we have so few good weekends during the summer in western Pennsylvania to have fun with. And I want to make the most of them.
The last thing I want to do in this life is forget how to kick back, relax, and enjoy life when I have the opportunity to do so.
TWO WEEKS FROM TODAY: The Second Time Around
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Summer Splashdown
Do you remember your first time?
I was maybe four.
It was hot. And wet.
And made of plastic.
My first experience in a swimming pool.
Oh, you thought I was talking about something else? Shame on you.
My daughter's first time was ten months.
It was Memorial Day weekend, and my wife Margie had Savannah dressed in a little bathing suit with her hair done in a fountain ponytail as she splashed in her inflatable pool, having the time of her life.
I even took a movie of it. All while doing so, I couldn't help but think about how fast she was going to outgrow this thing. Should I invest now in something bigger?
But then I didn't have to. Or so I thought.
My brother-in-law had two of those Intex Easy Set pools that he bought for his two young children. Unsuccessful attempts to sell them online led to our subsequent ownership gratis.
I was pretty psyched. I gave one to my parents, who watch my nephew during the week over the summer. Maybe they could use it.
Then came the first snap of warm weather, after it sat in the garage for about six months. Time to put it up.
Let me tell you that no matter how level a portion of your yard looks, for some reason, it never is.
That's when you have to settle for 'as level as you can get it'.
After we got it level to our satisfaction, time to inflate it.
That's the fun part...when you find out just how many leaks there are in this thing and go through the process of trying to fix them.
Let me also say that even patch kits aren't fully capable of properly repairing an air leak in that top ring.
Oh...and did I mention the accessories?
You know, chemicals? Little cheap pool, big price tag chlorine and other maintenance items to keep your little one's swimming water safe.
Then there's skimmers, a pool vacuum that works about as well as the latest Palestinian peace accord, oh...and little toys to keep my daughter amused until we drag her out kicking and screaming.
"NOOOOO!!!!! I don't care if my lips ARE turning blue!!!"
But as she spends time splashing around, she's also working on her tan, which happens fairly easy for her since her mother and I are both dark-complected people.
And learning to swim. She likes to think she can, but only pushes herself to her threshold of comfort. But she's undeterred.
And so am I.
Even if she's not Donna DeVarona, she will succeed at anything she does.
And I certainly enjoy watching her try.
NEXT WEEK: Marathon Madness
I was maybe four.
It was hot. And wet.
And made of plastic.
My first experience in a swimming pool.
Oh, you thought I was talking about something else? Shame on you.
My daughter's first time was ten months.
It was Memorial Day weekend, and my wife Margie had Savannah dressed in a little bathing suit with her hair done in a fountain ponytail as she splashed in her inflatable pool, having the time of her life.
I even took a movie of it. All while doing so, I couldn't help but think about how fast she was going to outgrow this thing. Should I invest now in something bigger?
But then I didn't have to. Or so I thought.
My brother-in-law had two of those Intex Easy Set pools that he bought for his two young children. Unsuccessful attempts to sell them online led to our subsequent ownership gratis.
I was pretty psyched. I gave one to my parents, who watch my nephew during the week over the summer. Maybe they could use it.
Then came the first snap of warm weather, after it sat in the garage for about six months. Time to put it up.
Let me tell you that no matter how level a portion of your yard looks, for some reason, it never is.
That's when you have to settle for 'as level as you can get it'.
After we got it level to our satisfaction, time to inflate it.
That's the fun part...when you find out just how many leaks there are in this thing and go through the process of trying to fix them.
Let me also say that even patch kits aren't fully capable of properly repairing an air leak in that top ring.
Oh...and did I mention the accessories?
You know, chemicals? Little cheap pool, big price tag chlorine and other maintenance items to keep your little one's swimming water safe.
Then there's skimmers, a pool vacuum that works about as well as the latest Palestinian peace accord, oh...and little toys to keep my daughter amused until we drag her out kicking and screaming.
"NOOOOO!!!!! I don't care if my lips ARE turning blue!!!"
But as she spends time splashing around, she's also working on her tan, which happens fairly easy for her since her mother and I are both dark-complected people.
And learning to swim. She likes to think she can, but only pushes herself to her threshold of comfort. But she's undeterred.
And so am I.
Even if she's not Donna DeVarona, she will succeed at anything she does.
And I certainly enjoy watching her try.
NEXT WEEK: Marathon Madness
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Dancin' Across the USA
Who can forget that catchy little ditty Lindsey Buckingham sang in the closing credits of "National Lampoon's Vacation"?
This memorable cinema classic, which spawned several sequels, details the life of the Griswold family and every conceivable disaster that can go wrong on a family vacation...does.
And the thing of it is, we've ALL been there. Hopefully, not all of these crises happened at once. Not every vacation has been debacle-free.
My mind still flashes back to September 2009, two months after our daughter Savannah was born. You who have children can understand the sudden crying fits (of the baby, yours come later) where nothing seems to make the situation better. There's things like finding the brand-new hotel that's so new, no GPS device has the ability to find it. When you have a two-month-old baby who wanted fed an hour ago, never mind their diaper changed, four-letter words can be exchanged and even the most perfect marriage can be put to a severe test.
But it did get easier the following year...sorta.
This year, my wife and I are hoping for another easier trip, as we pack a portable DVD player to keep our daughter entertained during the six-hour trip to Detroit this summer, followed by another three hours to Houghton Lake.
I've also resigned myself to the fact that my own sense of adventure is not shared by my family. While I'm comfortable going to a different destination every couple of days, my wife and daughter prefer to stay in one place and focus on destinations that keep in-car time to a minimum. Anywhere beyond that can be saved for another year.
And I'm OK with that.
Most disasters happen on the road. While I do intend to take the tribe cross-country in the Wagon Queen Family Truckster someday, it doesn't have to be today.
But the year will come where I'll feel the need to challenge myself. Hopefully my wife will be able to talk me out of it.
NEXT WEEK: Pool party
This memorable cinema classic, which spawned several sequels, details the life of the Griswold family and every conceivable disaster that can go wrong on a family vacation...does.
And the thing of it is, we've ALL been there. Hopefully, not all of these crises happened at once. Not every vacation has been debacle-free.
My mind still flashes back to September 2009, two months after our daughter Savannah was born. You who have children can understand the sudden crying fits (of the baby, yours come later) where nothing seems to make the situation better. There's things like finding the brand-new hotel that's so new, no GPS device has the ability to find it. When you have a two-month-old baby who wanted fed an hour ago, never mind their diaper changed, four-letter words can be exchanged and even the most perfect marriage can be put to a severe test.
But it did get easier the following year...sorta.
This year, my wife and I are hoping for another easier trip, as we pack a portable DVD player to keep our daughter entertained during the six-hour trip to Detroit this summer, followed by another three hours to Houghton Lake.
I've also resigned myself to the fact that my own sense of adventure is not shared by my family. While I'm comfortable going to a different destination every couple of days, my wife and daughter prefer to stay in one place and focus on destinations that keep in-car time to a minimum. Anywhere beyond that can be saved for another year.
And I'm OK with that.
Most disasters happen on the road. While I do intend to take the tribe cross-country in the Wagon Queen Family Truckster someday, it doesn't have to be today.
But the year will come where I'll feel the need to challenge myself. Hopefully my wife will be able to talk me out of it.
NEXT WEEK: Pool party
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Smart Phones, Dumb Users
I think I revered technology a lot more when it was priced out of reach.
That way, only smart people who earned enough money were able to manage it properly.
Today, I see the most sophisticated technology being utilized by the least important people.
I'm pretty much on call 24 hours a day in my line of work. However, do I have a bluetooth hanging out of my head or my iPhone 4 growing out of my ear? Absolutely not.
I'm one of the few people left that still has a landline phone. Anyone who needs to get in touch with me can call that number first. Then call the cell as a backup.
My iPhone was a gift from my wife, who bought it for me to use for work. Because it can record audio and video, as well as take pictures and text, we're able to deduct a portion of its cost at tax time, since much of its use is for professional, rather than personal use.
Outside of my profession, I wouldn't have much use for it. Even I'm not 100 percent sure of its features. Just this past week, one of my colleagues from KDKA-TV was in town for a news story big enough to invite the local TV stations. She was trying to figure hers out, and I could only suggest, having no idea of how to deal with the problem myself.
Yet I see people who look like the Smart Phones they possess is probably the most valuable piece of personal property they own. While at the store, I saw a guy in the parking lot chatting away on his own iPhone while behind the wheel of an early 90s model Ford Escort.
Hey pal, how 'bout takin' that $650 you spent for the phone and buying a better set of wheels?
They're the same people who have bluetooths and other devices.
However, common sense tells me not to rush to judgement. With today's lax dress codes, the guy could be an eccentric software engineer pulling down half a million a year.
Nah.
NEXT WEEK: Vacationland
That way, only smart people who earned enough money were able to manage it properly.
Today, I see the most sophisticated technology being utilized by the least important people.
I'm pretty much on call 24 hours a day in my line of work. However, do I have a bluetooth hanging out of my head or my iPhone 4 growing out of my ear? Absolutely not.
I'm one of the few people left that still has a landline phone. Anyone who needs to get in touch with me can call that number first. Then call the cell as a backup.
My iPhone was a gift from my wife, who bought it for me to use for work. Because it can record audio and video, as well as take pictures and text, we're able to deduct a portion of its cost at tax time, since much of its use is for professional, rather than personal use.
Outside of my profession, I wouldn't have much use for it. Even I'm not 100 percent sure of its features. Just this past week, one of my colleagues from KDKA-TV was in town for a news story big enough to invite the local TV stations. She was trying to figure hers out, and I could only suggest, having no idea of how to deal with the problem myself.
Yet I see people who look like the Smart Phones they possess is probably the most valuable piece of personal property they own. While at the store, I saw a guy in the parking lot chatting away on his own iPhone while behind the wheel of an early 90s model Ford Escort.
Hey pal, how 'bout takin' that $650 you spent for the phone and buying a better set of wheels?
They're the same people who have bluetooths and other devices.
However, common sense tells me not to rush to judgement. With today's lax dress codes, the guy could be an eccentric software engineer pulling down half a million a year.
Nah.
NEXT WEEK: Vacationland
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)