Foursquare

FOURSQUARE

Years ago I used to work at a job that required me to travel quite a distance on a particular state highway to get to work. That highway led me past an old brick schoolhouse. When I began making that trip, twenty-six years or so ago, that old schoolhouse was in sad, sad shape. As I mentioned before it was made of brick, the clay of which was probably dug, mixed and fired not very far away from where she now stands. As I would drive by I could see cracks on the walls of the old building where some of those homemade bricks were beginning to crumble and fail. The old wooden bell tower was half in ruin and the little wood roof over the entrance door was completely gone. Weeds had overtaken the lot growing tall and rank, creeper vines were covering most of the south side and there was an melancholy air of ruin enveloping the building. It was a sad thing, to my eyes at least, to watch this relic, this old lady from the past slowly crumbling. I traveled that road a decade or more, going to the big city and back on my daily trek, and once in a while, I would glance at the old schoolhouse sitting on the corner lot out in the country all by herself. And I'd wonder about its history.

The old schoolhouse had to have been built a hundred to a hundred and twenty years ago or maybe even longer, judging by its architecture. Probably somewhere around the era of Presidents Benjamin Harrison or Grover Cleveland. Or maybe even back to Abraham Lincoln and the Civil War days. I envisioned the children who used to attend the old school. This part of Ohio is mostly agricultural now, with corn fields and feed lots for miles in most directions. This was even more the case in the countryside back then. The students were farm kids who attended, mostly in the winter and when the needs of their families and the farms allowed them to attend. They probably arrived mostly by foot, some walking several miles to get there. Possibly there were some who came by horseback or in carriages. Those that attended in the summer would have been roasted by the summer heat baking the brick building. All the windows would have been open in those days to catch any stray breeze and the students would have fanned themselves to keep cool and to keep their minds alert to the schoolwork. In the winter the pot-bellied stove would have been glowing and its frugal heat would have tried its best to keep the children warm. There would have been a big wood pile outside the building and one of the children's chores would have been to bring in the wood for the stove. In later years it would have been coal. The premises still would have been chilly at best during those long cold Ohio winters. Insulation was far in the future. Learning would have been a difficult task in the little schoolhouse. But generations of kids would have gone through her over the years and numbers of them would have done quite well in life. Some would have gone on to schools of higher learning, colleges and universities, and would have become businessmen, clergy, lawyers, shopkeepers and politicians. A lot would have returned to the farms and continued the cultivation of crops and the growing of livestock. This country had produced many presidents who started out their educations in schoolhouses very similar to this one.

So I was sad to think that this building which had nurtured generations of Ohio youngsters and gave them a leg up on their educations, this schoolhouse which had stood foursquare to the years was slowly falling to ruin.

One day, a number of years after I had got the other job and was still traveling the highway where the school sat, I happened to notice some of the weeds around the old building were gone. I wondered at this, guessing that perhaps the last days of the schoolhouse were drawing to an end and the bulldozer would be coming soon. But why clear out the weeds first? It seemed odd. I began to dread my daily drive, thinking that one day soon I'd see a pile of old brick where the schoolhouse once stood, then a hole where a house would soon be erected.

Some days later I was surprised to notice that a section of the brick wall where the most damage was evident had been partially removed. And maybe a week or so after that you could see where new brick had been cemented into the wall. Then, slowly, after weeks had passed, it was the property that was beginning to show signs of change, as the scrub brush and weeds had been cleared out and a small dirt parking lot had been dozed and graveled south of the building. Then the roof began showing signs of repair. Then a small new roof was erected over the front door, along with a new porch and entrance steps. If you looked closely you could also see that the windows had been reglazed and washed. All this repair took place over a period of a year or more. The old girl was beginning to look sharp!

I had a lot of questions in my mind pertaining to the repair of the old school as I made my daily drive and noticed the renovations that had occurred to the old building. Soon a sign appeared on one of her walls, answering my questions by advertising that the schoolhouse was now available for get togethers, reunions, meetings and other activities. It was alive again and open for business! It wasn't teaching the youngsters of the area anymore, but the old girl was awake again, visibly happy to be alive and open for whatever the years wanted to bequeath her.

So, on my now infrequent travels on that state highway, I take notice of that old brick schoolhouse, her windows clean, her brickwork again plumb, level and strong, her woodwork replaced, painted and fresh. She stands once again foursquare to the world and ready for her new life.

If you're curious, she sits proudly on the southeastern corner of Ohio State Highway 585 and Benner Road in Wayne County, Ohio. Give her a wave as you drive by.

This Old Bathroom

THIS OLD BATHROOM

If I'm counting correctly, my wife and I have lived in our present home for 30 years as of the 21^st of next month. We got married in '72 and moved into this house on the longest day of the year, June 21, six years later so... guess that makes 30 years. Its what they call in the residential want ads as an “older home”. Close as I can figure it was built in the first few years of the last century – somewhere around '01 to '05. I guess that made Teddy Roosevelt our president when it was constructed. You remember him? The old Roughrider? Walk softly and carry a big stick? That Teddy? It looks like they added the garage later, probably in the 20's or 30's. Weren't a lot of cars around before then. Anyhow, that would make it a “century” house if I wanted to get nitpicking about it. I suppose I could apply and get one of those plaques that the city (or is it the state?) issues to place on the outside of the house commemorating the actual antiquity of the residence, thus becoming an “official” century house. Don't think I'll do that. Too much pressure to keep it spiffy then. Think I'll just keep it an “older home”. Much more comfortable that way.

This old house sits in a neighborhood of similar homes, all approximately the same age and in various stages of repair and disrepair. I'm happy to report that most of them are in pretty decent shape, so it's not a slum by any stretch of the imagination. But a quiet, middle-class sort of place. It still sports its original slate roof and has not been sided like a lot of my neighbors homes. I keep it painted, though, and it looks fine most of the time. I've recently added new energy efficient windows all around and had the garage and both porch roof's shingled. When I insulated the attic about a decade ago I found some newspapers stapled to some of the rafters – apparently some long-ago resident thought there was some insulating properties in newsprint. I'm more a fan of the insulating properties of the pink, itchy stuff. But one of the newspapers stapled up there had a juicy article on the front page about a ship called the Lusitania which had just been sunk. I believe it was 1915. An interesting historic discovery and, if I remember my world history, a precursor to a war that was to end all wars.

You and I both know it didn't.

I had blow-in insulation added to the walls a few years ago and am installing new entry doors and a new furnace this year. We should be snug as bugs in a rug this coming winter, to use a tired cliche. Can't say I'm looking forward to the cold and snow, but I'll be facing it with less trepidation this year.

Which brings me to the bathroom.

Houses of this age are notorious for little or no closet space, smaller yards, cramped driveways and teeny-weeny single bathrooms. Mine is no different. The bathroom here is very small. A prison inmate would feel cramped in it – please forgive the bowel allusion. When we moved in three decades ago the bath was painted in a simply atrocious shade of pink – picture the color of one of those wintergreen lozenges or the color of Pepto-Bismol. Fine for candy mints or an antacid liquid, nothing wrong there, but migraine-inducing for a wall color. So my first major project after moving in was to redo the bath. We ended up with a busy-patterned green wallpaper, creme-colored floor tiles and chocolate-brown accents. I thought it looked kinda nice. Way better than... well, you know what it was way better than.

But now? Yeah, I know, I know. I should have redone the bath again long before now. But... You find out that when you really get used to something... after a while you really don't see it anymore. I can't believe how ready that room had now become for another redo. The wife had called my attention to it recently and, after taking a look with attentive eyes for a change I could see how hideous it had become.

So, after making some plans with the wife and discussing color choices, I've finally started with the project. I spent last Sunday painting the woodwork in the bathroom with two coats of a latex semi-gloss in a light cream color. Almost a white.

As an aside, have you noticed that you can't buy white paint anymore? They have all kinds of euphemistic words that kinda mean white but really don't. Like linen, moonlight, muslin, cloud, lace, creme, parchment, buttermilk, white sand, toad belly, fish belly, hog belly, etc., etc. Well, maybe not the last three. But to my eyes they're all kinda white.

The 30-year-old cream color that I had painted on in the '70's was now a deep nicotine yellow. And yes, I used to smoke and yes, that was, in part, the reason for the yellowing. But that's another long story.

But isn't it wonderful how gliding on a fresh coat of paint can make something dingy become new again. It gave me an almost visceral thrill watching that hundred-year-old woodwork start to look new! For a moment there I was the Botticelli of the Bathroom, the Renoir of the Restroom, the Picasso of the Pooper! Its funny how a paintbrush and a canvas, even if the canvas is some dingy woodwork, can release the creative juices. I guess there has to be some payoff for a dirty, grimy job.

After reveling in the artistic endeavor of putting a fresh coat of paint on some old wood, I began the job I had been dreading for weeks. Removing the old wallpaper. I'd heard many horror stories concerning the difficulty of the task before me and was trembling with apprehension on starting it. But it must have been my turn with Miss Good Luck, 'cause the old wallpaper came off quite easily and I was actually done stripping it within an hour or so. To commemorate my good luck I decided to give thanks and to light a candle to the patron saint of strippers, Bettie Paige! Well, I was stripping something, wasn't I? Even if it was wallpaper?

I woke up the next day with my muscles all stiff and sore and aching in places I didn't know I had places. Since I am a desk jockey by trade, spending a whole day crawling around with paintbrush, paint bucket, trimming knife, tape, newspapers to catch drips and a putty knife to help peel wallpaper was a whole body workout.

Just can't wait to see how it's going to go when I paint the walls and tile the floor.

But I'll be sure to let you know.

Good Friday

GOOD FRIDAY

I usually have lunch with my wife on Fridays. She works first shift and I work second, so we only get to see each other either very early in the day, very late at night or at lunchtime. On Monday through Thursday she usually comes home at noon and we chit-chat with each other, watch the news together and maybe share a bite or two. But on Fridays its my habit to walk downtown and meet her at one of our favorite restaurants for lunch. She drives in from work and, after eating, we ride back home in her car. It works out well for both of us. Besides, the restaurant we eat at serves the best doggone fish dinner in town! They deep fry the white fish fillets in a thick cornmeal batter and it comes out of the fryers fresh and hot - crunchy on the outside and flaky and juicy on the inside. Couple those golden fillets with a creamy tartar sauce, fresh-cut fries and coleslaw and you have quite a lovely meal.

But on my walk downtown today I was, for some reason, not thinking about the upcoming lunch, but glancing around and noticing the weather. It had stopped raining within the hour and the ground was still wet, with reflecting puddles here and there and the new spring grass glistening with green diamonds. It's springtime here now in my part of Ohio and the temperature was cool to the skin without being uncomfortable. The breezes were light, the sun was trying to break out of the tattered gray morning rain clouds and it was just about perfect for a brisk walk. As I made my way down the street I was reflecting on how many really perfect days I could remember living through. Ones where it was not too hot or cold, not too wet or dry, not too cloudy or sunny. Where the wind cooled the skin if it was hot or warmed the body if it was cold. Where the insects weren't biting or swarming or stinging and where your allergies weren't a problem, the drink in your hand was wonderfully refreshing and the lady keeping you company was thrilling, willing and oh, so exactly right. I thought to myself not very doggone many! That further led me to realize that a perfect day was not only a rare and unusual beast, but also a very subjective term. Some utterly dreadful days I can remember had been quite nice due to company and circumstances while other gorgeous days had been super calamities because of other company and other circumstances.

But, in any event, today was a good day to be alive, hungry and walking toward a familiar, welcome meal.

As I walked along the block where the restaurant was located I began to smell the heavenly odor of frying fish wafting out of the vent at the back of the restaurant. Along with frying onions, freshly baked bread and several perfumes that trigger exciting memories, frying fish is one of the best things that man can bestow upon a nose. I suppose if you had to live with it for a long time it might lose its allure, but frying fish was my Friday smell and I relished it.

As I walked into the business and sat down at one of the few empty booths, I noticed who was present. Mike, the owner's son and heir-apparent was there, taking some of the drink orders, running register, speaking and joking with a lot of the regulars. I knew our meal would be served quick and hot that day as Mike's presence guaranteed it. The wait staff didn't dawdle on days he was on duty. Pat was there too, Mike's dad. He'd bought the restaurant quite a few years ago and had kept up its reputation as a good lunch spot in our little town's business district. He'd also kept up the legacy of that restaurant being THE fish place on Fridays. The wait staff was familiar also – Gloria the older waitress who'd been there since day-one, Lois the no-nonsense head waitress who could run rings around the other staff and a couple other's who's names I hadn't learned. And, of course Luther was there, bussing the tables and jawing about the local college sports teams. Mike had smiled and nodded at me when I had entered and had delivered our normal drinks without my having to order them, then Gloria had added the napkins and silverware. She knew to wait for my wife to arrive before taking our orders.

I noticed that the usual contingent of Amish lunch-goers was present also, the men's broad-brimmed black felt hats and the lady's black bonnets visible here and there, the soft sound of the Pennsylvania Dutch language discernible amid the hum of other conversations in the room. There were some college kids around too, and some local business folks both blue-collar and white. I even saw a local female artist's albino brother there, his white beard, pith helmet and red-rimmed half-blind eyes an odd but familiar lunch sight. Some retirees, some shop-girls and a few possible tourists eyeballing the Amish folks rounded out the customers.

The wife arrived around then and began chattering about parking places, things going on at her workplace, concerns about one of our dog's health, plans for our upcoming vacation to New Orleans and other things that were important that moment in time. I mostly sat quietly, listening, adding a word here and there, letting her ramble. I'd learned through 36 years of marriage that women need to talk as much as men need to be quiet. I found I could judge my wife's mental health and emotional stability by how vocal she was. Lots of talking meant things were fine and all was well with the world. But if she was quiet? You tiptoed a lot, kept out of her way and always kept a clear path between you and escape.

Today was a good day.

Our fish dinners arrived promptly and we dug in with gusto, savoring the flaky fish and tasty sides, wiping the hot cooking oil from our fingers and lips. Not surprisingly, she talked while she ate

She filled my ears with more conversation on our way home, then slipped into the house and talked to our two Schnauzers for a minute until it was time to return to work. She was still yammering away at us as she closed the back door to the house and slid into the Honda for her dash back to her office.

I put the dogs out on their chains and then stood on the back porch as she left, eying the freshly-washed blue sky and the trees in the back yard with their young leaves. I took a deep breath and smelled the lilacs on the fence row, the neighbor's newly-mowed grass and the other green, living smells of a too-long-in-coming Ohio springtime. I patted my full belly and smiled.

Was it a perfect day, even subjectively?

Maybe.

But it was, for sure, another good Friday.

Another One Bites the Dust

ANOTHER ONE BITES THE DUST

I knew I shouldn't have. I promised myself after the last one that I wouldn't. But it was so hard not to! I mean, they were there – right there – asking you to check them out. And they looked so good! And then they would put the hook into you and you would fall in love all over again.

And you'd have your heart ripped out. Again.

I'm talking about the latest decision by CBS to cancel one of their television shows that I've grown quite fond of. The show's name is “Moonlight” and, like countless other TV shows that have bit the dust too early, I'm gonna miss it. A lot. If you are one of the show's fans, I don't have to explain the attraction.

The show's basic premise, like a lot of other shows, is a love story. But the hook on this one is the protagonist, Mick St. John, is a vampire and his love interest is a mortal girl, Beth Turner. He is pushing 90-years-old but, since he was turned into a vampire by his bride on his wedding day in his 30's, that's how old he stays. He works as a private investigator, has a vampire friend who's over 400 years old but looks 25 who's a rich business mogul, gets his blood from a blood bank from another vamp and has fallen in love with a mortal girl who's a reporter for an Internet tabloid – Buzzwire. Lots of interesting plots develop as Beth finds out he's a vamp and likes him anyhow – then falls in love with him. From what I've read, women all love the show. Plus, apparently, a few of us guy vampire aficionados.

But CBS, in their corporate wisdom, has decided that they would not renew the show. As TVGuide.com states: “Though the vampire-detective drama boasted a fantastically passionate and wonderfully generous (they held a blood drive, people!) fan base, the buzz is that the Eye simply was not happy with Moonlight's retention of its Ghost Whisperer lead-in. At last tally, Mick & Co. were letting slip some 13 percent of Melinda's audience.”

It all becomes a numbers game.

So another wonderful show is gone. And, worse than that, a wonderful show that I wanted to continue.

Rats!

Might I be so bold as to mention some others that were gone long before they should have been?

• Jericho. I was literally sick when this one was axed. Worse, when it was brought back for four more episodes, they butchered it trying to tell years and years of stories in 4 hours. So damn sad.

• Twin Peaks. Wonderful, strange David Lynch weirdness.

• Millenium. Great pre-apocalyptic story in the years approaching 2000.

• X-Files. Ran a long time, but not nearly long enough for the fans. But when Mulder/Scully left... Please, please don't mention Dogget and Reyes!

• Surface. Very engrossing marine monster tale. Wanted a lot more.

• Dresden Files. A wizard private eye. Cool idea from some great books. More please?

• Alien Nation. Great show about overcoming prejudice – alien style.

• American Dreams. The 60's Philadelphia show where the daughter of the family dances on “American Bandstand”. My generation. My conflicts. Vietnam. Race. Politics – Kennedy assassination. I identified with all the actors and all the stories. Sadly missed...

And how about some of HBO's great lineups that ended much, much too soon:

• Carnivale. How great was this Great Depression show! How unique and very, very human.

• Deadwood. Possibly the best Western ever! Adult Western, that is.

• Rome. Another wonderful HBO offering. Could have gone on as long as the Sopranos.

I'm sure if you made a list, your list would have different shows, but I'm also sure you would be as passionate as I am about their biting the dust too soon also.

So I'll bind my wounds, again, and gripe about the unfairness of life. I'll make more promises about not becoming so attached to a dumb television show in the future. I'll moan about how all the crap shows seem to go on and on forever, but the good 'uns die way, way too young.

But when the new season arrives I'll be the first to draw a circle around the listings of the shows that seem to show promise. Maybe this year the good ones will be renewed. Maybe this year the television executives will renew shows because they are good, not because the bean-counters say they're profitable. Maybe this year pigs will fly.

I must be a glutton for punishment.

Hail to the Chief

HAIL TO THE CHIEF

Fifteen years ago the United States elected a president that was of my age group. Bill Clinton is seven months older than I am. He was the first president elected by my country that couldn't be mistaken for being one of my father's generation. He was emphatically a member of mine. One of the “baby boomers”. I remember standing in front of the mirror in my bathroom sometime the year he was elected, shaving. And while doing that mundane task I thought to myself, that could be the face of a president. How utterly ludicrous that seemed at the time! But I checked out the ages and, damn, yes it could very well have been. He was only a teeny-tiny bit older than me. I shuddered as the thought occurred, not specifically because it was Bill Clinton in office, but that someone who had lived only as long as I had might be considered presidential material. In that moment of revelation I realized that daddy wasn't president anymore – I was! Metaphorically speaking, of course. It was a stomach-full-of-butterflies moment, for sure.

It's now become time once again to elect a new president. I've seen my “classmates” Clinton and Bush spend their years in the White House and watched them either fulfill or squander their legacies – depending on which political agenda you subscribe to. I think, like most of their predecessors, it's been a bit of both. Some wins, some losses, some goof-up and some great accomplishments. But now there's a large possibility that my little brother might be sent to the big show. Metaphorically speaking, again. Hillary is a contemporary of mine, McCain is another daddy, although a daddy who would have had me at age 11. But Senator Obama is a whole 14 years younger than yours truly. Years! My youngest brother is 10 years younger than I. The year the estimable senator was born Yuri Gagarin was the first man in space, the Bay of Pigs invasion was attempted, the Berlin Wall was erected and I was awarded the Eagle Scout rank in Boy Scouts. I was about to start high school. When the senator was four years old, I was serving my nation in the military as Vietnam started to explode.

Am I saying this to take anything away from Barack Obama? No. He has at least a 1 in 3 chance of becoming our next president. Its only that I'm noticing another one of those pesky milestones of my life passing by.

Does this mean I'm not voting for the youngster from Illinois? Or my “sister” from New York? Or the old boy from Arizona? The way things are going this year and the way that each of these candidates are being smeared by the “other side” in the media, I'll probably have to make that decision in the voting booth. Each of these worthies have their merits and their drawbacks, as most of you have been told over and over ad nauseum for the past year or so. Only two of them will be allowed to race the final heat. The old boy is definitely in. Its either the sister or the youngster who will fall by the wayside, allowing the other to vie for the prize. It has been and will continue to be... interesting.

Do I doubt the patriotism of any of the contestants? Not for a minute. I'm sure each of them will serve their country to the best of their ability. Might their patriotism be defined slightly differently than mine? You can be guaranteed of that. My “chocolate mint” patriotism will be a little different that their “tutti-fruit” or “fudge ripple” or “pecan walnut” patriotism. Is it any less heartfelt? No, I don't think so. Not in the least. Could any of them attain the stature of Abraham Lincoln or George Washington or even John Kennedy or Ronald Reagan? Only time will tell. Perhaps great cities or powerful hydroelectric dams or even an awesome battleship might be named after one of them. Or a starship!

All I know is that the history books of tomorrow are being written right now and one of the contestants in the current presidential race will have their own paragraph. Or, if lucky, perhaps their own chapter. Saint or scoundrel, their story will be told.

A decade and a half ago I stared at the face in the mirror as I shaved and quietly whistled the tune “Hail to the Chief” to commemorate a “classmate” becoming president. Now I suppose I better call my baby brother up on the phone and whistle the same tune. He won't understand, but that's OK.

I will.

DETOURS

DETOURS

Well, its springtime again – the snow we annually think will never leave is gone, the trees are in bud and starting to leaf, birdsong wakes you early, early in the mornings and the highway departments have oiled up their blockades and orange cones and have declared the start of the detour season.

Not to digress from the avowed title of the column, but I've noticed as I grow older that I grow more comfortable with routine. I like certain foods on certain days, I like to wear certain clothes rather than others, I like my old, comfortable wife more each day, and I like to drive to work on a certain path. I'm a happy fella when I know to the minute how long it will take for my trip to work and where all the gas stations, restaurants, stores, traffic lights and railroad tracks are. I like it when I know that the road surface is rougher here and smoother there. I could probably drive my normal route blindfolded.

Now, to return to detours. A few weeks ago I noticed orange signs being erected along my normal route that said there would be construction starting soon along that highway, that it would last 11 days and that there would be a detour assigned. I grimaced at first then smiled when I read that, remembering another detour last year that was supposed to last 3 weeks. It was finally completed much later than that – possibly 5 weeks? It's hard to remember. So I made note of the date of the closure and mumbled to myself on the bloody unfairness of the state messing with my routine.

There are two things you can be sure of these days – when the state says a detour will start at a certain date, it will. The other thing is – it won't end when scheduled. You can take that to the bank and draw interest on it.

So, on the designated day, my detour this year began with a formidable blockade across the highway with stern signs saying “Local Traffic ONLY!” and I was routed by the state in an eastbound direction. This was ninety degrees away from where I wanted to go. Detours have a habit of doing that. Then, many miles east, I was routed north again. And eventually westward, to the town I was heading for.

I didn't like that route at all, so I decided I'd try another one. I asked around the office and was advised of several alternative choices. One was highly favored by one of my co-workers. I took it the next day, knowing his predilection for hyperbole and hoping for the best but anticipating the worst. I was not disappointed but I was truly amazed by the number of turns, curves, stop signs, blind hills, rough road and unaccustomed traffic compared to the straight shot of the state highway that was closed. I drove that delightful route for a week hoping it would grow on me. I saw rabbits, raccoon, deer and a lost-looking wild turkey while traversing it. But the route never got any better, and it never grew on me. So I tried another one. It was marginally better but still the pits compared to my beloved state highway.

Fourteen days after the closure (not eleven), the detour ended. It was on a Friday and I remember it well. I'd checked the ODOT website that afternoon and they'd promised it would be complete that day. I crossed my fingers and headed off to work. At the point where I used to have to turn to one of my alternates, the road was clear again! The state highway was open!

I smiled as I drove the amazingly straight and impossibly level highway, directly in the direction I wanted to go! The sun was brighter that Friday, the air was fresh in my lungs and the road was, again, a joy under my tires.

At least until the next orange sign is posted.