Needs Head Gasket

We recently hit another milestone.

Rebecca passed the New York State written drivers test on her 16th birthday.  Sweet.   
Now for the math test:  Five drivers with two cars equals?  Chaos.

Megan has a Summer job in Farmingdale.   Nepotism at is alive and well on Long Island. 
Megan only took the job to act out scenes from The Office.  (Three spontaneous fire drills have occurred without a known source.)

Gregory stepped up to the plate all year long by happily waking up to drive Dad to Brooklyn.  (More accurately, to the train that takes Dad to Brooklyn.)  This act of sleep-deprivation enabled our G-man to drive a car to school. 
As the Summer approaches he is also seeking a job.  Most likely not near Megan's sitcom. 

Mom (a.k.a. Lisa) has stayed home alone, without a car, for a couple of days.  It seems we don't own enough towels to let the washing machine stop.  But most of Lisa's time has been spent preparing for Rebecca's Sweet 16 birthday party.

We discuss our options over dinner.
Dad says everyone gets a motorcycle license.  "A BMW sits in the garage all day!"  But if another car is purchased we should get a brand new F150 truck.
Mom wants an inexpensive 'station car' .  (The story should end here as most people know Mom rules.)
Megan wants my Pathfinder.  Apparently the Altima radio only has AM stations or something.
Gregory is holding back his opinions.  But from his mime-like expressions I believe he also wants Dad to get a new F150.  A blue one.
Rebecca requested a silver convertible Mustang!  (As long as we are getting another car, might as well get a faster car than Uncle Paul's Camaro.)

The Buy-lines was a NYC newspaper that came out on Thursdays.  It listed cars and homes for sale.  I'll just assume the owners of that newspaper started Craigslist.
The Craigslist listing for cars and trucks is like reading the funny pages.  People must post their own cars just to see how much they might get.  No matter how many millions of miles are on one car, everyone puts "only" in front of that number.  Which usually looks like a phone number.

I read one ad that stated "Runs great.  Needs head gasket."  I truly hope he was drunk-typing.  I was tempted to call him to educate both of us, just a little, on human nature.

I drove pass a parked "For Sale'" Dodge 1500 on North Ocean Avenue.  I stopped and was quickly greeted by the owner who emerged from his dilapidated house.
Ian told me the truck is a V8.  And only has 130,00 miles on it.  He started it up.  
"Why is it so loud?"
"The guy I got it from put on a special muffler,  or something."
My keen sense could told he was never interested in car mechanics. (or personal hygiene)
He invited me to take a test drive and I accepted.  The front car seat was badly torn.
"Oh wait.  I forgot.  It has a ruptured brake line."
I'm through with this guy. - My Cousin Vinny.

Rebecca loves to drive!  And I have an alternate reason to cruise our neighborhood.  I explained my plan to her after she started driving. 
"What are we doing?"
"I'm practicing driving Daddy".
"No.  We are looking for a used pick up truck.  Got it?"
With a huge smile, she responded
"Got it"

When you are on a mission Stop signs are optional.   Curbs are imaginary.  School speed zones are irrelevant.  But I didn't tell Rebecca those things.  Those minor things usually work themselves out.

Then we passed a green Ford Ranger.  It was under a car port just two blocks from our house.  Someone pushed me out of the car and I walked up the driveway to ring the doorbell.  No answer.
I took some pictures and called the number.  A few phone calls later I met Chris.  He owned this vehicle for a long time.
It only has 239,000 miles on it.  The price was right and we now have a station car.

Assaulted @ Penn Station???

It was Friday.  I was trying to make a LIRR train.  I needed to get home and shower before attending a Wedding rehearsal.  My sister, Angela, was getting married on Sunday and I was asked to walk her down the aisle.
On the last step down to track 19 some maniac tossed a full can of beer down the stairs, landing on my left calf.  The pain forced me to limp towards the train.  Wanting revenge, I briefly thought about going back up the stairs.  But I would miss the train.  And I doubt I could find the person.  I stared at the unopened can on the bottom step as I hopped on the train.

Once seated, my calf began to swell.   I sent a text to my wife, Lisa "minor leg injury.  need to have ice ready"
Lisa thought I was joking.  The thought of a leg injury two days before the Wedding was insane.  Once home, Lisa wasn't believing the tall-boy projectile theory.  And I didn't see a bruise.  How could one can of beer cause such swelling?
Lisa iced it and I limped to Angela's Wedding rehearsal.

No improvement by Saturday morning.  And no black & blue Budweiser engravings on my calf.  I went to the Stony Brook Hospital emergency room, kindle in hand.
Five hours later I was released with a new perception of the injury.  The calf muscle was slightly torn.  None of the doctors implicated Anheuser-Busch in any way.  I was never hit with a beer can!  It just felt like that.

I requested one pain killer.  One little pill to enable me to walk Angela down without limping.  After a quick meeting they prescribed percocet.  I googled the drug and decided against taking it.  I was also, illegally, given naprosyn.  Which I googled, and didn't take.  Tylenol and ice was the best route for me.
My calf felt much better after being wrapped tightly in an ace bandage.

One doctor told me that I can walk if I can take the pain.  He explained that walking will not further injure  the calf.
Armed with that little piece of information I was on a mission not to limp for the walk.  I stayed on the couch, leg up and iced, the rest of the day.

On Angela's day I was limping.  My daughters laughed at my getto-swagger attempt to hide the limp.  I kept the pain killers on me, just in case.

Once at Angela's house I realized how little my limp mattered.  Angela is an incredibly beautiful lady with a smile that could accomplish miracles.

 I walked without a limp.

We walked slowly.  Deacon Jim said "The slower the walk, the longer the marriage".

Highest Point In Massachusetts

I was appointed Tail Gunner. This position, in a group of bikers, is the last biker in the line. Years ago it was assigned only to the most experienced rider. The Tail Gunner would stay with anyone who breaks down. He needed to know the trip directions and have above average mechanical ability. But since my Dad started riding in the 1950's things have changed.

Now the Tail Gunner only needs a cell phone. That's it.

The whole group twitters. Large screen GPS systems are handlebar mounted next to the satellite radio.

So, as we used EZ pass to pay the Throgs Neck Bridge toll, my mind began to drift. What has time done to bikers?

On an early morning run my Dad's 1947 Harley Knucklehead would wake up his parents. Since my Irish Grandfather was a Golden Gloves boxer, the bike was started half a block away. Other bikers in the group would have to meet up at a specific location and time or miss the ride.

Last Saturday I received a 6 AM text message "Done with your Latte yet?" Only Andrew, the toughest of bikers, would have the guts to ask such a question. Andrew spent countless hours mapping out the Mt. Greylock and Mohawk Trail ride. He checked the mountain's historical significance twice, knowing full well about the wrath he encountered at a Diner in Newburgh.

Andrew joined multiple blogging groups to understand each pothole in the road ahead. He emailed all those invited with the final plan, highlighting the hairpin turns. A Dunkin Donuts coupon was attached to the email signaling good times ahead.

To prevent Rich (Sometimes call Rick. I'm not sure why.) from bailing out of the ride Andrew posted happy motivational thoughts on his Facebook wall.

Just after the Korean War my Dad and his friends had tattoos. Tats were a very rebellious statement before being accepted by society. Now ink-work is done at the mall.

None of the bikers on last Saturday's road trip has a tattoo. Are we rebelling against rebellion being accepted? Do tough guys need barbwire tats?

Dad told me that when gas stations were closed small quantities could be taken from the pump-hose. It was enough to get about half a tank.

Gas stations that close at night? Times sure have changed.

Mt. Greylock, MA had about four gas stops. All of which was done using credit cards at the pump. (No need to climb off the bike and meet the drunk cashier pedaling lottery tickets.)
Gas wasn't always the primary reason to stop. One time it was because of heavy rain. The next stop was for dry socks. Yes, we found socks for sale at a gas station.

My Dad taught me that counter-steering while locking up the rear wheel is the quickest way to turn in a panic. "It makes the bike twist in an unnatural way but it works."

Dan, the biker with soggy socks, rides a Yamaha FJR1300. It's a very advanced motorcycle with anti lock braking and fuel injection. (No, it won't stop the rain.) Bikes today won't let you lock up either wheel while braking. And some bikes will automatically apply the other brake if you only use only one brake.

Dad loved drinking beer and smoking cigarettes while telling exaggerated biker stories.
I drink black coffee and blog.

The more things change the more they stay the same.

Escaping Electricity

It started as a nutty idea. Some maniac in the family decided that we need to travel in to the woods and pitch a tent. Spend good time and money to get back to nature.
I have a better idea. We can just lay in the grass, invading the space of an unsuspecting neighbor. A coffee machine perking just a few feet away from the pool.
Or we can read Henry David Thoreau and have a informal group discussion. The concept of 'getting back' to nature is like people getting back in shape. Most people think they were once in shape but, in reality, we were all just young.

Growing up in Queens, nature was located in the abandon lot near Aqueduct racetrack. It's still there, I checked via google Earth.

My parents had the same misconception of a vacation. We spent weeks at a time in the Catskills. A large canvas tent barely kept out the frequent rain if you didn't touch the sides. It was the only type of vacation my parents could budget. It's good to have those memories.

Lisa's side of the family began my rural nightmare in 1991. They waited until I was married then sprung it on me. On the first trip it rained so much we left. My brother in law, Pasquale, was yelling "With the money I spent on this tent I should have bought a @#$% canoe!"
He was cursed with a nylon tent. You don't even have to touch the sides for them to leak. That should have ended camping forever. But Lisa's family continued to book campsites all over New York State. Year after year I would be dragged to visit the possible filming location for the movie Deliverance.

To help ease the pain I recruited other family members. Last weekend my niece Jennifer opted instead for a Horror Convention in Rochester. Can you imagine a vacation so twisted that a horror convention is the better option?

When we added some reluctant friends to the camping list it became less like camping and more like a large outdoor picnic. Alcohol being the next helpful ingredient.

Mongaup Pond has poor fishing but some attempted nonetheless. Canoeing is a popular pastime.

Everyone vocally pondered things around the campfire. "How many stars can you see?" "If Pluto is a dog, what is Goofy?" "What's your dream job?" (Note: No one picked Forrest Ranger... or Elevator Mechanic)
The kids played charades and telephone. (The youngest now being Rebecca at age 12.)

Almost twenty Summers later, Pasquale & Karen now own a pop-up trailer. Billy put a large magnet poster on that same trailer "I love gay porn".
Many of my nieces and nephews are no longer kids. I laughed as they reminisced about prior years of rainy camping weather when they were young.

No texting in the Catskills. I doubt the locals even know what it is. Battery operated radios are the only connection to a civilized society. My three angels adjusted well to the Amish lifestyle because they know it's temporary. The poke wars will resume shortly.

A single blade of grass

Russell has been an elevator mechanic since the 1960's. I've known him for about ten years.
When you eat lunch and drink coffee with a co-worker four or five times a week you get to know them pretty well. What anyone should know about Russell, he tells you himself. "I don't know anything about elevators. Ask me about baseball, the pool or lawns."

And during those many visits to double D's I would hear people call Russell and ask him those types of questions. I hear him give very detailed advice "That's right, put the fertilizer down the first weekend in April."
Some time ago, on a Monday, I asked my friend Russell what he did over the weekend.
"Well, I had a three foot by six foot area of grass that had the blades going in a different direction from the rest of the lawn."
I quietly wondered 'Where is he going with this?' A cesspool issue? A deranged teenager on a minibike?
"So I cut out the area and replaced it with new sod."
He was serious. Russell's mind is gone. Who would notice such a thing? Or care? It's not in his nature to play mind games. I calmly asked "Are all the lawn blades now going in the same direction?"
"Yes they are."
Russell's lawn-stress comes from an imperfect lawn.

In the book The Little Prince a drawing is shown to people in order to determine how they think. Asking a suburban about their lawn gives you similar results. I found it doesn't matter how good a Long Island lawn looks. What's important is the priority level that person gives a lawn relative to where they are in life. Does a lawn need more time then your own kids? Would you spend food shopping cash on pesticide? Or, are the kids grown-up and the lawn still brown?

This morning, on the soccer field before Gregory's game, my friend Mike asked me about Rebecca's game. Mike lives two doors down and his son, Danny, is on the same team as Gregory.
"I would've dropped off the boys so you could have seen Rebecca's game too."
"I was fertilizing the lawn. I'm getting discouraged with it. The kids play in the same spot every day. The goal area is all dirt."
Mike knows the deal "I have a #$%^ pitchers mound in the middle of my lawn! What can you do?"
"Lisa and I decided to keep the sports arena in the backyard from now on. Maybe I can keep the front decent."
Mike laughed a little. Another Dad joined in. Everyone has a plan to keep the lawn green.
Mike pays someone to do his lawn. His lawn-stress comes from writing those checks.

My brother in law Pat loves to work on his lawn. He frequently says "The lawn relaxes me." He grew up on Long Island so it's in his nature. He never had to learn about lawns, he grew up with them. Lawn knowledge helps save time and money. The work is easier when you know success is guaranteed.
What causes Pat's lawn-stress is his own dogs roaming around the property. Dogs do more lawn damage than athletic kids.

My friend John lives across the street. He went to an agriculture college. His lawn philosophy includes mulching. The major advantage of mulching is putting the grass seed back into the lawn. The mulching lawn-stress comes from the frequent mows required.

I don't want to mulch because the grass clippings will end up in the pool. I never like to pay someone else to do work I can do. I don't care enough (okay, at all) about lawn blade direction.
If I didn't have Long Island neighbors my lawn wouldn't exist. A person's status rises and falls with his lawn out here. It must be something in the water.

Phone calls

Hello?
Hi Mom! (It's Lisa's Mom on the phone)
Hi Jim. You're awake?
Yes. I had to get up to answer the phone.
Sorry.
I'm kidding. I just got home. Lisa went to breakfast with her friends.
Okay.
I called Tante Resl this morning to get some blog information.
Did she yell at you? She isn't very good on the phone.
Yes. I did notice that in the first few seconds of our conversation.
She gets a lot of sales calls.
Do you want to sign her up on the "do not call" list? Are you near your computer?
Okay. Hold on. My emails get lost. It puts all the names together instead of the date.
You need to click on the 'received' button to organize them chronologically.
Okay. Hold on. Just a moment. Yes! It worked. Okay, now what?
I just sent you a link for the national do not call list. You have to hit the send/receive button.
Okay. I got it.
Click on the link.
Okay.
Put in Tante's phone number and hit the submit button.
Okay.
Tante didn't want to reveal her favorite color this morning. She gave me both blue and yellow. She kept asking me "What else you want to know?" with an impatient voice. Where were you married? She said at the Justice of the Peace. Where? I asked again. I don't remember. What else? When was Eugene's birthday? He was 12 years older than me. Do you have a date? No. What else? How did you meet Eugene? I used to go to the dance hall. Otto introduced us. They worked together at Bohacks. What else do you want to know?
See, she isn't very good on the phone.
I was looking for a story. Something I could twist around and exaggerate with funny details.
It's better to talk to her in person.
I'll tell Lisa you called.
Good bye.

Theresa

Mondolf Germany, 1918


In the middle of World War One, George Kainzbauer and his wife Francesca gave birth to Theresa. Theresa is one the youngest of eleven siblings. She would spend the next 19 years working on her parents farm.

In 1937 Theresa hopped on a ship and cruised across the Atlantic Ocean. One of her siblings picked her up from Ellis Island.

Living in the German area of Ridgewood, Theresa made friends at the local dance hall. At that dance hall Theresa was introduce to Eigen by a mutual friend named Otto. Otto and Eigen worked as bakers at a supermarket called Bohacks. Eigen, 12 years older than Theresa, fell in love. In 1942 they married at the 'Justice of the Peace'. The Catholic Church wouldn't marry them because of Eigen's previous marriage. (Eigen had two sons from that marriage)

One of Theresa's brothers fought in World War Two on the German side. He was listed as missing-in-action was never found.


Theresa and Eugene (American for Eigen) moved to a 'cold water flat' at 19-19 Greene Avenue in Ridgewood. Theresa found work by a sign in the window of a store which read "Girl Wanted". She applied and was immediately hired as a seamstress. Her work ethic would be considered by most as insane. When ever anyone describes Theresa her strong work ethic gets mentioned. At the knitting mill Theresa was the fastest worker. She was promoted to Forewoman.



Around 1950 Theresa and Eugene viewed a house in Floral Park for $11,000. Although nervous about the price they took the plunge. Theresa lived there for 52 years.



Vacations were always spent with their friends Otto and Elsie Reich. Card games were very common among the close friends.


The worse of times came in 1981 when Eugene died of liver cancer.


With no children of her own, Theresa became known as Tante Resl. Many of the younger kids only know her as Tante. Tante's tradition of Thanksgiving dinner went from a small family gathering in the 1950's to a huge two-turkey feast as the family grew. The finished basement was the only area large enough to feed the 30 plus family members. An additional stove was added in the basement to help keep all the food hot.



At 78 years old Tante would drive to North Babylon to spend time with her great great nephews Andrew and Gregory. Walking with the strollers, Lisa had trouble keeping pace. Even outpacing the much younger family members while picking up leaves!


Tante sold the small, well kept, house in 2003. The kitchen had original white tile, floor and walls, which looked brand new. No cracks or scratches. It is more a tribute to her housekeeping than to the workmanship.


Last week, at her 90th birthday party, she took the "Surprise!" in stride.

The ongoing family tree library needs more history of Tante Resl. Where was she married? Church? Please share your favorite Tante story.... How many family members are shorter than her? At what age did she migrate to America? What was her cats name? What was the name of the company she worked for? What did her husband, Eugene, do for a living? Was he in WW2? Favorite color sweater? I'm guessing white. Eventually the entire family tree will be uploaded to an online website that everyone can view. I'm searching for one that keeps information private and lets us upload photos. I know I can ask Tante all these questions but she is still recharging her batteries from her 90th Surprise party. Jim

Hello James. I do not know when or where Tatnte got married. I think Diane is the only member shorter than her. She had a dog named Tippy. Her husband was a baker at a bakery called Bohacks. She worked in a knitting mill. The fastest worker in the place. Not the best but the fastest. I remember A diner story of her and her husband trying to swat a fly and causing a commotion because they couldn't get it. Love you,Lisa

Dearest Jim,I am not sure where she was married. I don't have a favorite Tante story,just wonderful memories.The most special are the many, many Sundayafternoons playing "31" with her and Uncle Eugene. I do not believe I am shorter than her, we will have to put it to the test the next time we areall together. Lisa is just jealous. I think she was 17 years old when she came over, but I could be wrong. Her mother told her and her sister that only 1 of them could go because she needed the other one at home to help.Tante Resl quickly said she wanted to come and so it was decided. (good thing she didn't hesitate). When she first came to America, she took a job in a coffee shop, serving donuts and coffee (there wasn't any lunches). She was paid very little but she also got free room and board. It is there that she met Uncle Eugene. He came in to help at lunch time when it was busy. The woman that owned the shop told Tante when she first met Uncle Eugene that she was going to marry him. She was right. Uncle Eugene has two sons from his first marriage. She only met them a few times, mostly before they were married. His ex-wife remarried and he adopted the boys. Their best friends were Otto and Else. She has many wonderful memories with them. They took all of there vacations together. The 4 of them always shared a hotel room to save money on their trips. They had to take vacations predicated on Tante Resl's shut down at the mill because the"men' could take it at any time. They had union. She did not. Her boss told the employees at the knitting mill that he wasn't getting the union and if you wanted one you could find work elsewhere. They played cards fora little money often with Otto and Else. The winning would go into a kitty to save for the next vacation. Otto and Else lost their grandson to suicide. It was very difficult for them. I will try to think of some more stuff, but that is all I got for now. Talk to you soon. Diane

Here's a few more memories:Tante, uncle eigen, elsi and otto went dancing almost every weekend. She worked for Mr & Mrs Smidt. She was nice, but he was tough.The last couple of years, she was promoted to for women. Too much stress. She hated it and had to quit. She was the fastest seamstress (no kidding), but according to Tante not the best.Her dog was "Tippie". Her car was "Betsy". Tante's mom(our great grandmother) never got over the 'missing in action' of her son Alfonse. All her brothers that went to war never returned, except one. However, he came back, disabled and died at an earlier than a typical Kainzbauer age.- Donna.