Updated on July 4, 2009

Email to: rbaumann328@gmail.com

Be sure to add me to your address book, especially if your email server is Naver or Hanmail.
Both of these email services love to return my infrequent emails to friends and Pen Pals
because they think it is junk mail.

Bob on local cable TV

A sample of the March Laguna Woods Village Library Update with Bob:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u2BuUiLM7Sc&feature=channel_page

My dream has come true. I am now on television [local cable channel Six] each week. My feature is simply a report on what is new at the library. Each month I do two five minute spots to report about things at the library. I also have guest hosted the popular cable program "The Trading Post". It is the result of doing volunteer work at both Channel Six and at the library itself. Summertime means re-runs and no new spots are presently being planned. Click the link above to see a sample video.

Audiobooks for free

http://www.runyonsway.net

Just added-text for a Homer Price story!
================================

Word of the Day? Send a blank email to:
join-wordoftheday@lists.lexico.com

or visit

http://www.dictionary.com/wordoftheday/

The Coupon says it all
Expires 7-12

http://whitecastle.com/88/coupon.html

Print out your copy and take it to your nearest White Castle if you are in the USA.

                             Bob is tickling me--- HELP!!!                                                  Sophia laughs at Bob because she is NOT ticklish

Kristie & Sophia Visit Bob

April 19, 2009

Kristie Tzeng and Sophia Jing came to Laguna Woods today and it was a chance to review old times. We had our own "Great Escape" to Sushi Wok and then Sophia drove down to Laguna Beach. Traffic was heavy and there were many tourists. We spent most of the time looking for a parking space, but we got lucky. We walked around so Kristie could shop in the stores... with Sophia close behind. The old man followed them but chose to sit on the public benches outside while the ladies looked around.

I cheated a bit by having a delicous smoothie, a mixture of frozen yogurt and flavored syrups [or sometimes fruit]. When you are this big you have an advantage. No one notices that you are more fat than before. I know it is a joke, but I will be taking some classes on how to watch my diet. Yes, I have to get serious about my weight.

This day, however, was about chatting with an old friend. Are you from the Center and will you be in the Laguna Beach area? Please say hello and stop by. It is always nice to see old friends or make new ones. If you remember Kristie, then you can see she is still as young and pretty as ever.

Lustig Fruit Dumplings
[so easy even Bob can do it]

Posted 5/24/08

Yes, it is really me in the photo above. I am lighter in hair color and I thank the California sun for that effect. In my hands are three of the many dumplings we made in the kitchen today. It was fairly easy to do, at least on my part. To some this may look like matzoh balls ready for some chicken soup, but they'd be wrong. It is bread dumplings with an apricot fruit center. You can serve it with a bit of cinnamon and sugar, or eat it Russian-style as I do... with a good amount of sour cream. The key is making the dough and then getting used to how much to use when you wrap it around the fruit. I'll get to that, but first let me give you the Lustig family recipe we used. Keep in mind that while these were made with apricots, you can use other small fruit in the center: Cherries, Italian prune plums and even small peaches.

Ingredients

1/4 lb. of melted butter

24 slices of day old to two day old bread

1 quart of cottage cheese

2 teaspoons of salt

6 shakes of nutmeg seasoning

5-6 eggs

12 heaping tablespoons of flour [heaping means a large size in each tablespoon]

Instructions

Cut the 24 slices of bread into square cubes and place them in a large bowl. Add the melted butter. Scramble the eggs in a separate bowl. Add cottage cheese to the bread. Add salt to the scrambled eggs and then put this mixture in with the bread. Add the suggested measure of nutmeg and then knead the mixture with your hands, adding in flour as you do. Flour will dry out the dough and make it less sticky. Be aware of this as you begin to shape your dumplings.

Refrigerate the dough for about 3-5 hours before making your dumplings.

You will have to learn by use of eye and hand how much of the dough to use. It will depend upon the size of the piece of fruit you are putting the dough around. You will want to make the dough fairly round and flat, but not too thin. If you use apricots, add a cube of sugar inside the fruit to replace the pit you've taken out. Firm the dough in your hands and surround the fruit with the dumpling dough. It should completely cover the fruit. No crack or open spaces. These should be about the size of a baseball when you are done.

Bring one or two pots of water to a boil. Be sure to add some salt to the water, a small dash of salt will do. Gently lower the completed dumplings to the water and use a slotted serving spoon to do so. It will help you to avoid being splashed by hot water. You may need to carefully move the dumplings a short while after they are in the water. Use the slotted spoon to gently prod them as they should float when they are in the pot. You can see the dumplings in the larger photo are floating a bit higher in the water.

Reduce the heat under the pot and cook for about 20 minutes. Remove the dumplings from the pot and into a bowl. Let them cool down or... eat them warm. You can refrigerate what you do not eat or even freeze them for use later. One dumpling can be quite filling, but that is for a typical small American sized portion. Asians can always share this with someone if it is too much to eat. Asians in New York are used to the small American portions and will do quite well with it. Enjoy this and let me know if you try to make it.

The Crow Story
[working title of an unfinished project]
Audiobook of this story is done and has been
posted on http://www.runyonsway.net

Posted 7/11/08

Manapefe, New Mexico is not on the map. It is a fly-speck town, really. It has the general store and a cafe/gas station, but not much else. It is farm country for the most part. The town within a town is Ellisville, but that's just a joke. Ellisville is a grain silo that has its own zip code. It stands on farmland outside of the main downtown area, but it's a part of Manapefe nonetheless. I was born here and I'll probably die here. Might even get my ashes spread about because there's no church in Manapefe or graveyard. We ship our dead out of the town over to Semapaw for a decent Christian burial. Those with the energy to make the round-trip drive can attend church there and a few folks do. Town itself has a population well under 100 souls. Like I said, it's farmland.

Most days I like to get up early and head over to the Manapefe Cafe and have some breakfast. Don't need much. My wife used to tell me I was getting fat, but she died a few years ago and ever since then it doesn't seem to matter much. I guess you aren't a married fellow, are you? Naw, you just look too damned happy. We could go there now and the coffee'd be fresh and hot. Might even set down to a bowl of cereal or pancakes, if you'd like. Your flat tire's all fixed and you don't have to rush anywheres so come on along and join me. You can park your car over at the Cafe and get yourself some gas. Oh, I mean from the gas pump, that is. Jurene is a bit waggish with her tongue but she's a pretty damn good short order cook. Been here all her life, too.

Did you say what kinda work you do? Oh, reporter? Well, not much news over here really, but like any small town there's just local gossip. By the way, my name's James but you can call me Jim or Jimmy, either one. You're a Jay? Ha. Well, I'm James. Can be interpolated about a dozen ways from sundown. How do you like people to call you? It's not your full name, but an initial? You say your name is Jesus? That's a pretty good name for these parts. The cafe is not far down the road, Jesus. Well, OK, if you say you prefer just "J", then J it is. You can coast the rest of the way if you're not in a hurry. Save some gas. You'll see the cafe as soon as you see the gas pump. Hah, and that's it on the right. See her? Just slide your car right in. No need to worry. You can park at the pump. Jurene hasn't had many customers since the highway wound through to Semapaw without clearing Manapefe some years back. The small town just got a bit smaller is all.

What kind of food you like for breakfast, J? Jurene'll serve you up just about most anything she has and she has some variety. You like a nice Sante Fe breakfast? Taos? Well, no matter. She can fix it, just about whatever you want... but don't be surprised if she asks you a lot of personal questions, J. In a small town people get nosey. You don't have to lock the car. It looks like there isn't much worth stealing and there's no thieves around these parts. Just follow me.

That was how they had met, these two strangers. The one, a somewhat straggly bearded fellow who looked like he could use a good meal or two and the other an elderly fellow who was like an old country dog. Just about everyone's friend... instantly. They walked into the Manapefe Cafe like they'd known each other for a lifetime, and now that I think about it... maybe they did. At least that is what Jurene had first thought when the two sat at her counter. She took their orders quick enough. It was the usual slow day at the Cafe and no other customers were waiting for their orders. Jurene eyed Jimmy Hall but didn't even have to ask what he'd want. Jimmy was always "two eggs, over easy with whole wheat toast, dry, no butter. A side of hash browns and a small OJ". The coffee was a given. Everyone has coffee in Manapefe. Tea? Downright un-American. Jurene had some old Lipton tea bags around somewheres, but they were staler than the Mayor's speeches. She kept them hid so's no one would even think to ask for tea. It was on the menu of course, but nobody asked for it.

The stranger named J? He had let Jimmy Hall order and then did the diplomatic thing by telling Jurene to just double the order. He'd reached into his pocket and pulled out a single $20 bill that looked newer than the morning sun. Jurene saw it and noted that she'd been wondering if the young man would be able to pay for the food, as clearly Jimmy was not going to have the resources to do so. As she thought this, the stranger had pulled out the bill and put it on the counter. A fleeting thought went through Jurene's mind. Did he know what I was wondering? She put that thought aside. She had four eggs and some hash browns to prepare. She was in the kitchen for several minutes and then brought the order out on two plates. The coffee came next along with the juice. Without so much as an invitation, she joined the two men with her own coffee. From behind the counter she went through a litany of questions, a bit more direct than Jimmy's had been. As he answered her, just for making conversation of course, he had the warmest smile. She felt as if her questions had amused him.

Well, why shouldn't they have amused him? Reporters are like ferrets, aren't they? They love to dig for details, so why shouldn't he have been entertained by the way Jurene went from one personal question to the next without so much as an "excuse me, but" in her method. That was when I came in and was promptly ignored. At least Jurene ignored me. Jimmy had nodded a hello and the stranger turned toward me slightly until Jurene brought him back with some more questions.

I sat just a stool or two over to the left of the stranger, but Jurene paid me no mind. It was with good reason. I'd been drinking, you see. I am an alcoholic. I drink, or at least I used to drink quite a bit. I've been sober now for about a year. Haven't touched a drop since that day. Might never drink again, but you never know. The desire to drink seems to have left me completely. I guess I am supposed to tell you what happened in the Cafe that day... and maybe just a bit more. It's a bit of a story, but at least now you know why Jurene wanted nothing to do with me. Last time I got drunk, I'd cussed her out and broke a few dishes. Paid for them the next day and apologized. Jurene'd forgiven me, especially since I paid her what was due to her... but I was far from her favorite customer.

The cup of black coffee that sailed in front of me was mine without asking for it. I just looked up from it, but Jurene had turned her back to me. I was less important to her than her trash. I thought about that as I sipped from the cup, trying to find in it enough sobriety to get through the day. Nights are pretty hard, but the daytime passes quick enough with a bit of hard labor. I am a farmer. I've been on my family farm since I was a kid. My dad was a farmer and his dad was a farmer, too. It's just about the way things went in those days. You got an education in the fields, not in the schools. There was no question about going to college, not in those days.

It was the stranger who turned away from Jimmy and Jurene. He sat right next to me and looked me in the eyes. He said "You're Michael Voss". It was not a question. It was a statement. "You're George Voss's son, and Jeremiah Voss's grandson." He said all this without so much as a "hello". I figured that he was some kind of tax man or sheriff, to be honest, but looking at his clothes I re-thought about it. It was all rather quick. It had to be a 'yes' or 'no' answer. He spoke as if he knew me. I was half sober enough to realize that. I took a long hard stare at this man and told him it depended upon what he wanted. My speech might not have been too clear, but he understood me.

Jurene and Jimmy just watched him and their mouths opened and shut like they were fish in a fish tank. J turned back to them and told them that he was en route to interview me when his car had that flat tire out on the roadway. "Interview me?", I thought. Why would anyone want to talk with the town drunk, a washed-up, no account, alcohol soaked and good for nothing fellow like me? He explained it very clearly. He wanted to write about John, my son, and suddenly the coffee didn't seem to fit what I needed. I reached around to my back pocket for the flask that carried my medicine, but the stranger touched my arm. "Could that wait a bit?", he asked. I smiled at him and told him that it probably couldn't. "Why you want to write about Johnny?", I asked. That stranger just looked straight at me. His answer baffled me. He told me that I knew why. At that point, I did not know why. I sure found out... but I'll get to that. I raised the flask to my lips and took a swig. Jurene came over and knocked the whole thing out of my hands. Told me she wouldn't allow any drinking in her place. She was right... as right as I was drunk... and I didn't want to sober up right then... not if I had to tell this man about my son.

Liquor has a wonderful way of changing the world and how you see it. It is a filter for those of us not strong enough to take what life dishes out. Self-pity becomes righteousness. Anger and frustrations are justification. A considerably poor self-image becomes blurred enough to make you think you're a heck of a fellow. Ask any drunk if this is true, but just ask him when he is sober.

"I want to know how John Voss lived his life", J said to me. "I think if we both consider that it might help to explain the reason why he died. My editor and I both think there is a story in that. The only one who knows John Voss really well is his father, and that is why I am here to interview you."

Jurene had saddled a bit closer and was listening in. When I looked up she was close enough to be breathing on me. I had to swallow my pride, a thing easy enough to do, and ask for another coffee. The spilled cup that Jurene had knocked out of my hands was still on the floor. She hadn't cleaned it up. There were tears in her eyes. I promised her that I wasn't going to add anything into the coffee, so she went off and brought another cup. She sat down near us to listen in and that's when Jimmy Hall ambled over, not wanting to be left out of hearing a good yarn.

"You want to know how my son lived and you think there is a story in that? Well, I'll give your readers a story all right. It might explain something about my son, true enough... but the story isn't about him. It isn't even about me so much. It is about old Jeremiah Voss himself, a man Johnny never met. Johnny's story begins with him."

J sat there looking at me and listening with his fullest attention. He had his hands folded across each other and leaning a bit on the table. I asked J if he was going to write anything down, seeing as how he was a reporter. J told me it wasn't his style. He said that he'd spent his lifetime listening to people and that he had the kind of memory that captured everything. If I had been in the schoolyard right then, I'd have asked him some dumbass question as a test. I'd have asked him to tell me the color of Jimmy Hall's shirt. I was thinking that and J looked at me without blinking and told me the color of Jimmy's shirt was blue. I was pretty sure I hadn't asked that question, but he'd answered it anyway. I sipped on my coffee thinking I really needed to sober up a bit more. J asked me to tell him about Jeremiah Voss, my grandfather. It was like saying that we should begin at the beginning... so I did. It was long ago and the memories are still clear.

"If you were to ask me what made Jeremiah Voss move from his homeland and settle in Menapafe, I couldn't tell you. His father and mother are folks I never met. They were long dead when I was born. Grandpa had been born some years before the turn of the century. My dad, George Voss, came along in 1905 and I was born 1938. By the time of the story Grandpa was quite an old fellow, but he wasn't about to retire. He was still up before dawn every damn day and that is what he taught my dad to do. My grandad taught that to me too, because my own dad had  passed on when I was young. I took my dad's place by the time I was ten. Around a farm there are chores to do and you begin way early."

I was explaining this to J because he was a city fellow. I figured he did not know much about farm life. He just sat and listened to me, nodded his head, and I allowed as how he understood such things. I continued.

"Grandpa was growing corn back then. He had some tomato vines. He grew grapes. He was magical with zucchini, but the thing that made the best money was corn. Now he'd already learned that some crops have to be rotated or they leach the soil of its nutrition. The dust bowl years had been hard on farmers, but Jeremiah Voss was quick to learn. The year I'm talking about we had planted corn. After I was finished with milking the cows Grandpa expected me out in the fields. He might not have been harvesting the corn, but he checked it every day. He wanted to inspect how it was doing. Never missed a day, either.

"Now the first day in this story, I'd joined grandpa out in the corn fields. He was looking at the husks of corn in one place and inspecting some damage to those ears of corn. When he saw me he looked up at me and showed me the corn. It had been sort of torn apart and pulled about. It wasn't just one or two ears of corn, either. The stalks had looked broken, too. Grandpa told me that the damage was due to the crows that hung about the farm. 'Son,' he said to me, 'these here crows are like flies at a picnic. They scavenge for everything they get and make themselves a damn nuisance. Tomorrow you and me are going to bring our guns and have a little target practice. When we are done, old Mr. Crow is going to be looking for a better and safer place to have his breakfast.'

The next day Grandpa was up early and was ready for me when I got to the bottom of the stairs of our house. He'd made his breakfast right early. He preferred a good swig of whiskey to lubricate his senses. It wasn't enough to make him drunk, but it was enough to hold off the demon until later in the day. Yes, my grandfather was an alcoholic, too... but he would've denied it. I tossed some eggs together and a biscuit, along with a bit of milk. I was all of ten years old at the time. Grandpa was nearing his 60's. He'd lost his wife the year before. My dad passed on back in 1945 toward the end of the war. My mom had passed on from breast cancer. It was just the two of us. An old man trying to be father and grandfather to a kid. He'd have probably gone more deeply into the bottle if he hadn't taken on my care, but as I was growing older he'd been drinking a bit more.

I turned to Jurene at this point and said: "It wasn't pretty to see, so you can understand that I know how you feel, Jurene." Jurene stared back at me. She had not known about Jeremiah Voss, now dead and buried all these years... somewhere over in Semapaw. I turned my attention back to J and continued the story.

"Sonny," Grandpa said, "today we are going to bag us a few corn-stealing crows. We are going to set out in them fields and just wait for them to dare to fly by." We headed out and it was still dark. We took up a place in the fields and Grandpa told me to wait till we heard the sound of their call. Crows are noisy birds. Big voices. Attitude. I think they all are, even today. They love to strut in front of all the bird kingdom with their noisy cries. Maybe, just maybe, they are begging God to pay attention to them. It surely sounds that way if you've ever heard a crow complaining. Maybe it's about the heat, or a marital dispute or a scolding of papa crow to his kids, but they are loud enough to hear at a distance. This day it was silence.

We sat out in that field all day and all afternoon. Not a single crow had shown up. As grandpa was about to give in he'd heard a crow giving a loud call. It was not far from where grandpa had parked his car. When we got to it, we'd seen a crow flying off in the distance. His call sounded like laughter grandpa had said. On the windshield the crow had left his "calling card". It was a bright sized lump that had splattered right across the driver's side of the windshield. Grandpa looked at it and cussed. The bottle came out from his back pocket. He took a swig and wanted to call the bird all kinds of filthy names I am sure. He knew I'd be listening so he toned down the bad language.

"That old crow is a Satan if ever there was one. He knew it was my car. He knew I'd had a gun. He knew I'd be shooting at him and his kin today. That's why he warned them off. He just did this to let me know he knew. It is a challenge now. I'm going to peg that bird tomorrow for sure!". Grandpa let a bit of his liquor do the talking as he told his story down at the General Store.... to any and all who would listen. No one dared laugh about the bird dumping on grandpa's windshield, but a few sniggered over it when grandpa's back was turned. Lucky he never heard that laughter. It would have riled him even more than he already was.

It was with a renewed sense of purpose then that we began our journey the next morning. Grandpa was not about to let a crow get the best of him. No, siree. He fortified himself with something at the bottom of his bottle that morning, just to have the extra strength needed to combat the evils of this crow... and the world in general.

We went right back to the area where we'd staked out the day before. Grandpa went through the corn rows and sure enough there was fresh damage to his corn. Each ear destroyed just seemed to make him angrier. He was cursing that old crow from one end of creation to the other. There was a sound in the heavens, or so grandpa said, of generations of crows looking down upon him and he was going to show them all. A lifetime of crows had stolen the corn of Jeremiah Voss, but today... this day... the score would be settled! Grandpa was laughing to himself and building up his triumph in his mind, you see. The bottle did that to him this day. When the crow arrived he was like a gate-crasher at a party of one. He'd interrupted grandpa's celebration... in advance... over a world of crows. It was time to put them all in their place. Time for them to recognize that stealing corn from Jeremiah Voss had consequences.

I saw Old Satan for the first time that day. He was flying by, observing the scene below. He dived through the air quite majestically. Any crow with an ounce of wisdom should have steered clear of any kind of human being or even a scarecrow. That was the way they were supposed to behave. They were supposed to be cowardly in the face of humanity's superiority of intellect. Never heard of a crow killing a man, but plenty of crows get shot down each year. Right? Old Satan would have none of that. He was not your average crow. He went right into Jeremiah Voss' cornfield that morning and, right in the face of that old man himself, Old Satan began to attack the field to glean his breakfast.

I suppose the art of making rifles had improved considerably since the Civil War. No longer were the days when you had to shoot, re-load and then shoot again. Grandpa had a pretty old gun, but it was trusty enough to do its job. He could take a slow aim, fire, and bag any kind of creature he was aiming for. Ah, but that was when he was sober, you see. By the time he raised his rifle to peg Old Satan grandpa was more than a little affected by the mash he'd been drinking. You could see it in how his fingers gripped that gun. You could detect the trembling in his arms as if the weight of the old gun had suddenly doubled. The barrel of the gun wavered a bit as grandpa steadied himself to take aim. If it had only been three years earlier there wouldn't be a story to tell. Grandpa would've shot Old Satan and the other crows would have fled into the trees for safety.

He fired. He missed, and Old Satan simply ignored him. He fired a second time and missed again. Any other bird would not tempt fate this way, but Old Satan was playing a modified game of Russian Roulette. Each time grandpa fired, by staying right on that cornstalk, Old Satan was returning the challenge. Only a fool would think there was an empty gun after the fifth time the trigger had been pulled on a six-shooter. Was this damned bird born deaf? No, I don't think so. He was just plain ornery.

When Old Satan was tired of playing the game, he flew off. Grandpa was no better an aim at a flying target than he was a stationary one. Grandpa's shots took on an edge of desperation. He was firing shot after shot now, more rapidly seeking to hit the disappearing target.

Grandpa had to find somewhere to direct the blame for his failure to hit Old Satan, and I was the only one around. "Boy," he says to me, "where was your gun when I needed it? Did I drag you out here to watch or shoot? If you'd have gotten off your lazy, good for nothing ass and taken the time, that bird would have been history. You think he was laughing at me? Well, son, he was laughing at the TWO of us. Tomorrow, you are going to go out to this field and bag that bird. It is a matter of family honor now. You come home to me with that crow in your hands!" Matters did not improve much when grandpa got back to the car. On the windshield, not one, but two distinct piles of crow turd. Old Satan left his mark for me, too.

-TO BE CONTINUED-

"Tales of Tossman"-Part 2

Also serialized at http://www.lightmillennium.org/

Never ask my mother to tell one of her jokes to you. She can't. There are some things in life that defy our own natural abilities. We all can't pitch in the major leagues. We all can't perform delicate surgery. We all can't be the President of the United States... ah... no, wait a minute. Most of us could be the President. I take that back.
 
My mother would begin to tell the joke by asking you if you had heard it before. She would proceed to mention the punchline of the joke by way of inquiry. If you had not heard the joke before, the telling of the joke would be ruined by mention of the punchline. That is how my mom kept major comedians from unemployment. Of course, this was just one variation. The other would be if she began the joke and then, as it was being told, she would forget or confuse the ending. A long journey to a dead end or the edge of a cliff. Her success in life was to find a husband so devoid of humor that her lack of ability in this area made the whole issue quite unimportant. My dad would continue, almost immediately, after my mother had failed to arouse cheering gales of laughter with words like "Now, as I was saying....". It was like a good husband might if he was trying to cover up the sound of a loud fart his spouse had just left in the room.

They are a perfect couple, my mom and dad. I think of them when I compare them to Arthur and Yvette Tossman. A neighbor, sharing gossip with me one day, told me that Yvette had actually not been Ms. Tossman's real name. It was Yentl. By choosing to change it, Ms. Tossman wanted the softer sound of French as it had more snob appeal. She would have been far more comfortable to be addressed, I suppose, as Madame de Tossman, were it but possible... adding the honorific "de" much as had Honore Balzac done to his own name.

Yes, among other things, the charming Ms. Tossman [Yentl or whatever] was a snob who did not talk to strangers. She must have talked to someone, however, as how else would the world be led to learn via the grapevine about her true name? Aha! Has it perhaps occurred to you that the long-suffering Mister Tossman may have spilled the beans on his beloved child bride? Listening to the endless litany of taunts, accusations, threats, invective and more that was blasted his way, could this be the only defense poor Tossman had? Hang his beloved, sylph-like treasure to dry on the line of truth? A distinct possibility!

Where did it begin and when? You are indeed bubbling with curiosity, aren't you? I promised to tell you of the battle of the Tossmans, didn't I? My regret is that I had not known at the outset what a great gift I'd been given by merely being fated to live right next door. More than a few of the best matches had gone by before I had the good sense to preserve the choicest of them on tape. Yes, the voice of Yvette Yentl Tossman was loud enough and strong enough to penetrate walls and reach a tape recorder's microphone. I did not need a hidden microphone inside her apartment to capture all she said. As a spy, Yvette Tossman would have been a failure. She was actually better suited to the Mafia.

I will try to recall for you the gist of the first such encounter. It was at 3 am or thereabouts. I had rudely and shockingly been startled awake by the slamming of Tossman's door. The neighbor on the other side of their apartment, Curt Dell'Isola, had similarly been awakened [as he later told me]. The apartment below them was used only by prostitutes for their trade and, by 3 am, was quite empty. The apartment above was being renovated, or so I seemed to recall. Other neighbors did hear the noise, but it was far fainter as the acoustics of the Tossman family seemed to expand outward like a bomb and not up or downward.

Tossman's grunts had begun shortly after his door slam. I'd say it took about as long as it might take to remove a jacket and pants comfortably. These were of a lowing nature. If you'd ever heard a cow groaning at a childbirth and then amplified the sound, this was what Tossman had sounded like. The noise penetrated not only his own bathroom door (assuming he had the decency to close it... but then there had been no accompanying door slam so maybe not), but I could hear each little burst of pain through my apartment walls as well.

"OYYYYYYYYYYYY. UNNNNNNNNNN. VVVVVVVVVEYYYYYYY. EH. EH. EH."

Do you get the idea? Such a child-birth pain had poor Tossman. He must have had an extremely infant-like colon. Our bodies grow as we mature. Everything except the head increases much in size, but what if poor Tossman's intestines had remained the size of a baby but his impactions had not? It would be like trying to roll a grapefruit through a straw!

Never wish pain on someone. It will only come back to you. My mother told me this. I felt sorry for the poor man, even though he had woken me up. I could hear him almost screaming. Dell'Isola was less charitable. I could hear him knock on the wall to remind the Tossmans of the time. Dell was a graphic designer. Interesting fellow actually. It was his job to design all the labels you see on mattresses and the back of shirts. Yes, someone has to do it, and Dell had been doing it for umpty gazillion years... starting at 9 am promptly. Dell would have loved to sleep right up until his 8 o'clock alarm. Waking up five hours early made him a tad grumpy.

Ms. Tossman must have woken up or had been awake, lying in wait for hubby to come home. At the first knock on the wall from Dell, I heard her loud voice screech at him "Get Cancer and die, you son of a bitch!". At first, I thought this was directed to Dell. It would have made sense at that point to think so. Now, a little later on in time, I am not so sure it was. I think Ms. Tossman would have ignored Dell. She did not talk to strangers, even ones who made contact through the wall.

Dell knocked on the wall in response and I think the second blast of Ms. Tossman may well have been directed to him. "Stick your head up your own ass and fart to death!". Charming. Ms. Tossman was trying for humor at 3 am. Little did I know at this point how sincere her wishes were. As this dialogue continued for a while longer, there would be periodic grunts, wheezes and gasps of a decidedly male Tossman nature. These would continue for a near quarter hour and would conclude with a very strong and decidedly conclusive expression of relief. To cap off the event and put a period at the end of the sentence, the toilet would flush. It would be like the fanfare of an orchestra that was about to conclude a musical.

What was lethal to me was the encore. All this sound and fury was the prelude for what would carry on for hours to come. Non-stop. No commercial interruption. A rat blast of fury like I had never heard before in all my given days. If you had asked me that very morning what color I thought was in the interior of the Tossman apartment, I'd have said I did not know. Whatever the color might be it would surely look scorched.

Complicating things even more was that Ms. Tossman once had a dog. She had to put the dog to sleep, I was told. The dog was named Arthur, same as Mr. Tossman. I sensed a bit of grim humor in that because every other generation of Tossmans named their male child Arthur. Arthur's grandfather was an Arthur, as was that Arthur's grandfather. The practice came about apparently because each Arthur had the good fortune to die upon the news of a pregnancy, thus resulting in the naming of the baby after the deceased. The current title holder apparently was named for his grandfather because the good man was hit by a bus and killed. I wonder if, being in good health, he jumped. At any rate, history would never be repeated as Ms. Tossman was not about to have a child, let alone raise it. She was still mourning Arthur, the dog, not the grandfather.

How do I know so much about this crazy couple? Gossip, of course. People love to share things about Ms. Tossman. Everyone leads into the gossip with some sort of revealing tid-bit they've discovered. No one has compiled these until now. Lucky me. I am the chronicler.

The morning in question was a chill one. I suspect the windows of their apartment were open wide. In addition to a need for ventilation, the audio effect of the open windows merely increased the volume of the already none-too-silent household. Mr. Tossman had arrived home, slamming doors. I was instantly awakened and trying to slow down the pace of my startled heart. Ms. Tossman did not wait to lace into her spouse.

        "I put the wrong one to sleep, God," said Ms. Tossman to the ever present deity. "Forgive me. I know you wanted poor Arthur [the dog] to have a longer life. I just did not want him to suffer... unlike the thing that lived, my Arthur was a gem. Do you hear me Arthur?"

At times I couldn't figure out which Arthur fit. When I have, I will try to place a helpful guess in parenthesis for you. Whenever there are no parenthesis, I think she referred to the husband. There are also times when Ms. Tossman used vague references. I will leave these do your own judgement.

        "My poor baby. Did you know it has been almost a year, Tossman? What? You could say that to me, you monster, you horrid nightmare? You have no heart Tossman. You are just a huge and slowly leaking pile of shit. If you had been the one who died, Arthur [the dog] would have visited your grave. Maybe Arthur would go just to pee on it, but he'd have gone. You sure you won't go with me? You would need a day off from work? So? Take the day off. They have to allow you time to grieve, don't they? Stop laughing, Tossman. Listen to me. Hurry up and drop dead, will you... God forbid. God is letting you die slowly, Tossman. Slowly. Every time you go to that bathroom it's a reminder. God wants you to die slow. Did you hear me?"

Who could not hear? Curt had pounded Beethoven's Fifth Symphony on the wall all during Ms. Tossman's shouting lecture. She ignored it. Tossman himself was grunting out, in pain from what must have been a sizeable return to the universe of used Tossman meals.

        "You hate that job anyway. Missing one day would be such a tragedy? What? So you took a day already for moving. So what? You don't have any days left? It is not like we go on vacation anywhere. Look in a mirror Tossman. That is my vacation. I get to look at that face. It would be easier to look at that face if I was in Paris... but here????"

I had been thinking of how much easier it would have been for everyone, God included, if the Tossmans were somewhere else. Is there any place at all for God to hide from that voice? Did He love it? The Bible tells me He does, but then there are no accounts of anyone resembling either Tossman in scripture. Not even Job resembled them, but as this was not the first such shouting match, I could relate a bit to Job.

"I am telling you. Do you listen? Bread. You eat too much bread. You look like like a stack of pancakes that were dropped on the floor, Tossman. Burt Reynolds you aren't. Shut up [directed either to the incessant hammering of Curt Dell'Isola or directed to Arthur] ! Fall off the planet, and disappear! Die scratching at an itch you can't, God forbid, reach!

"As for you, Mr. Tossman. You are taking me to the grave of our beloved Arthur [the dog, not the grandfather]. You'll tell your boss today that you are not coming in on Monday. What? Drop dead yourself. You'll do this or God help you when you walk through the door on Monday if you don't. You don't take that day off and I'll fix you. You may not be broken, but I will fix you but good. You think you're not broken? Well, I will break you into pieces and then fix you. Do you hear me?"

Dell had shouted through two walls at this point, aided by open windows, something to the effect that the United Nations could hear Ms. Tossman. She actually replied. She told Curt to find his penis and, having searched for this microscopic organ, by mistaking it for a pimple, give it a good squeeze.

Things did not settle down until Tossman had gone to bed. I could hear him snoring through the window until Ms. Tossman slammed the door to go out. He awoke, I guess, as the snoring stopped briefly. It began again all too soon.  Ah, no rest for the weary. I had looked forward to Monday. With the Tossmans at the graveyard, I thought, there would be one short, divine moment of silence. Thanks, God. There would not be many, but this is the first such match I put on tape. There were others.

Older Wei
a new beginning

Quite a few years ago I sat down to write a story about a boy and his grandfather. It did not start out taking place in China. I suppose the one question asked most often is "Why China?". The best answer I might give is that the China in my mind was a place less developed than the US. It was a place much like our early nation of the 19th century. It was a time before machines took away the nature of life as it had been known. The age of mass production has certainly changed the world. Now we are in the age of computers. People no longer socialize as they once did. The front porch style of life is gone... but not back in China and not in the days when this story took place.

There were things I'd left open in the story and I've always wanted to go back for Young Wei's sake. He never had the chance to finish telling what things he had learned of the past. In the process of discovery of the past we learn about ourselves, not just about those whose lives we read and research. History makes the past come alive. When I was in school it did not seem so important. Now that I am older, the past becomes very much a thing I'd want to know more about... but all those who could tell me of the past are gone. Their secrets and the history of lives unknown are buried. If you cannot trace your ancestry back more than a generation or two, why not consider writing one? Isn't it just as much an adventure to create the world you came from? I feel a little of that as I begin to write "Older Wei". Here, then, is how the story continues:

        One of my last memories of Grandfather took place on a rainy, misty day. He had long ago retired from his job of heavy labor because his aging body could no longer perform the tasks they gave him. In retirement Grandfather seemed always to be waiting for something. He was impatient. It was not like his character to be impatient. If anything you may recall that I had said he was overly silent with his family. His rare journeys into town gave him a chance to meet with friends and talk, but the last time I went with Grandfather he just sat and listened, much as he did at home.

        He had not been at the table for lunch, an event he rarely would miss. He always had told Grandmother when he went out, but since her death some five years before there was no one to tell anymore. My wife loved him, but even though that love was returned in Grandfather's own fashion, he did not show her the same level of attention after Grandmother had died. The message was clear. No one could take his wife's place. No one could. No one did. No one tried to... or so I had thought.

        Knowing the behavior older people sometimes exhibited, it was my wife who told me to go out and search for him. The dinner would be kept warm... for both of us... when we returned. Had Grandfather gotten lost in the misty rain or somehow disoriented? We did not have an exact age for him because record keeping back in the days of his birth, whenever it might have been, was not clear. Grandfather did not much care about numbers, except when he was forced to endure a birthday party in his honor. I think he felt a certain amount of shame about not knowing the day of his birth, the month or the year. You did not measure life back then in terms of living long. You measured them in terms of surviving. It was a different China after all.

        Zhang Wei's parents were too poor to give him an annual envelope of "lucky" money or hong bao. There was not much to celebrate for Zhang Wei. When the times were good and rice was plentiful, songs would be sung in the evening. He told me this once. The songs were quite old and the lyrics made no sense, even though Grandfather said they were in Chinese. Grandfather and his family members were close enough to enjoy the tribal moments that close families have, even if they are less so these days. He sang songs with his family as if in thanks for one more year to be alive. Not all of his brothers and sisters did survive. Some died at childbirth, others died while giving birth to a child. You buried your dead each year. Found a new husband or wife if need be... and had new children to replace the ones whom death had taken away. Life was just a long march forward. Where were we marching? Who knew? Best to be silent and move ahead. Carry those who can no longer walk. Stay alive. Bury the dead and keep moving. This is what Grandmother told me. Grandfather said nothing of his childhood, or at least as little as he could.

        I was always curious about those times because Grandfather said so little. Who were his parents? No paintings of them were on the walls. Grandmother's parents were likewise long dead when I was born. My mother had never met them. My father? Ah, the less said about him, the better. He abandoned my mother forcing her to flee to Grandfather with child in hand. Grandfather took her in and took her shame. Everyone knew of her return. Tongues wagged non-stop, or so I as told. What silenced them? Grandfather's lack of shock, indignation, emotion. He was hard to read so there was really no gossip to believe. Only those with a long memory might have spoken... but they did not. It was perhaps for a good reason.

        Grandfather has never been a burden in the way some parents can be. They arrive making demands and suggesting changes their children might make to enjoy a happier "parent-approved" life. It was due to Grandfather being Grandfather more than anything else. He was also not a "parent" in the classical sense but rather a grandparent. He gave guidance only grudgingly and his life lessons were few and far between. When he gave them, the message lasted a lifetime. My lifetime.

Flip's Hole

Many years ago, and just shortly after we were married, my wife told me I should use my time learning to write stories. It seemed harmless and, in a way, a wonderful way to pass time. I started. I stunk. I probably still do a terrible job of writing stories, but now... thanks to the internet... I can bore more people with them than ever.

My friend, Bircan started me off by using some of the early stories on her website... long before this blog existed. She still issues some of my writing there in her archives and current issue. You can visit this site at: http://www.lightmillennium.org/index.html  It is in Turkish and English. Take your pick.

You may have noticed a few other stories are running here simulataneously. I am putting a few of them up here for storage and eventually when all the pieces are in place I will try to organize them logically and in order. For now it will have to remain a jumble as Xanga does not allow the writers to post anything in more than date order. :(

How many Flip's Hole stories have I written? Many. It began with a small place that used to be on 32nd Street off of Park Avenue. I worked across the street. My first day on the job [in 1971] I walked into the place for lunch. I had many more lunches there over the years. The owner was a fellow who looked very much like the character actor Mike Mazurki. His name was Phil DeGaetano. Phil is the model for Flip, in appearance only. All the other characters are fictional, save for a very real Lori, the narrator's love interest and Flip's only child. I named her for an old friend, who I still adore in many ways, Lori Giordano. I think they would behave identically and Lori can shoot me for that.

The real "Phil's Lunch" no longer exists. All things pass away and so did this postage stamp sized coffee shop. The parking lot on the south side of 32nd Street is still there, but the sign on the wall above it that said "Let me Phil you up" is gone. THe fictional Flip's Hole got it's name from a sign above the small store that said "Flip's Hole in the Wall Coffee Shop". A storm broke the sign in two and half was thrown away, leaving only "Flip's Hole". It is an amusing note that some might read this as a reference to something about one's lower anatomy. I'll let the few stories I've salvaged from among the many lost stories speak for themselves. Here is one called "Flip The Artiste":

"Take that thing down," said Flip. He was talking to Lori, of course, who was once again trying to bring a ray of sunshine into the otherwise dirty and derelict place known as "Flip's Hole". The Hole is the world's smallest and least important coffee shop. It attracted a host of regulars that I have tried to describe over the years in adventures too unimaginable to believe.

Lori placed her hands on her sizeable hips and gave Flip the malocchio, the evil eye. It was an unspoken dare that said in one look that not only was she NOT taking the painting down, Flip was not going to touch it either.

I took a look at the thing and was amused. It was a picture of a cat dressed in a Victorian frilled collar and blouse. The cat was smoking a cigarette, but looked otherwise quite like a short-haired, white cat. I was told the painting was called "Aunt White". Lori also told me it was by the famous artist Donald Roller Wilson. I did not understand much about this fellow, but after looking at more of his work I began to sense the humor behind it.

Flip, no connoisseur or patron of the arts, was more inclined to see paintings depicting dogs playing cards. These paintings, done on velvet, are supposed to be the lowest class and the lowest taste in art... much like paintings of Elvis Presley on velvet. It fit Flip DeGaetano to a T.

No matter how low his taste was, old Flip did not think the Hole was the place for any kind of painting. For one thing, a painting in a frame attracted dust. Flip was well known for not dusting. Everything pretty much was left as it was in the Hole. The tables in the back dining room were left covered with boxes to discourage their use. Dirt covered both boxes and tables. The most notorious grime was the lengthy string of dirt that hung above the cauldron of soup that Flip kept warm on his hot plate burner. It was never longer and never shorter, but always poised above the soup like a Damoclean sword ready to drop at any given moment.

"We don't need it". It was not a royal "We" that Flip was using. He was attempting to speak for the many customers who, given the narrowness between the counter and the wall on which "Aunt White" was hung, would surely be bumping into it. It was bound to be knocked down with every passerby, coming or going... just as coats were knocked off the hooks on the back wall. Flip had a point, but Lori was immune to her father's logic. He was all too often wrong, in her opinion.

Buddy Taub sauntered in and looked at the new addition. "Fax looks better than this babe", he said. "What's with the picture?". Buddy was referring to our store cat, whose name was Fax. Lori normally ignored Buddy, but she was going to make her will made known to all of us. "It is my effort to bring a little class to this place. The whole wall should be filled with art and it will be. This is a very expensive work of art and you should have some respect for it." Lori reached out to Fax to show her the new "cat" in the store. Fax was having none of it. She leaped out of Lori's range and back into the kitchen. I suspect that Fax was smarter than any of the rest of us. A loud clatter and some curses in Spanish led me to think that Fax's escape route toppled something over and that Jesse Dominguez, the cook and delivery man, had some cleaning to do.

"It stays". Lori's last word. Her mom would be proud of her. Mrs. Marie DeGaetano was not only the one with the last word in the DeGaetano household, but one suspects that she even gave God an earful when He had it coming.

All this serves as a nice review of many of the names I've bandied about in my notes about Flip's Hole. My name is Bart, former production manager for the Pasmezoglu Publishing Company, now future husband to Lori and bottle washer to Flip.

How did the rest of the day go? Well, as you can imagine "Aunt White" got a lot of stares and more than a few smiles. Take out customers loved it, but those who sat on the stools invariably knocked it down and had to put it back up. By the end of the day "Aunt White" had been on the floor more often than a fleet of drunken sailors on liberty. The frame was starting to show a little wear.

Morris Ippai, known as "Moe" to his friends, took a look at the thing and asked "Why is the cat smoking? Isn't it illegal to smoke in the store?". Rudy Giuliani had enacted several measures to all but eliminate smoking in public places, and Moe Ippai was making a wonderful joke at Lori's expense. She glared at him. Flip lit a cigarette and took a puff.

"Moe, this is the god-damned USA. I spent a year in Korea to fight for freedom and I'll be darned if anyone is going to remove my rights without a fight. If the cat can smoke in here, so can I. Sue me." I could see Flip was starting to appreciate the cat a bit more. Lori glared not only at Ippai, but back at Flip. Lori hated smoking. Lori hated farting. Basically her idea of the world's best husband was a man with a cork in his mouth and in his... well, you know.

"I'm only a sign painter and window washer, but I can paint the cigarette out, if you want me to. I'd give you a good price." Lori glared at him even more. I think Ippai got the message as he turned to eat his tuna fish on rye.

Sigmund Schnipple turned up for a coffee and knocked the painting to the floor. It took him a few minutes to find the right angle to be able to lift the frame without damaging it and a few more to hang it back on the hook. "Where'd you get this albatross?", he asked. Lori stared at him, too and the silence was deafening. Flip had his back to the world and was ignoring the whole thing.

Mrs. Mohendas, a teacher from nearby Norman Thomas High School, stopped in and took a peek. "Why that looks just like my old cat Fluffy." Buddy Taub could not resist the opening. "So, was Fluffy a pack a day smoker?". Mrs. Mohendas cleared her throat and stared at Taub much as Lori did. A weaker man would have shrunk from the formidable looks of these two ladies. Taub was unaffected, lacking sufficient brain power or heart to be so moved.

Mrs. Von Frompsing was next in line. She looked at the painting and a let out a shriek. "Oh, where did you ever find this? It is an original Donald Roller Wilson. Why is such a priceless treasure hanging in a dump like this?".

"This ain't no dump," yelled Lori... but Flip was now interested. He knew Mrs. Von Frompsing was a lady with more money than Bill Gates. She was very frugal, which explains her habit of eating at Flip's. The quality was lacking, but he was also cheap.

"This painting is famous?", asked Flip.

"Oh! A Roller Wilson original canvas is very priceless. His artwork is constantly going up in value. If I could only have a few of his pieces, I'd have the dear man put to sleep. Dead artists are so much more valuable, you know."

"How much did this cost, Lori?" Flip was now VERY interested in art.

"It ain't important."

"How much?"

"I got a good deal."

"How much is a good deal?" Flip raised his eyebrows. When a DeGaetano does this it means the talking portion of the exchange is over. Lori muttered something.

"What? Speak up. I want to hear what you paid for this."

"Eight", said Lori.

"Eight? That's a bit high, but OK. I think I can afford eight bucks."

Mrs. Von Frompsing was laughing now. "More like eight thousand, Flip. Don't you know what art costs? Why Roller Wilson's collected book of art prints was sold originally for $10 and is now worth 15 times that... if you can find it."

Flip looked sick. He looked at Lori and mouthed the question again. No utterance, just the movement of his lips asking her 'how much'?

"Uh, Hundred".

"What! You spent a hundred dollars for this?" Flip misunderstood, as usual.

"Eight Hundred." Lori finally said clearly.

Flip looked at the painting of "Aunt White" and shook his head. He was so mortified that he could not speak.

"Well, that certainly is a bargain. I'll give you a thousand for it. It is vintage Wilson, after all."

Flip put his hand over Lori's mouth, which she promptly bit... but not before he could shout out "SOLD".

Mrs. Von Frompsing wrote out the check and Flip saw it as a $200 profit. Lori was incensed that her efforts to sanitize the Hole had been frustrated again. No one else seemed much to care. The painting had not been around long enough.

When Sigmund Schnipple came in the next day he noticed it was gone. "Where is it?", he asked, having wondered where his wrestling partner went.

Buddy looked up from his soup with an evil smile. "Dunno. I think it was in heat and just vanished." Fax did not find this a bit funny. Her glaring eyes matched those of Lori, who sat in a corner holding onto Fax. Flip looked at the empty wall and smiled. I wondered what would happen next. In this place something always happens next.

There is a real Donald Roller Wilson, artist. View his work at:

http://www.donaldrollerwilson.com/

Old Wei and
Young Wei

part Two of ten

It was 5:00 in the morning. It was still dark when Grandfather came to get me. I was awake already and when he saw me he just motioned with his hands for me to follow him. If he was pleased to see that I was eagerly awaiting him he did not say so. As usual Grandfather was waiting for me to talk to him first.

I thought this was my chance to show my manhood to him. I kept silent, too. On the long walk to the market we did not talk about anything. Grandfather walked ahead of me and did not turn around once to see if I was still behind him. Maybe he could hear my footsteps and so was not concerned about me. If Grandfather felt I was now a man, why did we not walk shoulder to shoulder and talk? He always spoke with other men from the village when he walked to work. They always walked shoulder to shoulder. I tried to walk up near Grandfather, but every time I walked quickly, so did he. He was telling me this way to stay behind him. He did not bother to explain why.

Grandfather was thin. He had been a strong man. I remember how he would hold me and play with me when I was younger. It was so long ago. I had a family then. I had a father. Now we lived with Grandfather again. Was he angry to have to support us? Did he now hate our need? He never complained. He never chased my mother away. In his eyes I always saw some sadness when he looked at her. It was not tears, for a man does not cry. It was a softness, a sharing of her pain. Her husband had left her all alone.

What had these years done to Grandfather? He was less tall than I remembered. He had become old and gray haired. His skin was tougher. His laughter was less frequent. It had been replaced with silence... as if Grandfather was preparing for an after life of only a cold grave. I wanted to know so much about how he felt about us and about me. It might be a long time before there was another chance to ask him. I had to try to break down the wall between us, but I did not know how. I kept my distance behind him always thinking of how to reach out to him. I would wait for my chance.

In the marketplace he would have to give me instructions. I would have to ask questions. He would be bound to teach me something, and in that exchange I had the hope to reach his heart and tell him the truth. I wanted to let him know I respected him. I wanted to thank him for taking care of us. I wanted to thank him with all my heart that in all our time together, words of praise were few, but so were words of criticism. I had wanted to tell him I had learned something valuable from him and that I would be sure that his name, which was my name, would always be a good name to all who heard it:

"Young Wei? Oh, you mean Old Wei's grandson? Yes, a fine family. He certainly has made his grandfather proud. He is spoken about everywhere in the country now. The poor man can't find anywhere to be at peace without hearing the name of his grandson spoken. It is a problem we all wish we could have!"

Ha! That would serve Chen right. That pest had been properly punished. he would drink liquid for a month because he could not chew his food. Hah! It is a mistake to pick on me or my family. That was for sure.

We were almost at the marketplace now. I was wondering when Grandfather would speak. He did. He said: "Wait here. I will come back." I was surprised. Why did we walk all this distance together if I was not to go to the market with him? Was I not to carry his bags? Or help him to select the fruit and vegetables we were to buy?

"Grandfather? Why do I wait? Don't you want me to help you?"

"No. Wait. When I return we will go on."

What did that mean? I was too afraid to ask another question and anger him. I watched his back disappear into the dust of the road. He was going to the market and leaving me alone.

Old Wei and
Young Wei
Part 4

[Please page down for the other parts to the story which were posted earlier. They appear in reverse order.]