Visit with Howard

Howard lives on a section of Liberty Road in Ann Arbor that is unpaved; about a quarter mile west of his house there is a section of the road that is often underwater. The year I saw the top of a blue Honda barely poking through the ice adjacent to that section, I pretty much decided to avoid traveling there in the winter.

These last few days when the polar vortex came for a visit were especially not the time to venture along that section of road. Until this morning, my normal route was littered with snow drifts as tall as my bumper – according to the local “super-duper mega-track radar weather center” (or whatever they call it) temperatures will soon rise above the freezing mark and much of the piled polar precipitation will soon feed the water table. Farewell.

I figured that Howard could be a bit stir crazy and I should darken his door this evening. I saw him from the driveway leaned over the counter having a bite and steam was rising from a pot on the stove. I didn’t want to interrupt his dinner, but I was there and I knocked.

His greeting was warm, enthusiastic, and confirming that visiting was the right decision. We walked arm-in-arm to his kitchen while trading good tidings for the New Year. He looked and sounded bad.

“I’m not doing very well,” he confided. “I’ve been in the hospital a couple of times since I’ve seen you and fallen 4-5 times. The goddamned idiots at the hospital can’t figure out what’s wrong with my balance and my legs.” At least he still has a bit of his fire.

We both poured a bit of whiskey and he turned the fire off under his dinner. An instrumental version of “Moon River” blared from his den and we went to our accustomed chairs for a visit.

Howard asked about mutual friends, agreed to an eventual outing at the watering hole where we met (“I stopped going there because they are so goddamned expensive.”), carped about the weather, and spoke of Herbert Hoover. I asked how his family ended up in Ann Arbor and a most painful narrative ensued. Remembering whence his father came was an effort; recalling where his father had a 47-year career was nearly impossible; distinguishing names from different generations was addled. He eventually remembered that his father moved from Flint to Ann Arbor in 1926 and that his mother was from Chelsea, Mich. His speech was slow and his usual snarls lacked teeth (there was, however, a rather heartening moment when his cat entered the room and he said, “Here comes asshole.” I asked what the cat’s name actually was – he said, “Oh, just asshole.” There are linguistic liberties granted as one approaches ninety.).

He’s lost about 55 pounds in the last year and a half and confessed to sleeping 12-15 hours a day. I suggested he talk to his pharmacist to see if any of his medications are making him that tired; he said he would. He did reaffirm that his son visits daily and shared that they were going grocery shopping on Friday. He also reported that his pastor stops by and his neighbors look in on him. He did insist that I know I’m always welcome – and I feel that.

I thanked him for his hospitality and said I’d go and let him enjoy his dinner. He was tired.  It won’t be a month between visits.

Snow me the money!

“I used to be Snow White, but I drifted.” Mae West

A quick look out any upper Midwest window reveals Jack Frost’s fury. Already, I’ve shoveled six times and cleared snow off the satellite dish thrice. The snow has intensified – its deepening blanket has transformed the farm into a Currier and Ives tableau.

There is also a magnificent quiet that comes with the snow – nature’s silent paean.

I recall the excitement afforded my brother and me when there was a possibility of a day off of school due to snow. We didn’t put snow balls in the toilet or white crayons in the freezer (for a neat piece, see: How to ensure a snow day!) When the announced closings came via WJR radio, we did enjoy sleeping a bit longer, but we also waded into raw entrepreneurship.

All you needed was a neighborhood, a snow shovel, and long johns to launch your business. We’d wander the streets looking for unshoveled sidewalks and driveways, hit the doorbell, and give our sales spiel (“Shovel your walk?”). Sometimes there would be 3-4 of us and we’d make speedy work of most homes.

We always let the homeowner decide how much to pay; we did, however, make mental notes as to which homeowners were more generous than others! Over the course of 3-4 hours of shoveling, we’d each come home with $15-20 dollars – a veritable fortune to a 10 year old in the early 1970s.

After starting high school, I purchased one of the first snow blowers in town. This baby cut a 30 inch path, had dual impellers, six forward speeds, one reverse and a 270 degree swivel on the throw chute. After clearing our home driveway and our walks, I would head out with this machine and often not return for 6-8 hours – netting around $200 on a good day. It took about three good snows to pay the machine off, and the balance of that year was pure profit (gas was only about $0.60 a gallon and I usually took dad’s!).

Subsequent years, I learned about machine maintenance, break downs, repairs, and replacement parts. This afforded me a limited, but working knowledge of small engine repair and a better grasp on running a business.

The earnings paid my fare for two trips to Europe with the high school band and gave me sufficient walking around money in my teen years.

Do kids mow lawns or shovel walks anymore? I imagine that there is still strong demand for these services and for babysitting or help with other chores. I’d hope that pay scales have increased for teenaged labor – I think I remember babysitting for $0.75 - $1.50 per hour and one lawn that took about 90 minutes to mow netted $5.00. It kept us busy, we earned fun money, and I think helped develop a sense of responsibility and a work ethic. I hope this continues today.

Stay warm and don’t overdo the shoveling – hey, here’s an idea, hire the neighbor kid!

Happy 2014!