Rest In Peace

Friday, January 27, 2017, my friend Howard passed away at age 90. He got to spend the holidays with family and friends and, as he frequently said, was ready for the Lord to call him home.

Howard's Obituary

Bob, Howard - two of the Greatest . . .

I’ve met more than a few of the “Greatest Generation” through my life. These valiant men and women plied their energies and spirits against the militaries of the Axis powers, were at Pearl Harbor, Normandy, Midway, and Willow Run (see Victory Salsa ).

A couple days ago, I spoke to my friend Bob B________. He’s ninety-seven, served in WWII, was part of the landing force at Normandy and he’s having a rough time medically. I met Bob in 2002 while on an art history tour up and down the Po River in Italy. Bob, a spry 83 at the time, was a hoot. While in Venice, he insisted on taking me and another friend, Mary, to his two favorite places for a drink. When we arrived at each place, the two maitre d'hotels greeted him by name. He spoke of a long lost friend – the Countess – and truly was a bon vivant in the City of Bridges.

The years following this trip were also the short years after moving back to Michigan from Memphis. Bob, post military, was the most sought after interior decorator in Memphis through the 50s, 60s, 70s, and 80s. His home was a snapshot of elegance. I got to his home twice – both times for raucous lunches where we were met at the door (11:30 am) with sterling silver pitchers of martinis and treated to hours of stories from Bob and his friends. Bob often spoke of his passed partner, but always with a twinkle in his eye and laughter in his voice. His friends were equally loquacious, and the food was deeply Southern – fried chicken, collard greens, black-eyed peas, corn bread, delicious. I have a handful of friends who accompanied me to these lunches and we all smile at the memory.

Our conversation was brief as his energies were limited. His caretaker took the phone and gave me a brief health report – happily concluded with an assurance that he still had a “taste for good Scotch and fine dining.” Amen.

Regular readers of this enterprise are familiar with my local pal Howard. Howard is 90, a lifetime Ann Arborite, a WWII veteran, a longtime local business owner, and rather irascible. Last night, I ran into a couple of his longtime friends and they let me know he was in tough shape. He is essentially bed-ridden and under the supervision of Hospice.

I stopped by his home tonight and was met in the driveway by his son and the son’s friend. They were headed out and I asked if Howard had the energy for a visit. Brent said no – not at all. Today had been a hard day for his father and he had apparently pushed his energy limits the day prior. Melanie immediately said to please come back and try to see him – I shall.

One thing that was heartening was an exchange Brent shared. He said that after the nurse visited and supervised a bath – apparently an exhausting activity given Howard’s condition – the old man said to his son, “I can’t even f**king do today what I could do yesterday.” That’s my friend.







Images reported to be in the public domain and available here:
Army Poster
Rosie

Sauerbraten and the end of Liberty (A Howard report)

Looking out from the lobby of the State Theater in Ann Arbor gives one a vista westward down Liberty Street. Home to longstanding businesses (Afternoon Delight, Kilwin’s Chocolates) and recent arrivals (Bongz and Thongz, Grange Kitchen and Bar) and lost delights from yester-year (Mr. Flood’s Party, The Pan Tree). A full 10.5 miles of pavement, gravel, businesses, homes and farmland – Liberty goes from “Street” to “Road” as it meanders nearly due west from Ann Arbor’s campus area.

Toward the western end of Liberty, is the southern-most field of my farm . . . a field dramatically rising some 60 feet higher than street level and, this year, planted in soy beans. Only about a half mile exists of Liberty past the farm – dead ending at the foot of Dancer (what a great name for a road!). The road used to extend about a mile further to Gunther, but a lost bridge in between didn’t warrant replacing. Large cement pylons prevent western travel past Dancer Road. Yes, it is the end of Liberty (only figuratively, we hope).

About four miles east of Liberty’s end, is Howard’s home (regular readers know that my friend Howard is over 90, has spent his entire life in Ann Arbor, was a local businessman, lost his wife, and is an unmatched source of Ann Arbor history). Tonight, after a few dozen attempts over the last several months, I found him at home. He was there with son Brent and Brent’s friend Melanie. They had just finished dinner (pork chops, garden veggies – “you should have come earlier!”) and the four of us chatted for about a half hour. Howard was looking pretty darn good (perhaps I should say remarkably good for being on the far side of 90!). Brent and Mel were delightfully chatty and we enjoyed catching up. The only point of history was a review of Washtenaw County’s various German restaurants and their ability to deliver a decent sauerbraten.

“_____________ used to have a great one, but now it’s burnt meat with gravy,” fussed Howard. He then carefully lauded and dissected restaurants currently in business and closed as “recently” as the late 1950s for their sauerbraten. Additional fussing included the quality of four or five various menu items. How I enjoy these sessions!

His health is pretty good for the plus side of 90 and he still has his weekly outings with friends whose tenures extend beyond 50 years. He did agree to an outing or two with me to some former haunts (I have to buy, but he’ll leave the tip). I’m already looking forward to our adventures!

Happy 90th!

After too long, I got to visit with Howard tonight. There had been several drive-by attempts over the last few months, but I spotted lights in the kitchen and was rewarded with a gruff, “Come in” when I knocked.

He looked good. Walking with confidence and clearly had been busy – the dining room table was leaved out to its full length and set with a high-end set of linens and china. I asked what was going on, “Yesterday, I had the whole family here – Friday, I have my friends coming.” He went on, “Friday is when I turn 90.” I told him he didn’t look a day over 89; he laughed while he cussed me and told me to make a drink.

“I had too much to drink yesterday,” Howard admitted fully without shame, but with the wonderful flat tone that visits everyone the day following too much. His entire family came to celebrate – 29 adults and 9 great-grandchildren. He spoke of his love for his great-grandchildren – one in particular. When she was born, two and a half months premature, she fit in the palm of his hand. She’s seven now – having some troubles in school and having vision challenges. “She’s my sweetheart.”

After hearing about the menu and all the fun the party brought, Howard got very candid about life and death. “Life is a gift – if you don’t appreciate it every day, you don’t deserve it.”

Among the musings came a funny and poignant story about a friend of his who was under hospice care. “Andy” had a brain tumor that had labored him with nine surgeries (according to Howard, he had a brass plate on his skull that was removed when access was required). Howard recounted how he would take Andy downtown Ann Arbor weekly and they’d visit three bars each time – sharing one beer between them at each spot.

At what Howard knew was close to the end of Andy’s life, Andy invited Howard and his friend “Beth” to a wine tasting at his house. Howard met him years prior while Andy was lying across a supermarket aisle arranging wine bottles. “Get the hell out of my way,” Howard recalled saying.

“Walk around dammit,” replied his soon to be best friend Andy.

The wine tasting involved three bottles – all masked in paper bags. “Can you believe it? I liked the $1.98 wine the best,” reported Howard. A little note: Howard is a significant collector and aficionado of wine – the good stuff.

Howard choked up a bit – he added that the hospice nurse had predicted that Andy wouldn’t live through the night. Howard and Beth assured her that they would stay and take care of him.

It wasn’t long after the wine tasting that Andy announced that he needed to go to bed. Howard and Beth helped him into bed and were saying goodnight when Andy – embarrassed – admitted that he needed to use the restroom. With Howard supporting one arm and Beth supporting the other, they walked him to the loo and stood him before the stool.

“I can’t pull it out.”

Howard immediately said he’d hold Andy up and told Beth to help him. She did, he went, and back to bed they took him.

Andy then said his last words: “Beth, I’ve been waiting 20 years to have you fondle me and wouldn’t you know, I’m too sick to do anything about it.” He passed away during the night.

Howard and I laughed and laughed until his eyes filled with tears missing his friend.




Photo reported to be in the public domain and available here:  Link

Wilber, Orville, Howard, and talcum

 (Photo by Hulton Archive/Getty Images) available here

Maybe it’s a function of the aging process, but more and more I’ve found myself interested in history. I just finished David McCullough’s exquisitely researched history of the Wright Brothers (see Wright Brothers) and am reveling in some new bits of knowledge. The two brothers (and their sister!) were amazing and are iconic examples of what our country was and should be today.

One “aha” from the book: While Wilber was doing demonstrations in France, Orville was carrying the water back here in the States. Trying to secure a contract for their flying machine from the U.S. Government, Orville was handling the demonstrations in Fort Myers, VA. Lieutenant Charles Selfridge was a passenger that day – and sadly became the first victim of an airplane crash as the Wright Flyer fell from the sky after there was a propeller failure. Michigan residents: yes, Selfridge Air Force Base is named for the fallen lieutenant.

Tonight, I was privileged to learn a bit of "I didn't know that" trivia from some oral history. I visited Howard tonight. His son and son’s friend were also there and we reunited after a handful of months since our last visit. Howard was in good spirits, but was having a tough day. He cancelled a lunch because he didn’t feel that he was steady enough to go in public. Nonetheless, he was full of piss and vinegar and shared some stories.

He recalled his relationship with Fielding Yost (a storied icon of University of Michigan sports see Yost), talked about his time camping (he reported eating iguanas!)  and living off the land in Wyoming, and about an amazing story involving his paternal grandfather Perry.

In Michigan’s thumb (some lovingly call Michigan “The Big Mitten”) is a little berg called Mayville. There, Howard’s grandfather was plowing his field behind two horses. Perry was about 21 or 22. A lightning strike suddenly killed the two horses and dropped Perry. After a time, his wife noticed the lack of motion in the field and found Howard’s grandfather unresponsive in the field. She literally dragged him back to the house by his ankles and put him to bed - assuming he’d die soon. Perry revived, mostly. The lightning stole his hearing, knocked out his teeth, and turned his hair stark white. Howard recalled how he’d summon his grandfather to dinner by stomping his foot and pantomiming eating.

The other nugget of oral history came in a conversation with mom. We talk daily – something I enjoy. Apparently when I was around four years of age, our family visited another with children similar in age. I guess the family was fairly well off (he was a physician) and the home was decorated to the best of then (1965?) standards with colorful carpets throughout. That their daughter and I decided to add to the interior design with talc throughout the upstairs wasn’t appreciated.

History.


Your (somewhat) humble correspondent apologies for the long lag between posts . . . it's been a full year.

July, Howard, Art and Frogs

July was busy.

With Independence Day, the Ann Arbor Art Fair, a trip to Wyoming, and various cookouts and golf outings, August arrived like a too early party guest. At least I was able to clear out some overgrown flora and experiment with a basil/jalapeno pickle recipe during that over-packed month.

Recounting my July tonight during a long overdue visit with Howard prompted a delightful set of narratives from my 89 year old friend. He’s noticeably frailer and he made me nervous watching him walk (or should I say teeter?). But a genuine welcome was offered along with his standard invitation to a pour of bourbon and a comfortable chair.

Telling him about the pickles ignited his memories of his family’s garden and annual canning rituals.
They lived on Seventh Street in town (now in an area known as the “Old West Side” replete with quarter acre lots and 1200 square foot homes as unique as Ann Arbor herself). Howard reported that they had a large garden and as many as 75-100 chickens at any one time. “We’d probably can as many as 300 jars of tomatoes, cooked chicken, various vegetables, and fruit each year,” he remembered. “I remembered eating stewed tomatoes, tomato sauce, tomato juice, boiled tomatoes . . . I ended up hating the goddamn things.” For the record, he reported that he now loves them.

He then proceeded share canning tips that included a delightful onomatopoeia to describe the sound of canning lids sealing.

“You know where the Art Fair really started?” barked Howard after I mentioned dealing with the crowds this year. “Fred Ulrich started the Art Fair on South University before anyone else even thought about it.” Howard recounted that in the late Fifties, the Ann Arbor merchants would annually hold Bargain Days on Main Street and State Street but would exclude the South University merchants. According to Howard, Fred (the founder of Ulrich’s Bookstore – from whom Howard eventually purchased the business) decided to counter this snub by starting a juried art fair. “The goddamn people running it now pretend they were the first – we were!” At the first South University fair there were two tents. “J.T. Abernathy was one of the original exhibitors – I still see him every week at Metzger’s for lunch.”

Abernathy remains a celebrated potter – see J.T. Abernathy

More than a few times, Howard’s ordinarily animated narratives slowed and he struggled to put order to his memories. “I’m an old man,” he sighed.

I told him he was, "an old son-of-a-bitch." He roared.

I let him know about my trip to Wyoming and the float down the Snake River. “In 1944, some of my Army buddies and I took our leave along the Snake River,” started my friend. “All we brought was some oil, flour, salt, pepper, fishing poles and tents.” Howard described a two week adventure along the river where they lived off the land. The animation in his face remembering that time was inspiring.

Maybe my biggest delight from our conversation was confirmation of something reported to me in the early 1990s by a then septuagenarian. As reported in a 2011 post in this blog, "Jesse and Rose", there was a particular enterprise involving bull frogs that was supposedly common among youth. After telling Howard about an earlier trip to Wyoming and recounting the story from that blog post, a wry look came across his face and he admitted doing the same thing.

And the whipping he got from his father.


South University Art Fair image by Milton Kemnitz from Link to image

Snow, Soup, and Howard

The great snow of 2015 clipped southern Michigan pretty well. Locally, we got 14.1 inches and with the spirited north winds overnight, drifts hit 3 – 4 feet on the roads surrounding the farm. Tonight is a calm, clear evening silenced by a blanket of white.

Friday and Saturday, weather forecasts were promising significant snowfall – so adamant were the news reports that several of us expected another instance of more hype than snow. As it turns out, the hordes panic-buying milk and bread prior to winter’s blast were vindicated.

I too made a quick trip to the grocery early Saturday morning. Yes, bought milk but eschewed bread; I did, however picked up the makings for homemade chicken soup. Nothing counters a howling blizzard like a cauldron of soup simmering on the stove.

Starting with a proper mirepoix, I built the broth over several hours on Saturday adding fresh roasted chicken as the vegetables and herbs released their goodness . . . no egg noodles added until Sunday morning. In all, I estimate that the soup had 6 – 8 hours on the stove before serving. Did I add that I’m incapable of making less than 2 – 3 gallons of soup at any one time?

With all the extra soup to share, I jumped in the truck and busted through several snow drifts to deliver some still-warm soup to my friend Howard. His house was dark when I arrived, so I left the container and a note on his porch.

I called tonight to make sure he found it and he was very grateful and insistent that I stop by. We had a great visit.

An oxygen machine occupies the space behind Howard’s chair and he complains of both a constant aching and danger of falling (three times in January!). He repeats his frustration that he’s ready, but for some reason, God isn’t ready for him. His son from Ohio visits weekly and his local son is there daily (though, he told Brent not to come by tonight – he had soup for dinner!).

Howard tottered to his “hi-fi” to turn down a recording of Dr. Henry Aldridge playing the piano – Aldridge was the longtime chief organist at the Michigan Theater (starting in 1972) and was a friend of Howard from church. Howard recounted many visits with Henry and a talent he so willingly shared.

We kibitzed over his health providers, the cost of health care, friends that have visited him or otherwise stayed in touch, his coming 89th birthday, the cost of going out to lunch. Nothing philosophic – just a chat between friends.

He looked good and was, as always, a most gracious host. He vehemently insisted that I come visit whenever (I’ve resisted when I’ve seen his son’s truck in the driveway) and thanked me for coming by.

Soup, snow, friendship, hope.

Hockey and Peckers

“Keep your pecker up!”

That was the unintentional punch-line to a story Howard shared tonight. I hadn’t seen him in a few weeks and thought I’d stop this evening. He’s 88 and in pretty good form save the bandages on his head and shoulder.

“The stupid asshole cat is trying to kill me,” vowed Howard. “All I was doing was going down the basement stairs when that son-o-a-bitch decided to run between my legs. I fell back on the stairs and have been nursing myself since.” We both agreed that cats are a) only concerned with themselves; and b) evil bastards.

Howard told his son Brent not to come tonight for dinner – he had visited earlier in the day and Howard assured him there was enough to eat in the house. I’ve driven by a few times without stopping when I’ve seen Brent’s truck. Family trumps all other visitors.

Oh, I’ve forgotten the “pecker.”

Howard recounted how they used to do inventory control during the early semester book sale rushes at his store. Every half day, they would change the color of sales slips to keep the students honest – and they’d collect the slips at the end of each half day. A certain clerk working for Howard in the late 60s / early 70s was from England and always entertained with British colloquialisms. Apparently, most of the female sales staff was having lunch in one of the store’s storage areas when the assistant manager came about to collect the morning’s sales slips. Howard reported that he was a bit stressed and the English woman thought he needed a bit of a pep talk. As he left the room, she blurted, “Keep your pecker up!” He made his retreat with wide eyes and gaping jaw. The other ladies in the room tittered appropriately.

It wasn’t until she returned home and her American-born boyfriend explained the local understanding of her admonishment did she fully understand the earlier reactions. To her, it meant “chin-up” and stay positive. Her apologies were epic.

Tonight was the first time while visiting that I felt some emotions welling. I think he sensed it. No, I know he sensed it because he reminded me that every day was a gift and we’re charged with accepting our lives without regret.

He mentioned that in the last month or so he’s lost five friends – even kidding that he regrets living long enough such that no one will be around for his funeral. He especially mentioned his friend Al Renfrew – a former Michigan hockey player and coach – and legend among college-level hockey programs (see Hockey's Greatest Generation).

Howard shared that Al called him a week prior to his death and asked why he was missing from exercise class. Howard explained that he no longer drove. Al assured him he’d pick him up. That was days before his passing.

Perspective strengthens – and I remain grateful to Howard for sharing his perspective and strength.





Image reported to be in the public domain and available here:  Here