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