That Darned Dog!

I got another amusing story in my mailbox from my cousin Shelley in Iowa. I'll include it below, but it made me think of a couple of dogs I used to share living space with in my younger days. Before I share my recollections of Ivy and Calpurnia, here's the story Shelley sent me.

Jasper and the Unbaked Yeast Rolls

We have a fox terrier by the name of Jasper. He came to us in the summer of 2001 from the fox terrier rescue program. For those of you, who are unfamiliar with this type of adoption, imagine taking in a 10 year old child about whom you know nothing and committing to doing your best to be a good parent.

Like a child, the dog came with his own idiosyncrasies. He will only sleep on the bed, on top of the covers, nuzzled as close to my face as he can get without actually performing a French kiss on me. Lest you think this is a bad case of 'no discipline,' I should tell you that Perry and I tried every means to break him of this habit including locking him in a separate bedroom for several nights. The new door cost over $200. But I digress.

Five weeks ago we began remodeling our house. Although the cost of the project is downright obnoxious, it was 20 years overdue AND it got me out of cooking Thanksgiving for family, extended family, and a lot of friends that I like more than family most of the time. I was assigned the task of preparing 124 of my famous yeast dinner rolls for the two Thanksgiving feasts we did attend. I am still cursing the electrician for getting the new oven hooked up so quickly. It was the only appliance in the whole darn house that worked, thus the assignment.

I made the decision to cook the rolls on Wed evening to reheat Thurs am. Since the kitchen was freshly painted, you can imagine the odor. Not wanting the rolls to smell like Sherwin Williams #586, I put the rolls on baking sheets and set them in the living room to rise for a few hours. Perry and I decided to go out to eat, returning in about an hour. The rolls were ready to go in the oven. It was 8:30 PM.

When I went to the living room to retrieve the pans, much to my shock one whole pan of 12 rolls was empty. I called out to Jasper and my worst nightmare became a reality. He literally wobbled over to me. He looked like a combination of the Pillsbury dough boy and the Michelin Tire man wrapped up in fur. He groaned when he walked. I swear even his cheeks were bloated.

I ran to the phone and called our vet. After a few seconds of uproarious laughter, he told me the dog would probably be OK, however, I needed to give him Pepto Bismol every 2 hours for the rest of the night. God only knows why I thought a dog would like Pepto Bismol any more than my kids did when they were sick. Suffice it to say that by the time we went to bed the dog was black, white and pink. He was so bloated we had to lift him onto the bed for the night.

We arose at 7:30 and as we always do first thing; put the dog out to relieve
himself. Well, the dog was as drunk as a sailor on his first leave. He was running into walls, falling flat on his butt and most of the time when he was walking his front half was going one direction and the other half was either dragging the grass or headed 90 degrees in another direction. He couldn't lift his leg to pee, so he would just walk and pee at the same time. When he ran down the small incline in our back yard he couldn't stop himself and nearly ended up running into the fence. His pupils were dilated and he was as dizzy as a loon.

I endured another few seconds of laughter from the vet (second call within 12 hours) before he explained that the yeast had fermented in his belly and that he was indeed drunk. He assured me that, not unlike most binges we humans go through, it would wear off after about 4 or 5 hours and to keep giving him Pepto Bismol. Afraid to leave him by himself in the house, Perry and I loaded him up and took him with us to my sister's house for the first Thanksgiving meal of the day.

My sister lives outside of Muskogee on a ranch, (10 to 15 minute drive). Rolls firmly secured in the trunk (124 less 12) and drunk dog leaning from the back seat onto the console of the car between Perry and I, we took off. Now I know you probably don't believe that dogs burp, but believe me when I say that after eating a tray of risen unbaked yeast rolls, DOGS WILL BURP. These burps were pure Old Charter. They would have matched or beat any smell in a drunk tank at the police station. But that's not the worst of it. Now he was beginning to fart and they smelled like baked rolls. God strike me dead if I am not telling the truth! We endured this for the entire trip to Karen's, thankful she didn't live any further away than she did.

Once Jasper was firmly placed in my sister's garage with the door locked, we finally sat down to enjoy our first Thanksgiving meal of the day. The dog was the topic of conversation all morning long and everyone made trips to the garage to witness my drunken dog, each returning with a tale of Jasper's latest endeavor to walk without running into something. Of course, as the old adage goes, 'what goes in must come out' and Jasper was no exception.

Granted if it had been me that had eaten 12 risen, unbaked yeast rolls, you might as well have put a concrete block up my behind, but alas a dog's digestive system is quite different from yours or mine. I discovered this was a
mixed blessing when we prepared to leave Karen's house.

Having discovered his 'packages' on the garage floor, we loaded him up in the car so we could hose down the floor. This was another naive decision on our part. The blast of water from the hose hit the poop on the floor and the poop on the floor withstood the blast from the hose. It was like Portland cement beginning to set up and cure. We finally tried to remove it with a shovel. I (obviously no one else was going to offer their
services) had to get on my hands and knees with a coarse brush to get the remnants off of the floor. And as if this wasn't degrading enough, the darn dog in his drunken state had walked through the poop and left paw prints all over the garage floor that had to be brushed too.

Well, by this time the dog was sobering up nicely so we took him home and dropped him off before we left for our second Thanksgiving dinner at Perry's sister's house. I am happy to report that as of today (Monday) the dog is back to normal both in size and temperament. He has had a bath and is no longer tricolor. None the worse for wear I presume. I am also happy to report that just this evening I found 2 risen unbaked yeast rolls hidden inside my closet door. It appears he must have come to his senses after eating 10 of them but decided hiding 2 of them for later would not be a bad idea. Now, I'm doing research on the computer as to: 'How to clean unbaked dough from the carpet.'

I had a dog when I was growing up, and Pebbles was a bright and cheerful companion. Other dogs I've encountered, though, rarely live up to the standards set by my dog, Lassie, or Old Yeller. Take Ivy or Calpurnia, for example.

When I lived with Virginia on Oregon Hill in the mid-80's, one of her friends brought her new puppy over and convinced Virginia to assume ownership. The pup was a little Black Lab, and I suggested the name Calpurnia (not Caesar's wife, but the no-nonsense maid in To Kill a Mockingbird). The sweet, little puppy soon grew into her huge paws, and indiscriminately ate everything she could.

When Christmas came, we decided to decorate a live tree, and I hauled out my collection of hand-blown glass ornaments from Germany. They were quite special, and they had cost a lot. Each one was unique, and they looked great on our tree. One morning I met up with Virginia in the kitchen. As a police officer, she worked some strange shifts, so we hadn't seen each other in a few days.

"So what do you think of our tree?" Virginia asked.
"I love it. I'm glad we put one up," I answered.

"Have you looked at it closely lately? No? Come here. Notice anything?" I honestly didn't see anything unusual. It was still standing; that was a plus in a house with two cats, and a dog who could clear the top of the coffee table with her tail. "Look carefully at the bottom branches. Do they seem to be missing anything?"

Why, yes, they did. Most of my glass ornaments and the tree lights, in fact. Calpurnia had been spending her days munching away at anything she could reach on the tree. She loved the taste and crunch of those ornaments and glass lightbulbs. And she never seemed any worse for the wear, either. The glass was no match for Cal's digestive system.

Just a few years earlier, I shared a house (hovel, actually) with three other guys on Ellwood Avenue. It was my first home away from home, other than the college dorm. My roommate Danny had a Springer Spaniel named Ivy who was as dumb as a box of rocks. Sweet, but stupid, bless his heart.

Another roommate, Clay, found some string trailing out of his bedroom one morning. He couldn't imagine why it was there, so he picked it up, winding it around his hand as he followed the trail. The string seemed dirty and used, and Clay wondered who'd left it strung all over the upstairs of the house.

He tried tugging on it to wind it in, but it was caught on something around a corner, so he kept walking and winding, only to discover when he turned the corner that the string disappeared into Ivy's butt.

Dogs will just eat any old thing. Cats are much more sensible when it comes to their diet.

The Bride of Bennington

Here is the bride moments before she walked down the aisle. Her gown was handmade for her in The Netherlands, and it moved with her beautifully. It looks good in the picture, but even better in motion.
Today I'm posting a few pictures from the wedding portion of my trip, and I'll be back later to tell you details about my weekend in Vermont. It was a heaping spoonful of fun.

Here's the scrumptious cake, with the yellow icing hiding a layer of dark chocolate ganache/mousse/sin-goop sandwiched between dark-as-midnight chocolate cake layers. Note the little Dutch boy & girl kissing on top of the cake.

Here is the future Mister Suzanne and Suzanne's Lady of Honor, Kristen.
I dashed about town with the Bride and the Lady of Honor the afternoon of the wedding looking for large vases. The roses were flown in from South America. The vases are plastic bathroom trash cans from the local Walmart. Sometimes it helps to have a Queer Eye handy for emergencies.

Oh! Woe! What's a girl to do with leftover champagne?
I know! Can you imagine? Leftover champagne??? Clearly, these were amateur drinkers, leaving God knows how many bottles untouched at the end of the evening.

The morning after the wedding, all guests were invited to the groom's parent's home for a delicious breakfast. Here you can see the scattering of autumn leaves on their front lawn. Bennington is a beautiful little town, and I'm glad I was able to be at Suzanne and Brett's Big Fat New England Wedding.

Stay tuned for my solitary pilgrimage to East Dorset, birthplace and burial spot of Bill Wilson, a co-founder of Alcoholics Anonymous. Our Vermont adventure will continue later...

Friday Grin

It's a chilly & gray Friday here in the middle of Virginia, and my head feels like it is stuffed with cotton batting. The weather changes affect my sinuses.

I was happy to see a message from my cousin Shelley in Iowa waiting in my mailbox. She usually sends a laugh on Fridays, and I'll share today's joke with you.

Moms in Therapy

A psychiatrist was conducting a group therapy session with four young mothers and their small children. 'You all have obsessions,' he observed.

To the first mother, Mary, he said, 'You are obsessed with eating. You've even named your daughter Candy.'

He turned to the second Mom, Ann: 'Your obsession is with money. Again, it manifests itself in your child's name, Penny.'

He turned to the third Mom, Joyce: 'Your obsession is alcohol. This too shows itself in your child's name, Brandy.'

At this point, the fourth mother, Kathy, quietly got up, took her little boy by the hand and whispered, 'Come on, Dick, this guy has no idea what he's talking about. Let's go pick up Peter and Willy from school and go get dinner at Mr. Wong's.'

Horses & Eggs

Earlier this month I drove up to Vermont for my Cousin Janet's wedding. First of all, now that the event is history, I can tell you that Cousin Janet is actually my friend since 6th grade, Suzanne. Since "Aunt Magenta" was a model of non-meddling decorum, it is safe to end the masquerade.

I explored different methods of getting from Virginia to Vermont, but my heart was set on a road trip. Traveling by air was barely a consideration. I used to enjoy air travel, but now I'd rather have a spinal tap. I could have saved a lot of money by going up by rail, but I would have arrived in Albany (the nearest train station) at an ungodly hour. Also, I would have endured a lengthy layover in New York, and what's the fun in that if you are trapped in Penn Station by luggage?

I've made car trips to New England before, so I knew that I wanted to take an inland route rather than the I-95/New Jersey Turnpike corridor. From Richmond, I took I-95 as far as Fredericksburg, and then angled up through Warrenton to link up with Route 15, which would take me up to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. This would allow me to bypass most of the Northern Virginia/D.C. traffic, which I wanted to avoid at all costs.

Northern Virginia is a soulless hellhole of six-lane arteries which overlay a network of ancient pig trails. Every neighborhood looks the same, differing only in age. Traffic is fierce, no one is where they want to be at any given moment, and courtesy flies out the car window as soon as keys are inserted into ignitions. I hate driving in Northern Virginia, in case you can't tell.

Imagine my dismay and disgust when I was greeted by a sign reading "Entering Fairfax." Fairfax is the epicenter of the very area I most wanted to avoid. I knew that my mistake would cost me dearly in terms of time. The only thing I could do was extricate myself as quickly as possible, before my soul got sucked out of my nostrils. No time for regrets.

Soon enough, I was back on Route 15 where I belonged. I left Leesburg behind, and crossed over the Potomac River to Point of Rocks, Maryland. Seeing the sign for Maryland reminded me of how excited I would get when I was little, and we would travel as a family to visit my grandmother in Iowa. I wanted to see the sign at each new state, and hated it when I missed one because I was napping.

The road took me through Frederick, and then into the Catoctin Mountains. I waved at Camp David, and gassed up at Thurmont. From there, it was a short drive to the sign welcoming me to Pennsylvania. The road bypassed Gettysburg, which I had planned on driving through to see if a certain diner was still operating, but my detour through Fairfax kept me at the wheel. At the Susquehanna River, I had a grand view of Pennsylvania's green-domed Capitol across the water, and linked up with I-81.

I'm not a fan of Interstate highways, but now I could make good time. Or so I thought. Note to the PA Highway Department: it may not be necessary to narrow the traffic to a single lane for fifteen mile stretches when the workers are only laboring on an expanse of one hundred feet. Just sayin'. This happened more than once.

Pennsylvania gave way to New York state reluctantly, and Binghamton came shortly after the welcome sign to the Empire State. Here, I needed to be sure that I veered off on I-88 toward Albany, so I quickly got on a lengthy call with Sheldon so I could miss the junction. Noticing that I was wayward once again, I got off the Interstate at Whitney Point to check the map. I didn't want to backtrack; there's little joy in that, so I found a two-lane highway that would take me to I-88. This was a happy accident, because it was a beautiful country road, and I went through a charming village called Greene.

Along the way to the right road, I heard a fascinating interview with Oliver Sacks on the radio. Oliver Sacks has written many books, but we may best recognize him for Awakenings, which inspired a movie of the same name starring Robert De Niro. His book, Musicophilia, which concerns the relationship of music to the human brain, was discussed.

I passed by a farm with a sign at the end of its lane which read "Horses & Eggs." I made a mental note of the location, because it's hard to get horses and eggs without making two stops. Small towns, diners and antique shops, and signs like "Horses & Eggs" are why I like the roads less traveled. These make the journey an event to enjoy rather than endure. I felt a simple connection to the unseen people in the houses I passed. We're all on the road together.

It was well dark by the time I reached Bennington, Vermont. I'll be back to tell you about Suzanne's elegant wedding.

This Butt's Reusable

It was splendid to get back to my morning AA group after my trip to Vermont. Our meeting starts at 6:45, and we allow time for silent meditation & prayer at the beginning of each meeting, which always settles my mind and prepares me for the day ahead. Each AA group has a set of members who are usually in attendance. Others appear for various reasons; they may have heard good things about a group from others, they may need a change of routine, or someone grows weary of alcohol abuse, wants a better life, and comes in for the first time.

Given the early hour that my home group meets, some folks who were previous regulars can visit us only occasionally because their careers have changed. This past week, we had a visit from Bob. We rarely see him these days because his work hours shifted earlier this year, so we were all happy to see him walk in.

Bob is a strapping fellow who rides a motorcycle. He is always neat & tidy, and he has a head of beautiful snow white hair, although he is not old. He told me once that his hair started turning white when he was in 5th grade. He grew up in New England, and still has a telltale Yankee brogue.

Bob saw many new faces in the group, so he talked a bit about his former life. His world was littered with wrecked cars, drugs, bags of dope, and cases of beer. His home was filled with partiers, but he always felt alone. Conversations revolved around the procurement of booze and drugs. There was no lasting connection with anyone. Laughter was frequent, but empty and devoid of real joy. Even with a trash bag full of marijuana, Bob was trying to score the next one. There was never enough.

Bob recalled walking through his empty home after a typical party, alone & disoriented. He would poke through the ashtrays for a likely prospect until his bleary eyes decided "This butt's reusable." Then the cycle would begin again as he waited for the store to open so he could buy more beer.

Today Bob holds a steady job as a supervisor of others. His leisure time is spent at meetings, and riding the beautiful byways of Virginia on his Harley with other sober buddies. His bike is always polished and clean, just like Bob, and he no longer is alone in a crowd. His needs are always met.

We were all happy to see our Gentle Giant.

Writer's Blockhead

Yoo Hoo! Lookie who's posting an entry on his blog! Don't get your hopes up...it's just a short note to say "howdy."

I'm sorry I have been away from Planet Bill for awhile. Many of you have left comments or dropped a note in my mailbox asking where I have been. I am doing well. I have been taking road trips, answering the AA hotline many hours each week, exploring the city and surrounding areas, adapting to a new job, and spending less time at home. It's been good for me, but I have missed all my blog buddies, so I need to balance my time a bit better.

Here are some of the highlights I want to tell you about soon:

• touring the Maggie Walker House in the Jackson Ward section of Richmond


• being tipped off by a friend to a great little restaurant called The Black Sheep


• an AA meeting we held outside in the rain because we couldn't get inside a church


• my road trip to Vermont for Cousin Janet's wedding

I also bought my first digital camera (because of Janet's wedding), so you may see my actual photos pop up from time to time. As soon as I get the software loaded on my computer. The photos are accumulating in my camera at present.

Thanks for dropping by, and I'll be checking in on each of you soon. I don't have to work this weekend, so I should have time to roam through the blog universe. In the meantime, have an easy day.

Blue Stone Cabins

Back in the mid-1980's a friend wanted to buy her first home, and asked me to move in with her to share living expenses. At the time, I was living in Stuart Court on Monument Avenue, and the shock of moving to Oregon Hill is something I'm sure I will cover in a later broadcast. Today I'm thinking of a serendipitous overnight trip that my roommate Virginia & I made across the Blue Ridge mountains into the Shenandoah Valley.

Most of our Interstate highways parallel older, established roads, and I-81 is no exception. It runs alongside Route 11 on a mostly north-south route, anchored at the northern end by Winchester, and Bristol in the southern tip of Virginia. The interstate has, of course, eclipsed Route 11, acting like a younger, more popular step-sister. But Route 11 is where the more interesting sights will be found.

My father told me that Route 11 was once called "The Broadway of the South," because it passes through Virginia, Tennessee, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana, ending in New Orleans. Broadway of the South it may have been, but north of Virginia it continues through West Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, and New York, where it adopts a different number when it crosses the Canadian border near Rouses Point.

Interstate highways bore me to vexation, and I avoid them unless I am truly strapped for time. They are monotonous, dull, and have no soul. The older highways offer glimpses of the wonder of touring by car in times past. Here, I get a sense of history, and understand the unique flavor of each section of the state I am passing through. Most of us are so obsessed with getting there that we forget that the journey is often the most splendid part of the experience.

Okay, okay, enough of that. I'm supposed to be writing about the weekend road trip that Virginia & I took. We headed out of town on Route 250, through Charlottesville, waving hello to Tommy Jefferson's Monticello and the Rotunda at the University of Virginia, and crossed over Afton Mountain. At Staunton (with a wave and a yawn to Woodrow Wilson's birthplace) we turned north on Route 11 and meandered up the Shenandoah Valley.

We poked around Harrisonburg, ogled the cute James Madison University students, and found a diner downtown for a lunch purchase. Back on Route 11, various antique shops offered leg-stretching opportunities, and we stopped at a ramshackle shed that was surrounded by acres of the tackiest yard ornaments we had ever seen. It was all there in cement, the garden gnomes, lawn jockeys, saints, deer, kissing Dutch boys & girls, and uncomfortable benches that promised a souvenir case of piles if you sat on them too long on a cold day.

Outside New Market we saw a bewitching sign floating on a Blue Ridge mountainside to the east. Endless Caverns it proclaimed, looking like our Commonwealth's response to the Hollywood sign above Los Angeles. We took a neglected road that led to the sign, and as we drew closer, the trees encroached so that all we could see framed between the boughs was ENDLESS. Now offering tours once again, the caverns were at the time boarded up and abandoned, and the road ended at a chained gate.

By now dusk was settling into the valley, and we decided to find lodging, preferably at a cabin court or a Norman Bates motel. We eschewed more comfortable and modern establishments in favor of the Blue Stone Cabins, a string of tiny cottages behind a roadhouse restaurant dating back to the 1920's. After we checked in, we headed out for a southern-style meal at a family operated restaurant, and returned to our miniature home-away-from-home.

It certainly was little. The bathroom looked like an add-in, and it invaded the front half of the room, resulting in an L-shaped bedroom with twin beds mashed in however they would fit. A space heater offered comfort from the cold winter night, along with the likelihood of incineration or asphyxiation. There was a strange cannister apparatus attached to the outside of the bathroom wall. The bathroom itself, which loomed large in the bedroom, was quite cramped upon inspection. First came the sink, immediately followed by the toilet, and then a shower stall. The commode was conveniently close to the opposite wall so that a fellow could rest his forehead if sitting upright proved too taxing, and entrance to the shower stall required a large step over the toilet bowl.

We fell asleep as the heater clicked and wheezed threateningly, and I was the first to awaken the next morning. This was not unusual; I'm a morning person and Virginia is a direct descendant of Rip Van Winkle. I brushed my teeth and hopped (literally) in the shower. The hot water felt wonderful, because our wee heater was no match for a winter night. Just as I rinsed off the last bit of soap & shampoo, the hot water turned arctic cold in a split second. I leapt reflexively over the toilet and landed in front of the sink, wide-eyed and startled utterly awake.

When I exited the bathroom, Virginia was just stirring.

"How was the shower?" she yawned.

"Great!" I assured her, eyeballing the mysterious cannister, which I now realized was Thumbelina's water heater.

As I got dressed in warm clothing, Virginia shuffled into the bathroom. I sat on my bed and waited.

Sink noises. Toilet flushing. Shower curtain drawing closed. Almost show time.

The shower thundered for a few moments, and then a piercing shriek split the Shenandoah Valley. I clutched my sides and rocked with suppressed laughter. I barely composed myself before Virginia, her platinum hair obscured by shampoo suds, shot out of the bathroom like a cannonball.

"What's wrong?" I queried, my voice smooth with concern and innocence.

Virginia was nearly incoherent with shock, and I reflected with satisfaction on the numerous mornings that she had beat me into our bathroom at home. Her showers were long and languid, and I knew all too well exactly how she felt as she stood in the middle of the floor, teeth chattering, clutching a bath towel for lack of hot water.

Jamaican Jive Talkin'

Last Wednesday, after a long day at work with no lunch, I called my friend John and arranged to meet him for dinner. I knew I would be too tired to prepare anything nourishing when I got home, so we agreed to meet at a place we were curious to try. The Phoenician serves Mediterranean food, and our favorite place, The Grapeleaf, had suddenly closed recently.

The Phoenician is only a few blocks from my office, and it sits on a stretch of Broad Street so familiar to many American cities. A miles-long succession of blocks built in the post-WWII years, filled with automobile dealerships, fast food huts, non-descript agencies and bland storefronts. Harsh and ugly in the bright sunlight; gray and dreary in the rain. Nevertheless, the Phoenician has received favorable reviews, and I was hungry enough to "eat the ass-end out of a skunk" as my redneck friend Ronnie would say.

I parked behind the restaurant in a parking lot across the alley, and took up a position leaning against a half-wall where I could see the side lot and the back lot. I figured this would let me watch for John, whichever spot he chose to park. I was soon joined by a healthy-looking woman who ambled across the alley. In a mellifluous voice, she introduced herself, told me she had just arrived from Jamaica the previous day, and was in my city to do the Lord's work. She seemed filled with island good cheer and optimism. She then asked me if I went to church.

Me: I'm in a church at least six times each week.

Jamaican Pilgrim: Really? Is good. What church?

Me: I go to several.

Jamaican Pilgrim: What kind?

Me: Oh, Episcopal, Methodist, Presbyterian.

She then reminded me that she came here to do the Lord's work, and was about to share something important with me when a man came down the alley from a Chinese restaurant which sits beside the Phoenician. He held an eggroll wrapped in waxed-paper, which he offered to our Jamaican guest. Much like an old computer, she seemed to freeze. Her mouth slammed shut and her eyes glazed over, staring into some unknown place, perhaps her homeland. She appeared to be in a trance, remote and unreachable. Still, the man persisted to offer her the eggroll, which she did not acknowledge. Finally, bewildered and disgusted, the fellow returned to the back door of his restaurant.

Our island guest snapped out of her trance, and eagerly told me that the Lord had told her to come to this alley to find food, and that when she saw me she knew that the Lord had sent me to her. She explained that she could not take the eggroll, because she had asked him for help and the man had refused her, so when he approached her this time the Lord told her not to accept his help. But she could take money from me.

Me: That's a shame. I just saw the Lord send someone to you with food, and you refused it.

Jamaican Pilgrim: Oh, but I could not take it. I need food from the gas station on the corner, but I need money from you.

Me: No.

Jamaican Pilgrim: You won't give me money for food so I can eat?

Me: No. Good luck.

The Lord works in mysterious ways.

Stuart Court, Chapter Two

Prior to moving into Stuart Court, the imposing apartment house at the entrance to Monument Avenue, I decided to rent a carpet shampoo machine and do some other general cleaning while my place was still empty. I pulled up in the circular drive at the front of the building and unloaded the carpet cleaner, and before I could take off to find a parking space an elderly - but sprightly - black gentleman dashed out to my car and began lugging the machine into the building. I was alarmed, because he looked like he was a thousand years old, and told him I would carry my stuff in as soon as I found a parking space. He would have none of that, and so he hauled my things into the building.

Mark was one of several black employees at Stuart Court, and he usually worked nights and weekends. During the week, two women acted as hostesses. I quickly learned that I had entered a time warp at Stuart Court, and that many of the old women who lived there treated the staff like servants (or worse). Mark was accustomed to hauling packages inside for the residents.

There were two halves inside one unified front as far as the physical layout of the building. Basically, the building was actually two apartment towers with separate sets of elevators. All of the even-numbered apartments were in the northeast wing, while the odd-numbered apartments were in the southwest wing. The elevators were, incredibly, still hand-operated, so there were two hostesses by day. Rosa staffed my side of the building, and at night Mark handled the whole building. This arrangement probably worked fine until young folks like me moved in.

I'd come in late at night, half-lit, and ring the bell to get into the building. Eventually Mark would appear, half-asleep, to take me up to my floor. Mark told me that he was eighty-six and also worked a day job. I'm sure he was accustomed to sleeping at night at Stuart Court, with only the occasional interruption if an elderly tenant had to call an ambulance in the wee hours.

Dead on his feet, Mark would propel the elevator toward the sixth floor, usually overshooting the goal, then we'd lurch down too far, and I'd step up or jump off just to get on firm footing. I always felt bad about waking Mark up late at night, but that's just how it worked. I couldn't run up and down the stairs all the time.

It was nice having day staff available to accept packages while I was away at work. There was also a dry-cleaning service who visited the building at least once a week, and I could leave a check with Rosa for Mr. Collins, and she would place my clean garments on hooks in the mail room. At the time, I wore a lot of dry-cleaned clothing to work, and this was a real time saver.

After awhile, the old elevators were replaced with new automatic lifts, and the night porter was no longer needed. The day hostesses were kept, but residents got keys to the front door for the evenings.

As the older tenants were removed to nursing homes or cemeteries, the lifestyle at Stuart Court gradually changed. Sadly, the building was sold to a careless owner, and a few years ago this once-proud building was featured on the local news because of the poor condition of the building. The new owner did not seem to care that he possessed a piece of history designed by one of the lauded architects of luxury homes in the early half of the last century, William Lawrence Bottomley.

Below is an excerpt from a review of a book, The Architecture of William Lawrence Bottomley, by Susan Hume Frazer:
Refined country houses, gracious urban dwellings, posh Broadway cafés, exotic nightclubs, and a high-rise apartment building that, 80 years after its construction, is still considered the epitome of tony living in Manhattan, these are among the many achievements of William Lawrence Bottomley, one of the best American architects of the first half of the 20th century. During his 40-year career, Bottomley designed and executed over 180 commissions for his clients. An uncompromising perfectionist with refined taste, he oversaw virtually every facet of his projects, from interior ornamentation and decoration to the surrounding landscape design.

Car and Driver

Four people who didn't know each other very well were talking at a party. Jason, who had recently obtained a new car, was telling the others about how much he liked it. He had never had a car before, and was excited about his new sense of freedom. He described how his car did things for him that he hadn't even known it could do when he got it. To hear Jason talk, you'd think he was the first person on the planet to drive a car.

Mary listened to Jason, and thought about her own car. She had had it quite awhile, and as far as she was concerned she planned to keep it. Although she didn't speak of her car - she just let Jason talk - she reflected to herself about how safe and comfortable her vehicle made her feel. Even though it had a lot of miles on it, it seemed as good as new to Mary. She was very content, but Mary didn't try to talk anyone into driving a car like hers.

Sam hung on Jason's every word. He was driving a car that belonged to his parents, but had secretly been thinking of giving it back to them, and making his own choice. He knew this would cause a ruckus, especially with his dad, who always thought he knew what was best for Sam. The truth was that his parents' car just didn't have the right feel to it, but he hated to cause trouble in his family. Sam wondered whether Jason's car would be a good choice for him.

Bruce was irritated as he listened to Jason talk about his damned car. Bruce didn't think anyone needed a car, and he always got edgy when the topic came up. He had been injured in a collision between two vehicles when he was young, and had been a loud opponent of them ever since. It angered him to hear how easily car owners went places he could only reach with a struggle. Having had enough of the conversation, Bruce left the party in a huff.

Now read this vignette again, replacing the car with whatever you call your Higher Power.

Earlier this week, I had the duty of answering our local AA Hotline. I got a call from a fellow who said he needed help with his drinking problem. He wanted me to find a meeting near him. I told him about a few, and he asked "what kind of meetings" they were. I explained that one was a speaker meeting, another a discussion meeting, anf the third was a book study. He said he wouldn't go to the book study because they would talk about God.

Hmmm, I thought. It's actually likely that the word God would come up in any or all meetings at least once. Although he had said he had not been to a meeting, I asked him again if he had been to AA before. He admitted that he had several years ago, but couldn't deal with the "God stuff."

I reflected that I had felt the same way when I first went to AA. I was, however, in such despair that I went anyway. I had tried to quit drinking on my own with no success, and the progressive nature of the disease had brought me so close to death that I was willing to try anything. I figured I'd just go see what AA had to offer, and I'd deal with the "religious crap" somehow. Oddly enough, it wasn't a problem at all since AA's steps are presented as suggestions, and you work through things at your own pace. I was also relieved to discover that no one in the program tried to define what my Higher Power should look like.

The best thing I could think of to tell this fellow was based on my own experience with getting sober. I told him that I knew how he felt, that I had felt the same way, and that the steps in the program were suggestions for recovery, not commands. I explained a little bit about what life was like before I got sober; the promises to myself that I would not drink the next day, and the compulsion that drove me back to the bottle each new morning. The awful realization that I could not stop on my own. My fears about my future, and the near certainty of death.

Here's how I reasoned it out, I told him. I finally had to admit to myself that I could not stop drinking. This made me powerless over alcohol. Therefore, alcohol was my higher power. This was, frankly, too screwed up to endure. So I gave in and turned to AA. I went in with an open mind and complete willingness. I let go of my fears and relaxed, and that's all I needed to do. I advised him he could take or leave whatever he heard, but he should go to a meeting since he'd had the courage to pick up the thousand pound phone to call AA. This seemed to make sense to him.

I hope he went to a meeting. I rarely know what happens to people after I answer the hotline. I do my best, and then I must let it go. Sometimes I do see them in meetings, or I will hear about them from others in the program. Alcoholism is cunning, baffling, and powerful; it will use our fears of appearing weak to others, our fears of religion, our fears of losing relationships, and our fear of change to prevent us from getting help. Sadly, the noise of those fears keeps many from getting the help they need.