Grugger’s Way

My First Apartment was a narrow little dwelling, occupying just about fifteen feet of one side of a basement.

The year was 1969, I was a freshman in college, and I paid $65 per month for that place. I remember that the bedroom was at one end, defined by a rope with a “curtain.”  The kitchen was at the other end, and the rest of the place was the living area.  The “guest room” I called it.  Since I was a college student and liked to entertain, I had lots of use for the “guest room.” Just off to the side of the kitchen was the bathroom, but it was sort of an “extension” off to the side of the apartment area too.

I had to take one step up to the bathroom and another step up to the toilet bowl and shower (to enable drainage, I would guess).  At slightly above eye level the shower wall “stopped” and I could look over and see the rest of the basement, which included the utility area where tenants from the two “upstairs” apartments did laundry.  They would notice when I was showering.  It annoyed me.  As soon as one of them moved out of an “upstairs” apartment, I rented it.  I had to pay $80 a month but it was worth every extra dollar.

Beer and whiskey were the primary foods in the kitchen area.  Plus chips and a can of bean dip.  Pizza boxes would stack up in a corner, waiting to be taken out.  Not many girls spent the night; it may have been the basement apartment and it may have been me, (or the beer and whiskey) that repulsed them.  I did better with the girls after I moved upstairs.  Whether it was the new apartment or the greater experience, I never knew.

My First Time to Kiss a Girl was a big secret, of course. 
She was my “girl friend.”  We were in First Grade and it was 1953.

Her name was Lola Hanson; perhaps it still is.  She will always be my “first love.”  I liked her because she was pretty and had nice hair.  We walked home from school together almost every day.  She lived down the road further away from school than I did so she always walked the rest of the way herself.

But on this “special” day we made a short stop along the way.  About half way between the schoolhouse and my house, there was an old sugar beet “dump” right next to the railroad tracks.  The “dump” is where sugar beets were dumped from the trucks into the underground bin, later to be conveyor-belted up and into waiting railroad cars.  It probably wasn’t called a “dump” at all, but that what we called it.  Ahh, but I digress.

Lola and I knew what we were going to do so we quickly went into a small enclosure where we would be “hidden” from view and then we kissed.  We kissed on the lips.  More than once.  More than twice.  Yup.  A bunch of kisses.  It was fun, as I recall.  And, as I recall, I really didn’t pay any attention to whether Lola thought it was fun.  My heart was all pounding fast and I just wanted to kiss and kiss and kiss.  We never did it again; perhaps she was disappointed with my performance, but I had no performance anxiety nor regrets about our encounter.  So far as I know, we never told anyone.  At least I know I didn’t.

My First Time: To Drive a Car

My theme this week will be “firsts.” As we get older our memories of “firsts” probably become more exaggerated as our memory ability lessens. That can be good. An exaggerated memory is better than none at all, I say.

My first memory of driving a car sticks in my mind because I was EIGHT years old. The car was a 1950 Ford. I know that from old photos we still have. It was light green. It had a throttle as well as a manual choke.

My Father decides I can drive the car from the barn to the highway. He says to me: “Let out the clutch and step on the gas.” So I “popped” the clutch and “floored it”!

Dirt and gravel flew to high heaven and I remember my Dad yelling at me to hit the brake. He finally hit the brake before we hit the highway. (Note: The “highway” probably had ten cars an hour in those days, which was in the year 1955.)

Then he set the throttle so the engine would just keep a little “way” on and so all I had to do was steer as we drove up the highway to the Silver Spur Bar. Then he turned the car around and I “drove” home. It was about a quarter mile each way and I thought I was pretty hot stuff.

113-Year-Old Man Celebrates Every Day

Tomoji Tanabe lives in the Land of the Rising Sun, in the town of Miyakonojo, on the Island of Kyushu.  He is the World’s Oldest Man and he was born on September 18, 1895.  1895! 

You may ask yourself what a 113-year-old man has left to celebrate; but if  you think about it, he probably celebrates every morning he is able to rise once again to greet another wonderful day.  This man, who receives a cash gift each year from his home town for being its oldest resident, still reads the newspaper every morning, can walk without assistance, avoids alcohol and smoking…and drinks milk.  Now there’s an advertisement endorsement for you–Got Milk?

He said during his birthday celebration that he would like to live another five years.  Have YOU ever thought about whether you would even WANT to live so long?  I don’t believe I would, but I will have to see how I feel in—another FIFTY YEARS!

Mr. Tanabe lives with his son and daughter-in-law.  Let’s see, the son would be HOW old?  Hummm.  He could be 95 or so.

Even though Mr. Tanabe is the World’s Oldest Man, he is not the oldest Human Being.  That honor remains with a woman named Edna Parker, born in 1893, who resided in a nursing home in Indiana, USA.

I guess the single largest GROWING demographic in the future will be people over 85.  There will be quite a few turning 100 as well.  There are SO MANY ISSUES that the developed world faces in dealing with it’s aging population, we could not even begin to discuss them all right here.  Suffice it to say…medical and financial security will top the list.  Perhaps housing after that.  We should all be aware that many of these issues are on the table during this Presidential Election Campaign in the United States.  Keep informed.  Be involved.  It’s Your Future.