The Telegram

Circa 1978

On vacation, a call from home seldom bodes good news. While staying with relatives in Wisconsin, I received a call from my neighbor in Colorado. The Western Union man had just left her a telegram from my father. He said it appeared to be urgent and asked if she could contact me. She read these ten carefully selected words:

WAYLAID BY BRIGANDS I'M OK SEND $250 AMERICAN EXPRESS COPENHAGEN=
DAD=

Great! My father had gone off to Europe for the dream trip of his life -- half cocked, as usual. Now he is in another bind and sends us a cryptic note from somewhere in Europe? A master wordsmith, this was conciseness to a fault.

Brigands? I had to check the dictionary. Thieves! Was he hurt? Where was he? No way to know.

Send $250? I didn't have that kind of money with me -- had to borrow it from my uncle. From the bank office, it was like sending money to outer space.

Not being able call Europe and ask, "How's George?," we just had to wait. We returned to Colorado a week later to find a letter from Dad, postmarked a week before the telegram. Recovering in a Paris hospital, he wrote that a thief had thrown him off a standing train onto the live track side -- but not without a fight from my 67-year-old old man. He suffered a skull fracture, concussion, and broken collarbone. He felt okay; French food stank; and the nuns treated him well. In a few days, he planned to continue on to October Fest and then the Scandinavian countries. 

We didn't know any more until he returned home to Montana and gave us a call. He had to borrow $11 from a stranger at the Calgary airport to finish his odyssey back to Helena.

We learned the most about his travel adventures from a series of columns he wrote for a local newspaper. Dad brought back dozens of fabulous realities. Enough material for many  fascinating stories -- where the reader, like his son, asked: "How could you get yourself into so many stupid situations?"

Dad not only observed crazy fabulous realities, he created them.

Who Cares?

Last night Lois and I attended a basketball game at St. Mary's high school. At one corner of the court, a guy sat at a table that held some electronic equipment. Since the scorekeepers were on the other side of the gym, I had no idea what the guy was doing. So, I asked him.

"What are you up to here?"

"I'm announcing the game for La Junta tonight."

When I was a boy, my father was in the radio business and I went with him on remote broadcasts. I remember that besides the announcer, it took an engineer to set up the equipment, connect it to a special telephone line, and to balance the sound from the microphones.

Back at St. Mary's gym, I noticed a small helical shaped antenna. I asked if the antenna connected to a sound truck.

"No," he said, "it's a cell phone antenna. I use a cell phone connection to broadcast to the station."

"How do you talk to the station if you need to coordinate something?" 

"Just use this cell phone," grabbing the phone on his belt.

"So, you do all of this by cell phone?"

"Yep, except when I don't have cell service, then I have to use a phone line. That's a pain."

He then spent five more minutes telling me all about his life as an announcer and about all of his broadcasting equipment--which would fit in a shoe box.

==========

For many, this is not much of a fabulous reality, but for an electrical engineer, it is fabulous. I doubt that anyone else in the gym noticed or even cared.

 

The Pansy

The ringing phone awakened me.

"Grandpa, Grandpa, is that you?" It was Libby, my five year old granddaughter, in Wenatachee.

"Yeah," I grumbled.

"Grandpa, I just saw a pansy in our garden. It's the first pansy that I have seen in my whole life!

"A pansy in February?"

"Yes, Grandpa and I can't wait until after pre-school to water it. Bye, I have to go to school."

==========

Some are excited by new things; most never notice them.

Who's up for Pancakes?

A couple of days ago, I recieved this email:

Subject: Who's up for Pancakes?

It’s an old English tradition that my old English grandfather taught us.  On Shrove Tuesday, or Mardi Gras, it has been a tradition in England since the 15th century to eat pancakes, thus using up all of the butter and eggs, which were forbidden during Lent.  However, I’m pretty sure that IHOP will let us in even if we don’t vow to forsake butter and eggs over the next forty days.

Anyone interested?

I wrote back:

Subject: Re: Who's up for Pancakes?

Are you sure that you are sending this message to the correct address?

Geoff in Colorado

I received this reply:

Subject: Re:Who's up for Pancakes?

Oops.  Sorry Geoff.  I was trying to send this to my housemate, Gordon.  Although you?re welcome to come out to northern Virginia and meet us for pancakes this evening.

To which I replied:

Subject: Re: Who's up for Pancakes?

Thanks, I will try to be there, but...we have a lot of icy roads here. Otherwise I will celebrate (have English roots) with lovely wife tonight at an IHOP.  

Geoff

Today, I sent back this reply:

Subject: Re: Who's up for Pancakes?

I want you to know the power that eminates from northern Virginia. I got that old Fat Tuesday craving for pancakes. My wife and I skipped IHOP and went to a Village Inn (more English). It will probably become a tradition.  

With much appreciation,
Geoff in Colorado Springs  

 In a few moments, I recieved the following:

Subject: Re:Who's up for Pancakes?

Your kids will have proof their old man is nuts when you tell them how you started celebrating in this way.

Best of luck,
Jon in Vienna

=================================

Thanks, Jon in Vienna, for starting a new family tradition in Colorado.

The Library

Just as I finished checking out at the grocery store, I saw a friend standing at the copy machine.

"What are you up to, Matt?"

 "A friend of mine wants me to draw a picture of her son. Here's his picture. She wants him in better looking clothes. I found a picture of guy with nice duds in this magazine."

Matt, an engineering manager, is also an artist. I saw him  drawing at Starbucks, and I commented on his work. With similar engineering backgrounds, we have become good friends. Since then, his striking charcoal renderings have continued to improve, and he is getting more commissions for his work.

"Hey, did you buy that magazine?" I kidded.

"Nope. I looked through the magazine rack over there, found this guy who is looking in the right direction for the drawing, and made a copy of it."

"Hey, I said, "that reminds me of the time our family was driving back from Greeley on Colorado county roads. We were doing a crossword puzzle and had a disagreement about how to spell the word "channel." My father, word expert, thought that it had one N."

"We were stuck, and without a dictionary, we couldn't finish the puzzle. But, help ahead--we all had the same idea when we saw the K-Mart. We stopped. Went straight to the book section, picked up a dictionary, and found to my dad's chagrin that channel had two Ns. We didn't buy the dictionary; didn't need one."

"My teenage daughter was mortified. A pain she still carries."

"Good story. Here's the picture I copied," said Matt, showing me the thick annual edition of  'People,' and its $10.99 price tag.

==========

   Admission and rationalization: Many times I have browsed magazines at the bookstand and then haven't bought them.
 

 

Hungry Pregnant Women

Our cancer support group meeting was over. The last to leave, I noticed a lot of food left on the table. Knowing that it would all be trashed, I decided to take some home: a plate of fruit and veggies; and a pile of those buck-and-a-half Starbuck-like cookies.

Just as I finished wrapping up a stack of cookies, ten pregnant women lumbered back into the room with their partners. They had been taking a Lamaze class in a small conference room off our larger room when we were meeting. I was surprised to see them come back, because I had seen them leave.

"I thought you guys all left."

"We had to go to the bathroom," they said in unison.

"Why did you come back?" I asked.

"All that food." 

"Eat what you want before they take it away," I said. "Here are some cookies if you want them."

Soon all the famished women had plates full of veggies and fruit. A few took some cookies and their partners took the rest.

The sirons on the table were too much to resist. The snacks were gone. I left with one cookie. The food nourished their babies..

Albright, Geoff

Butte, Montana, 1955

Friday nights were tough.  I had to decide whether to go to the eighth grade dance or watch Walt Disney on TV.

Watching Disney was my preferred choice because he featured progress on the construction of his new Disneyland and Mickey Mouse cartoons were pretty good, too.

If I went to the mixer at school, I would be with all my friends. Mostly we boys just gathered in the corner talking about hunting deer and watching the girls on the other side of the gym. Some guys had the guts to ask a girl to dance. I never did. But just being with the guys was fun.

Actually, I had a deeper fear: Claudia Albright. She had no problem asking me to dance. Then all the guys would give me a hard time.

"Geoff 's got a girlfriend; Claudia loves Geoff."

Half the time I went to the dances; the other times I watched Walt Disney.

Claudia Albrigt chasing me around the gym was embarrasing enough, but what happened at school in Mr. Foley's history class was the most mortifying. I asked Mr. Foley permission to get a reference book.

"Albright, Geoff,"  he said with a smile.

The entire class erupted in laughter which has never stopped.

=========================================

Almost fifty years later, we had an Emerson School reunion. Claudia Albright was there. We all told stories about all the silly things that happened in eighth grade.

I told the story about Mr. Foley saying, "Albright, Geoff." Everyone laughed (again), but as is with most traumas in our lives, I was the only one who remembered the event.

Free at last.

 

The Pay Phone

Sweaty, dehydrated, foggy-brained, and very tired. Joy! I had just run for six hours in Colorado's San Juan wilderness area going up to 12,000 feet and back. Why? I was training for the Pikes Peak Ascent race. Fanatic.

The run had taken two hours longer than I had planned. Lois would be concerned; I had told her that I would be back at the cabin by now, but I still was an hour away. I started the drive back and remembered passing a phone by a lake a few miles away. What are the odds that a pay phone would be sitting out in the middle of the Colorado wilderness?

I stopped at the phone to call Lois. What are the odds that a guy would be standing there using the phone? I stood in line and waited. My brain, in another world, was slow to interpret his conversation.

"That's not what I got. I found three bucks less than that...Damn it, I tell you, it was three bucks less than that...Okay, you'll check it out and call me right back.

What are the odds that the guy at the phone in front of me in the wilderness is now waiting for the phone to ring? Surreal.

"Ring..." "Hello...Yep, I am exactly three dollars less than that...Look, I drove all the way out here to collect the money. I'm not ripping you off...Look, Goddamn it, your records are all f----d up...Okay, call me back. He slammed down the phone, cursed and waited.
This had consumed ten minutes.

"How ya doin'?" I asked.

"Crappy. I came here to collect the coins in the phone, and they say I'm $3.00 short. Now they have to get approval for a shortage."

What are the odds that the guy at the phone in front of me was collecting coins from the phone in the wilderness?

"Who are you talking to?" I inquired.

"The company who owns the phones. They are in Florida."

We wait and chat. What are the odds that we are waiting for the Florida phone company to call back about the $3.00 coin shortage at phone in the Colorado wilderness?

Ten minutes pass. "How long do you think before they call? I need to talk to my wife."

"Don't know."

We talk. We wait. "Ring...Hello...Okay" He hangs up, says goodbye and drives away.

I call Lois.

I could have been back at the cabin by this time, but still have almost an hour to go.

Mickey Rooney's Fourth Wife

Last week, when my wife Lois mentioned that Fox TV had refused to air a commercial featuring two seconds of octogenarian Mickey Rooney's bare derriere, my mind flipped back fifty-plus years to Butte, Montana.

I had been standing in front of our house listening to dad talk with Dan  Ducich.  I, age eleven, enjoyed just being there -- listening to men talk man talk. Dan had just installed most of the new storm windows that he had sold Dad, but he had to take a half dozen back to the shop for modifications. He had stacked them against his truck.

When the bull session ended, Dan jumped into his truck and drove off. CRASH! The storm windows lay in a heap on the pavement. A memorable moment! After Dan cleaned up the street and left, Dad said that Dan was upset because his wife had run off with another man -- Mickey Rooney. Wow, I thought: Mickey Rooney!

Dad told me that Dan's wife was in Los Vegas at a driving range, when Mickey Rooney walked up and put his arms around her to help her golf swing. He told her he wanted to marry her. She divorced Dan to become Rooney's fourth wife.

Weeks or months later, Dad told me that Dan Ducich had committed suicide. He had shot himself in the head.

Back at the restaurant, the focus of my eyes returned from infinity to Lois. "I knew the guy whose wife married Mickey Rooney."

"What?" Lois said, used to me leaving and reentering the real world.

I told her about Dan Ducich. In discussing my recollection, we wondered: Who was Rooney's fourth wife? Was there more to the story?

When we returned home I did a web search and found:  http://www.glamourgirlsofthesilverscreen.com/show/65/Elaine++Devry/. It reveled the "rest of the Dan Ducich story."

The fourth wife of Mickey Rooney was Elaine Devry, but the story is not quite the same as my dad told me back in Butte. It is however a great Hollywood tale.

Devry (aka Elaine Davis / Elaine Mahnken), was born in 1932 in Compton, California. She was a Compton Community College beauty queen and married her high school sweetheart, Dan Ducich, a Compton High and Utah State basketball star.

But, problems happen: Ducich was convicted of armed robbery in Los Angeles and was placed on five years probation.

Meanwhile, Elaine Devry apparently goes off on her own, does somenude modeling for respected photographer Theda Emerson Hall, and Warner Brothers selects her to take acting lessons with Sylvia Rosenstein. She returned to Butte to divorce Dan Ducich.

In the summer of 52, she goes to live with her mother in Woodland Hills and works at night as a carhop.

She meets actor Mickey Rooney at the Woodland Hills driving range. She is with Rooney every night for about a month, and says "yes" when Rooney proposes to her at Don the Beachcomber's. He charters a plane for Los Vegas where they get married.

She lives with Rooney at his house in Woodland Hills. Dan Ducich contacts her and asks her for money as he has run into gambling trouble in Los Vegas, and the Mob is after him. She asks Mickey for some money to help him and he refuses.

A few months later, Dan Ducich is killed by the mob, shot in the head.

But problems happen: Mickey starts to fool around. She finds out. He appeases her by buying a second home on Lake Arrowhead, a Chrysler, a Chris Craft boat, and two horses. They start to live separate lives in separate places. Both get lovers. She asks Rooney for a divorce.

The divorce decree awards her the house on Fryman Road, the cabin at Arrowhead, a Century inboard motorboat, the Chrysler, assorted jewelry, $40,000 cash, and $17,500 per month for ten years.

So the Compton High girl does well, however Rooney only pays alimony for a year and a half. She went on to have a successful career in film and TV having supporting roles.

In his 1965 autobiography, Rooney blames part of their marriage problems on her past. But wait--he had nine wives... He once said: "Always get married early in the morning. That way, if it doesn't work out, you haven't wasted a whole day."

 

The Lady with the Walker

We were late for viewing first of ten previews at the multiplex cinema. I purchased the tickets, while Lois parked the car.

After getting the tickets, I noticed next to me was a woman in her eighties holding on to a walker. Her daughter had helped her out of the theatre and had gone for the car.

"How was the movie? I asked.

"It was terrible!"

"Terrible?"

"Yes, terrible. It was 'The Fockers.' The whole thing was foul," she said with anger and pain. "What a waste."

"That really sounds bad."

"Bad! There isn't any decency in movies any more."

"There ought to be a law," I suggested.

"Either that or offer free toilet seat protectors."