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."

The Doctor is In

"May I help you?" said the young receptionist with a serious tone.

"Yes," I said. "I'm Mr. Chance and I have an appointment."

"Please be seated and Doctor Libby will be with you shortly."

I sat down on the family room couch, and watched Libby the receptionist morph into Libby the doctor. I am in a five-year-old's world.

Enter Dr. Libby: "How are you doing Grandpa, ah, I mean Mr. Chance?"

"I haven't been feeling well at all."

"Please lie down over here," pointing at the recliner chair.

I sat down and laid way back. Dr. Libby climbed up on my stomach, and with her magnifying glass, thoroughly checked my ears, nose and throat.

"I see the problem. There's a monkey in your left ear. After I remove it and you will feel better. Now, Mr. Chance, these are pliers and they will help me remove the monkey. They won't hurt you; I don't want you to be afraid."

"Go ahead and get that monkey out of my ear," I said with a grimace.

"There you go; you should feel better now."

"Dr. Libby," I said, "I also am having problems with my feet."

Dr. Libby took off my shoes and socks and checked my feet. Embarassing, as my toenails are really ugly. Frowning, she asked: "Is the problem with your toenails?" .

"Yep."

Dr. Libby put my socks and shoes back on. "I only do feet on Sundays."

End of appointment.

The Afro and the Birdseed

As soon as the passenger from a connecting flight filled the remaining empty seat next to me, we would depart on the late night flight to San Francisco. Twenty-five minute delay so far.

It was 1970. We get the same travel hassles today, except the airlines used to do it for a profit.

The guy seated in front of the empty seat sported a well kempt Afro that slightly infringed on our space. I thought he might have worked for IBM, as he was wearing the official IBM uniform--an expensive dark suit.

Finally! There was activity at the front of the aircraft. She came running down the aisle like the White Rabbit, carrying too many bags that probably added ten minutes to our delay. Breathing hard she threw everything in the seat and then started to store them in the overhead locker right over the Afro.

She managed to find space for everything but her large purse, which looked like a large straw hat turned upside down. As she lifted up the purse to try and cram it into the locker, it tipped and at least a pound of birdseed poured out on the Afro.

"Oh, my God," she mumbled, and proceeded without permission to dust the Afro. The owner of the Afro put his hands up to cover his head, but said nothing. Nobody said anything about the strange juxtaposition of an Afro and a pound of birdseed. Maybe taking off was more important.

The stewardess expedited the departure process by helping her get buckled in her seat. I had a short conversation with her and found out that she was from Boise, kooky, and not worth the energy to continue the conversation. I never learned the story of the birdseed in her purse. When we deported at SFO, I walked behind the the Afro. It was full of birdseed chaff; the chaff also covered his shoulders like terminal dandruff. I resisted the impulse to brush it off.

(Strange behavior: thirty-some years later, I know I would whisper, "Hey, man, where did you get all that birdseed in your hair?)

I arrived at the hotel at midnight. As I brushed my teeth, birdseed fell out of my hair into the sink.