Shovelin' With Both Hands

A memoir is a fictional autobiography. You come out smelling like a rose, no matter how much fertilizer you shovel, and you have the luxury to edit yourself into something like intelligence.

Speck of Dust

down together
down together
down together
let's go down

together
down together
down together
let's go down

together
down together
down together
let's go down

together
down together
down together

yeah let's go

alright! alright!

we could find a speck of dust and scribble down our life stories

- The Refreshments

Conspiracy Theorists Please Stand Down

I remember it like it was yesterday. I was ten years old, and along with 202,676,946 fellow Americans and much of the world, I watched Neil Armstrong take that one small step for man. The microphone of my portable cassette player was draped over the tinny speaker of our black and white TV console as I recorded Walter Cronkite's coverage of Apollo 11. There wasn't a kid on this pale blue marble who didn't want to be an astronaut. And these guys did it with pocket protectors and sliderules.

I still have an original copy of Look magazine with a complete photo spread of the mission, as well as a commemorative set of 8 x 10 glossies issued by NASA. Mankind's most giant leap before or since!

CBS News Moon landing coverage with Walter Cronkite (7/20/1969):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_3vVjyqkwrw

Spaghetti

This spaghetti recipe seems like a no-brainer, but if you've never had it this way, give it a try.

Ingredients:

olive oil
16 oz package spaghetti
4 lb 3 oz jar Prego Traditional spaghetti sauce
2 small cans sliced black olives
2 lb bulk Italian sausage
1 large green pepper, diced
1 large purple onion, diced
6 cloves garlic, sliced
1 lb baby portobello mushrooms, cleaned and sliced
dried oregano
kosher salt
cracked pepper
8 oz wedge fresh Parmesan cheese, grated

Directions:

Take out 2 Dutch ovens (one for sauce, one for pasta)

In Dutch oven for sauce, saute purple onion and green pepper in olive oil. Sprinkle with kosher salt while sauteing. When veggies just start to soften, add garlic and saute until garlic is lightly toasted. Transfer to Dutch oven for pasta.

In Dutch oven for sauce, saute sliced baby portobello mushrooms in olive oil. Sprinkle with kosher salt while sauteing. Saute until juice from mushrooms is evaporated. Transfer to Dutch oven for pasta.

In Dutch oven for sauce, brown bulk Italian sausage (use small amount of olive oil, if necessary).

Transfer veggies from Dutch oven for pasta to Dutch oven for sauce with browned meat. Add Prego and stir. Add 1 T dried oregano, and 1 teaspoon cracked black pepper. Stir. Add 2 cans sliced black olives, drained. Stir.

Slowly simmer sauce for one-half hour. Wipe out Dutch oven for pasta and start water for pasta. Cook pasta according to package directions for al dente (remember to salt pasta water). Drain pasta. Toss with enough sauce to coat thoroughly. Serve with freshly grated Parmesan cheese.

This recipe will serve 4 with enough sauce left over to make baked mostaccioli the next night.

1 - 2 lb hot Italian sausage can be substituted for a spicy alternative.

Save the rind from the Parmesan in a plastic sandwich bag and toss into the next recipe where you want to add a rich depth of cheese flavor. The rind will keep in the fridge for two weeks and up to two months in the freezer.

We accompany this recipe with a simple spinach salad and Italian dressing, and garlic bread strong enough to knock a buzzard off a shit wagon. Don't forget a bottle of Chianti (you can always make a candle holder out of it).

Finish with spumoni ice cream.

The Andy Griffith Show, "Dinner At Eight," original airdate January 9, 1967:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0o0B8zeogjA

Just A Random Thought

Despite the paralysis and pain, and the physical and financial hardships, there is so much love in my life - my friends (virtual and otherwise), my family, my sons and daughter-in-law, my grandchildren, my cat, my home, and, of course, my wonderful, beautiful wife. But more than all of these, what I love and cherish most is my marriage.

My marriage represents a commitment I made, and have always kept, without regret. It represents a foundation that I built my life upon, and that structure has weathered many perfect storms. It represents every moment shared with the one person I was destined to love above all others.

Some people refer to marriage as a ball and chain. And so it is. But the ball is made of crystal and we can gaze into it and see each other's minds and hearts. And the chain binds our two souls for all eternity.

Night Terrors

Focus. Why can't I focus? Mist, glare, shadows; vague misty glaring shadows. I don't have my glasses on. Where am I? AM I NAKED?

Why can't I focus?!!!!

Tidal waves of fear. Tsunamis of terror. Razor-winged butterflies flutter in my guts. I'm pissing blood, spitting blood, crying blood. Coppery, crimson blood. I must reach shelter. I must find my way home.

Dark corridors. Oil drips down the dank cement walls. The dim fluorescent tubes in the flaking ceiling cast pale yellow shadows. Shadows scared of the dark, scared of their own shadows. They hide. They watch. They bide their time. They note the shapely musculature of your back. Mark precisely where the daggers they hold in their begored claws will penetrate your flesh.

A ticket booth. A hole in the glass to talk through. A hole with metal slats so no one can stick a gun in. A notice. No buses run today!!! No buses! I only have enough money for the bus, not enough for the train. How will I get home? Signs on the wall. Hieroglyphics. Microchip maps. Turnstiles. I grab a round smooth steel pole in both hands. It feels good. Tumblers click – chickchickchickchickchick. But the pole burns. My shriveled hands overflow with brimstone.

I am in a train yard. There are lots of tracks that are close together. There are many big locomotives. They are black. They are mean. A train is coming. I jump off the track but there is another track next to it. A train erupts out of a tunnel. I kneel down and cover my head with my arms. I feel it coming. Trains keep coming. They move fast. I can hardly move at all. I am afraid to move.

I am hiding in a backyard. It is cold and raining. A dog howls. Houses, telephone poles, fences cast shadows on the wet clinging grass. Something is chasing me. I still don't have my glasses on. I run but move in slow motion. My feet are lead. It gets closer. I try to run harder. Blind panic seizes me. It is right behind me. I am afraid to turn around. I avoid the shadows but they are everywhere. I must get away. I can't climb the fence. My clothes are ripped. My skin is torn. I am dirty and wet. The ground is broken. I try to climb up a hill. My shadow is ahead of me. I can't keep up. I slip on the wet grass and trip over tree roots. There is a road at the top of the hill. I follow it.

Riding in a car, an old car, a beater. The pale headlamps only enhance the darkness. It presses in close. I transmit vibrations. I receive vibrations. A girl in the passenger seat. A white fur coat envelopes her, contrasts her long, raven hair. She's smokes a cigarette. The tip glows deep orange in the gloom. She doesn't turn around. That is good. I cannot hide my thoughts from her. The driver turns, he is someone I know. I start at the recognition. He doesn't acknowledge my presence. Speaks to the person beside me, a cripple, a palsy, a defect. “You have purple teeth.” Why did he say that? I turn and look out the back window. Directly behind us is Cinderella's Castle. Ah, we must be near the Magic Kingdom.

Standing on a corner. I don't know where I am. Apartment buildings surround me. Curtains drawn. Lights shrouded. Shadows hide the drama. There are no people out walking their dogs. Walking each other. The corner is forlorn. Like a black hole, the corner consumes light and life into its infinite stomach of nothingness. Breathes in love like a vacuum. Exhales a fibrous mesh of despair and hopelessness. Off to one side a cat in heat screams. My hackles stand at attention up and down my spine.

A few blocks up there is light and activity. Neon sizzles. Crowds of people bustle and barter. The sounds of human intercourse. Muffled, carried on a sighing wind, reaching my ears like gibberish. The smells of human interaction. Musky, carried on a bleak breeze, reaching my nostrils like animal exhaust and the spoor of automobiles. Jubilant with the feel of life. I will go there. Maybe I will be able to get home.

Lights glare. Horns blare. The crowd reeks of reckless frenzy, revels in wild catastasis. They seem to move in some primeval dance, beating out a ritual chant as they slap each other's backs and buttocks. What unspoken plan do they all cleave to? Their expressionless expressions express nothing. Bumper to bumper traffic files past the outdoor booths, flea markets, and bazaars. Tension rolls off me. People yell and curse out of their car windows, cars that reflect their master's personality. A stranger beckons me over to his car, offers me a piece of candy.

Pockets of people swirl in droves around the booths and squares like the cursed moneylenders and merchants who mocked the temple of Christ. Wild-eyed women, swathed in silken veils, spin and weave, in an opium dream from the Arabian Nights. Swarms of human locusts descend and devour the offered goods. Old women claw and scratch each other in the shops over sordid wares while hard bodily men gamble and cast dice in the muddy streets. Fighting cocks screech in darkened doorways and wolfish dogs bay and rend the flesh of fellow canines for fun and profit. Hellish men with green fire burning in pits where eyes should have been bask in the blood and pain and fury. Streamers and ribbons float on the stagnant breeze and pennants flap from the tops of yellow and white striped tents.

I wander in and out of the vending caves avoiding the scattered and littered tables piled high with sensually pleasing items and objects of torture. I keep away from the mobs and the tables. Why are they watching me? I haven't stolen anything since I was a teenager. I'm cold and quaking with self consciousness. Alone I stand out. The stench of hostility parches my throat. I try to fade away in the crowd.

They know I'm not one of them. They sense me. Feel my fears. Prey on my prayers. They shove me aside. Give me horrid, warning looks, make no attempt to mask their malice, the cruelty in their glances. They bare their dripping fangs. I hurriedly slip away as two brawling brewers crash through the window of BEN WA'S CHINESE LAUNDRY.

A tall man-child, in sleeveless t-shirt, Bermuda shorts, and Wieboldt's dress shoes, hops from foot to foot. His leering grin is frozen to his gritty jaw as he tickles a middle-aged housewife. Her arms wave wildly in the air. She throws back her head, neurotic smile laminated to plastic face. Her eyes are glazed like a mounted fish. Licentious giggles froth from her hickeyed throat. I see their features clearly, too clearly, painfully sharp, concussively concrete. Is that my mother and father!?!

No! Please God NO!!! The crowd turns. Malignant cells of the disease. Focusing. Finally focusing. ON ME! Their hate, their fear, their loneliness, their confusion, their doubts, their frustration, their regrets smash against me. My skin withers. My defenses dissolve into the mist and swirling time-chaos. I succumb. I fall in a swoon. They are upon me.

At the far end of the street there is a bus. Maybe it will take me home. Ah, this is a strange scene. People jostle and struggle to get on board. Stampede, stumble to get on the bus. Parents say goodbye to children, tears stain their battered faces. Their thin arms hang limp, clutch torn and soiled dolls in chapped hands. The children stand as parents kiss their foreheads leaving a skull and crossbones where lips touch flesh. The children stand alone as parents grope and slash to get on the bus. A woman falls, screams. The mob pays no heed, tramples her into a maimed bloody pulp. The steps of the bus are slick with her glistening entrails. People stream and scramble up the steps, into the bus. I am sucked into the whirlpool. Sucked up the steps. Sucked into the bus. I motion to the bus driver who sits facing forward, heedless or uncaring of the carnage at his feet.

The driver turns towards me and smiles a toothy grin. What else could he do? The silver badge on the cap on his fleshless skull says MASS TRANSIT.

The O Man

Yesterday afternoon my son Ben called for Nik with a computer question. A while later he called again and said he was coming out with Owen. The "girls" were all out shopping, and we could visit with our grandson while he and Nik rebuilt his computer.

We happened to be having whole trout for dinner. Shellie bought them when she stopped in at Whole Foods after work on Friday for their one day only sale on cherries. We had the trout laid out on a baking sheet at the table where I was dressing the fish (lemon slices, sliced garlic, fresh dill sprigs from our garden, coarse sea salt, cracked pepper, and melted butter).

Owen was sitting across from me and I said, "Owen, look at this." Whereupon I stuck the tip of my finger into the fish's mouth, then I pulled back and exclaimed, "Oooh, Owen, he bit me!"

He looked at my finger (which I was holding up) with this look of concern, then up looked up at me and we both started grinning, and his whole face lit up. Then, of course, we made a game of it. It was the cutest thing.

A Long Bat and a Cold Brew

I hate to dignify these kinds of people by mentioning their names and giving them even more air-time, but sometimes it is a necessary evil to call these guys out.

Candidate for U.S. Senator from Virginia, Ed Gillespie, is the former Republican National Chairman and political adviser to president George W. Bush and Republican presidential candidate Mitt Romney. He went on to make millions as a corporate lobbyist on Capital Hill.

At a meet and greet with voters, Gillespie weighed in on the federal minimum wage bill. Referring to minimum wage jobs, he said, "It’s where you learn the social aspect of work, where you play on a softball team."

That's right. People struggling to keep a roof over their children's heads and put food on the table, who lie awake at night worrying about how to pay their medical bills before the creditors start calling, have the consolation of playing short-stop on Wednesday nights.

Ignoring the fact that most minimum wage workers rely on these paychecks as their only source of income, Gillespie stated, "It’s where you learn the great feeling at the end of getting that paycheck and knowing you gave an honest week’s work."

Young people, with their boundless energy and creativity, find that after the end of the week, "that paycheck" is not enough to venture out on their own. But that's okay because you and your other carefree co-workers can "go for a beer after work."

He goes on to say, "A lot of them are first time workers, it’s the first job they’ve ever had." An entire generation now in their twenties and thirties, floundered during the Great Recession, and minimum wage jobs were all they could get, if they were even that lucky.

This attitude downplays the fact that a large percentage of minimum wage workers have taken these jobs after being laid-off from long-time, higher salary careers. Gillespie refers to "second-earners in the family." Second-earners are people working to keep their family units above the poverty line. Senior citizens work past retirement age to supplement their meager Social Security check. But to Gillespie, "A minimum wage job is where you learn to get to work on time."

Minimum wage workers strain to make ends meet. Their jobs are thankless and often ridiculed. The work is physically and emotionally demanding. But there is the "great feeling" and "social aspect."

Gillespie says, "We want to...incentivize work in this country."

Salisbury Serves Up the Steak AND the Sizzle

In 1971 Uriah Heep released their second album, "Salisbury." It contained enough heavy metal and rock ballads to satisfy the fans of the first album, but it also featured the sixteen-minute and seventeen-second title track. This orchestral composition served as a showcase for the band's talents collectively and individually.

Paul Newton's bass work throughout the entire piece is phenomenal, a perfect symbiosis with Keith Baker's drums. Brass and woodwinds surround the percussion, opening the gates for keyboard impresario, Ken Hensley to take the stage. Thus is the multi-textured canvas upon which lead vocalist, David Byron, paints this simple picture of love won and lost with passion. He uses the power of his voice as a counterpoint to Mick Box's extended guitar solo that is nothing short of awesome.

With its driving force and upbeat tempo, "Salisbury" is a musical treat that brings back a flood of fond memories, as well as a fun listen for today.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3w_EHzCihzE

Grade Crossing

“As I was saying,” said the Realtor, “the rent is so reasonable because the apartment contains certain architectural peculiarities. But it is a large unit, in excellent condition, with many exciting features.”

The two-story, brick building sat on a long, tree-lined, suburban cul-de-sac with fifteen other identical dwellings. They looked to be around forty years old, but most were in good repair.

A group of East Indian children were playing kickball across the front lawns of two adjacent properties. A couple of Hispanic kids rode their bikes on the sidewalk, and an Asian girl, silky black hair shimmering in the sunlight, walked down the street, a pink backpack over her shoulders. Several vehicles turned onto the court, mostly newer, mostly SUV's. A two-door sports car drove by like a bass amplifier, pounding out the rhythm of a hip hop beat.

Casey Jay looked up at the second floor balcony. He didn't have any expectations, the apartment was renting for half the going rate, but he felt he owed it to himself to at least see it.

They climbed the inside stairs to the upper landing. The doorway to the apartment before which they now stood stretched from wall to wall and from floor to ceiling and was arched at the top.

“This looks like the entrance to a tunnel,” Casey Jay said.

The Realtor unlocked the door and it swung inward on large iron hinges. Beginning at his very feet, a set of railroad tracks ran down the center of the apartment and into a hallway that was also arched like a tunnel. The tracks were inset into the floor like a grade crossing, and parallel to the tracks was a full sized crossing gate. The ceiling seemed higher than he would have thought possible from the outside.

“Yes,” said the Realtor, “the dimensions in this unit are quite deceiving. You can see why we have trouble renting. The general contractor swears this was not in the original blueprints. City officials inspected the building. But when the developer first went to show the apartment, this was how they found it. There is no explanation. There was no way to get the heavy equipment up here to remove the tracks without tearing down the entire structure. But please, before you say anything, just look at the rest of the apartment.”

Casey Jay assented, not believing what he was seeing. However, the apartment really was surprisingly beautiful. The expansive front room opened up to the right of the tracks with the far wall encompassing the French doors that opened onto the balcony that he had seen from outside. The front room boasted hardwood floors and crown moldings. To the left of the tracks was the spacious dining room with built in butler's pantry and buffet. The adjacent kitchen was outfitted with the latest thing in soapstone counters, stainless steel appliances, and slate tile flooring.

Following the tracks down the hallway, he entered the commodious master bedroom. The tracks lay embedded in the parquet floor and continued through the bedroom until they ended abruptly at the western wall of the apartment. Through a conventional door on the right was a huge walk-in closet beyond which was the mosaic tiled en-suite master bath, complete with state of the art vessel sink, walk in shower and infinity whirlpool tub. A refreshing cross breeze was coming in through the open windows, which let in the bright and cheery afternoon sun.

Either I'm nuts or I'm missing something, thought Casey Jay, but in fact, he liked trains. As a child, one of his fondest memories was when his family would drive out after dinner in the Rambler station wagon to the cathedral-like Joliet train station that stood at the junction of a north-south and east-west line. He would play among the high wooden benches in the nearly deserted antique station, study the timetables, and talk to the ancient black baggage master. The highlight was certainly the mammoth, rolling, freight trains.

Many wonderful vacations started from the station when his family would travel west to visit relatives for the summer. He remembered going cross-country on the old Santa Fe Super Chief like it was yesterday. This led to his present day hobby of model railroading, and he owned a rather impressive O scale layout with vintage Lionel rolling stock from the 50's and 60's.

“I'll take it,” said Casey Jay.

The rental truck had been returned and Casey Jay gathered up the last of the pizza that he and his friends had not eaten. With the help of his “crew” the big pieces of furniture were in place. His bed was set up with the headboard against the south wall of the bedroom to the left of the tracks. His friends, after their initial surprise, liked the tracks and thought it somehow suited Casey Jay. One friend suggested that it would make a great pick-up line. He could tell a girl that he liked cabooses.

Casey Jay was just about to call it a night when bells started to ring. Red warning lights flashed, and the crossing gates came down. The front door opened by itself and with a push of air and a noise like an approaching tornado, a Burlington Northern diesel, headlamp shining, bell clanking, rumbled into the room through the arched tunnel-like doorway. Its green and yellow expanse filled the apartment as it headed down the hallway. The front engine was followed by a second engine facing backwards. Car after car passed through the room: tankers, reefers, boxcars, hoppers, and gondolas loaded with cargo containers that said HANJIN and “K”LINE on their sides. After several minutes of shuddering madness, the last of the consist rolled down the hallway. The clacking of wheels faded slowly away. The front door swung closed, and the crossing gate raised its now silent arm.

Some sort of auto-hypnotism, he thought. Power of suggestion. Too many anchovies on the pizza. He surveyed the tracks and the surrounding right-of-way. No grease marks, no scuffing of the hardwood. He followed the tracks down the hallway and into the bedroom. The wall where the tracks ended was completely smooth and without a mark.

The next day, Casey Jay broke down his moving boxes, and took a few minutes to relax on the denim sofa. He laid his head back against a cushion and must have closed his eyes, because he was suddenly jolted upright by the clanging of bells. Once again the red lights flashed as the gate came down. With a piercing whistle, an Amtrak locomotive exploded out of the hallway pulling a string of silver passenger coaches, a club car with observation deck, a dining car, and baggage carriages out through the open front door.

Casey Jay went downstairs and knocked on the door of his downstairs neighbor. A woman's voice called, “Who is it?”

“I'm your new neighbor from upstairs.”

Slowly the door opened inward, Casey Jay could see the chain tightening. A very attractive woman in her mid-forties with strawberry blond hair peered out. She was wearing a plush, white, terrycloth robe.

“Hi, I'm Casey Jay. I moved in yesterday and just wanted to introduce myself.”

“My name is Kathy. Welcome to the building,” said the woman.

“Thank you,” said Casey Jay. “Umm, I was just making quite a bit of noise in my apartment and I wondered if it was bothering you.”

“No,” said Kathy, “I didn't hear a thing.”

“Are you sure?” asked Casey Jay. “Being a new tenant, I didn't want to disturb anyone.”

“Oh, no,” replied Kathy, “you've been very conscientious. I watched you and your friends moving in yesterday, but after that I haven't heard a peep.”

“Well, I'm very pleased to meet you,” said Casey Jay. “I won't take up any more of your time.”

“Not a problem,” said Kathy. “See you around.”

Casey Jay returned to his apartment through the tunnel-like front door. He stood looking at the railroad tracks before his feet and the silent, upright crossing gate. He had work in the morning and wanted to finish setting up his new home. He had been in bed for a couple of hours when he was awakened out of a dream he couldn't remember by a deep thrum and the now familiar bells. A narrow-beam white light appeared and a diesel locomotive slowly emerged through the arched bedroom doorway. Casey Jay felt like he was drowning in sheer weight. He heard a metallic screeching, and as the behemoth approached the wall, with a series of echoing booms, it ground to a dead stop before the foot of his bed.

He reached over and turned on the bedside light on the nightstand. The blue engine with yellow Chessie cat painted on its side idled loudly, as if it had all the time in the world. Thinking quickly, Casey Jay grabbed his cellphone and pointed it at the cab of the engine. At that exact moment, a hiss of hydraulic steam puffed out, filling the room.

Casey Jay hit the speed dial for the Realtor.

“This is Casey Jay,” yelled Casey Jay into the phone. “There's a goddamn train in my room.”

“What's going on?” said the Realtor “It sounds like there's a goddamn train in your room.”

“There's a goddamn train in my room!” shouted Casey Jay.

“I'll call you in the morning,” said the Realtor. “Try to get some sleep.”

As if on cue, the dynamo idled up and with a jerk began to back out of the bedroom. Casey Jay watched as the headlamp receded, until it went dark and the bells from the front room fell silent.

The next morning the Realtor came over to the apartment. The digital photo that Casey Jay had snapped the night before did indeed appear to be a picture of a train, but the cab was dark and nothing could be seen inside. The picture was hazy as if seen through gauze, and somewhat out of focus as if taken by a quaking hand.

Casey Jay proceeded to the local historical society with the notion of finding out if the apartment had been built over an old Indian burial site, or once used as a hobo camp, or haunted by the ghost of a murdered conductor, but none were the case.

Back in his apartment, Casey Jay unpacked the last of the moving boxes. When the bells began to clang, it almost came as no surprise. The red warning lights flashed hypnotically, the gate descended, the arched tunnel-like front door swung open on its iron hinges.

“Enough is enough!” said Casey Jay. “This can't be real.”

He ducked underneath the crossing gate and stood defiantly on the railroad tracks. A low, plaintive whistle sounded as a Metra commuter train loomed through the archway.

After the body was discovered the next day by the Realtor, the coroner's report read in part as follows:

The deceased displayed signs of blunt trauma, massive contusions and severe lacerations consistent with major vehicular and industrial accidents. As of this date, the exact cause of death remains unknown.

Happy Independence Day!

A Skiff Made of Paper

On Thursday, July 3rd, 1776, fifty-seven representatives of the thirteen colonies suffered through a sweltering heat wave. They were gathered in a relatively small chamber in a meeting hall in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. But the heat of the weather was secondary to the heat of the debate as they hammered out the final language of the Declaration of Independence. They were embroiled in the midst of political intrigue and high treason. The consequences of their actions were staggering, the stakes unprecedented in human history.

So before we celebrate our nation's birth with cook-outs, and parades, and fireworks, let's take a moment to give thanks to the vision and sacrifice of our country's forebearers.

Ausgamecht

I belong to a writer's group that meets once a week at my local library. I enjoy the immediate feedback on my work, and hearing what other people are writing. A few weeks ago, one of the other fellows read a story about growing up in a Jewish neighborhood on the north side of Chicago, every bit as good as any Yiddishuh tale I've ever heard told.

Ausgamecht

by Daniel Staffin

The last faint echoes of the nineteenth century receded in the Chicago north side neighborhood where I grew up. The echoes were each and all old men who plied their trade house to house. Door-to-door salesmen still frequented the neighborhood. They were a disappearing lot who carried on more by habit than necessity.

They sold brushes, carpet cleaners, milk, laundry service, and there was one old world general merchandiser still on the job. I would see him plying the sidewalks in my neighborhood. They were not alley walkers the door-to-doors; no, they would walk up to a promising front door, ring the bell, introduce themselves, and begin their pitch.

They were, to a man, old, and their pitches practiced and smooth. There were pauses at appropriate places for civil discourse and transactions to occur. If the lady of the house wasn't interested, there was a pause after the introduction for a polite "No thank you," followed by a polite request for an appointment at another time, and so forth.

All deals were by word and trust. Cash was not necessary. The salesmen would settle for thirty days, a payment schedule, lay-away, or other arrangements. Whatever the parties agreed to was done by a handshake. It was another world, gone several generations now.

The merchandise man who walked our block was an expert in his own way, not smooth, and just at the edge of polite, the edge towards pushy. He was small, maybe five feet, but large enough to a six year old. I only saw him wearing black, hat, coat, jacket, pants, and shoes. The hat was a schtreimel, a style preferred by Orthodox Jews, and he had a hairstyle that matched; a long, full salt-and-pepper beard, as well as dangling gray forelocks called payot.

But his payot were different; they had tiny blue ribbons on the end, and they didn't dangle freely down, but stiffly out. I never saw him without the hat. For all I knew, the payot went with the hat, not the head. He was either roly-poly fat or he stored racks of merchandise under his wool overcoat, and I always saw him carrying two bulging, paper shopping bags, one in each hand. In this way he waddled down the street.

When I'd see him turn our corner, I'd skip over to him and fall in step for a bit. He mostly paid me no attention, except when he wanted to get rid of me he'd cough on me. He'd turn his head my way, lean down just a bit, and then as if I wasn't even there, he'd cough a big, phlegmy cough. I'd squeal, turn, and run.

Katie was serving me lunch. She was a black woman from Mississippi, and her cooking was hearty and spicy. In the early fifties she was called a maid, but Katie was actually my nanny. I loved her dearly, and she loved me in return. She taught me manners, civility, dance, and being on time. She was smart and well-spoken. She could turn the southern accent and attitude on or off at will. With me it was usually off, except when she told me about her Mississippi childhood.

While I ate, we listened to "Ma Perkins" on the radio. Suddenly the front doorbell rang, a rarity in our house, where the back door was in the kitchen, the center of most afternoon activity. Katie leaned back at the head of the table and looked out the dining room window to see who was at the door. She got up from the table and went to answer the door. I followed behind her. Katie told me to sit back down and finish my lunch, but I continued to follow and when she opened the door, I was hanging onto her skirt, peeking out from behind.

"Yessuh?" Katie said in Mississippian.

"Uh? De schvartzeh!" the little merchandise salesman said. "Vere's Raizelleh?"

Katie had been with us long enough to know what those words meant. Schvartzeh was a neutral term in Europe, there were few black people there, but in the USA the phrase had a racist edge. Katie didn't like him, but she was responsible for the household when my mom wasn't there. She had to adhere to the rules of polite behavior.

"Mizz Rose ain't here right now. She won't be back till laytuh."

"Vell, den I vill have to come back. Good day."

That was that. He didn't tip his hat, so again I didn't find out if the payot went with the hat or the head. He carefully waddled down the steps, a bulging shopping bag in each hand. Katie and I went back to our lunch and the conclusion of "Ma Perkins."

I had just sat down and had a bite when the back doorbell rang. Katie opened the back door and glowered at the little merchandise man standing on the other side, a bulging shopping bag in each hand.

We lived in a corner house, and perhaps he did not know it was the same household. He was a little startled when he saw Katie and she said clearly, "Yes, sir. What may I do for you?"

But he was experienced and recovered nicely with, "You be sure undt tell Raizelleh that if she don't buy sumting she vill be ausgamecht!"

With this he made a striking gesture with a thick pencil nub across his little, black order book. I thought this was great and started chanting, "Ausgamecht! Ausgamecht!"

The little man turned, blue-ribboned payot sticking out from under his hat, and waddled down the stairs, lifting his elbows a bit to keep his shopping bags from scraping the cement treads.

When mom returned home from shopping, Katie filled her in on the day's happenings. When Katie finished with the word 'ausgamecht,' my mom's forehead wrinkled and she said, "Oy."

When my dad got home, and my mom told him of the day's events and mentioned the word 'ausgamecht,' he said something stronger than 'Oy.' When my dad had cooled down a bit, I asked him what 'ausgamecht' meant. He told me that it was Yiddish or German for 'marked out.' Ous with an umlaut - out, and gemekt - to be marked. What the little man was telling Katie was that if mom didn't buy anything the next time he showed up at the door, he would cross her off his list. In Poland, this was important, not to be marked out. In West Rogers Park, not so important, perhaps even preferred.

As for the difference in spelling - ous gemekt and Ausgamecht - that word became forever after the name I associated with the little, door-to-door merchandise salesman. To this day, if you don't order something from a catalog after a few years you get a special catalog with the headline, "This may be your last issue if you don't order now!" That's the spirit of ausgamecht.

The same evening of the day that Ausgamecht got his name, he became a family legend.

After dinner, as dad was smoking his pipe and mom had finished washing the dishes, Ausgamecht toiled up the front steps, bags in hand, and rang the front doorbell. Mom answered the door. Ausgamecht spoke softly in Yiddish. His demeanor was formal and polite. Mom responded quietly in Yiddish with some deference. She invited him in and led him towards the dining room. Dad put down his paper with a sour look. He walked to the dining room behind mom and Ausgamecht, knowing that it was going to be an expensive evening. He hardly knew.

I watched from behind the kitchen door as mom and Ausgamecht sat at the bare dining room table. He put his shopping bags down on either side of the dining room chair. Dad did not sit. In English, Ausgamecht opened with, "Good evening Maxie, Raizelleh. Vaht can I do for you?"

Dad shifted slightly as if he were about to speak. Mom said quickly, "I need a tablecloth and matching napkins, placemats and hotpads for this table."

Dad pursed his lips. If I said or did something that made him purse his lips in that manner, I knew I was in for it. In one smooth motion, Ausgamecht reached into one of his shopping bags and extracted a large cellophane package, which he plopped on the table with a "THUD." There was a method to this. Weight equated with quality. After an appropriate pause, when all eyes were on it, he opened the package and revealed a beautiful cream-colored, linen tablecloth that had shiny metallic threads interwoven in lovely patterns, one of which was a Star of David. This was to become the tablecloth of record for every Passover till the coming of Elijah. Sale closed!

Then Ausgamecht turned to dad and with a gentle smile said, "Okay, Maxie. Vaht can I do for you?"

Without missing a beat dad said, "You can get me some string."

"Vaht do you mean, string?" asked Ausgamecht as he got out his little, black order book and thick pencil stub to write with.

Dad strode around him and sat down at the table. He began to describe the string in detail. It had to be sisal of a certain fiber length, so many fibers per thread, so many twists per inch, so many threads per yarn, so many yarns per string, rough finish, and wound on a particular commercial bobbin with a specific pattern. Ausgamecht feverishly scribbled in his small book, never looking up, his brow knitted in concentration.

Dad was a mattress maker. He made mattresses in the family business as he grew up, then he moved to Chicago to start his own successful company. He was well aware of the specification for the string used in the construction of box springs and he recited it rote for Ausgamecht to copy down. When he was finished with his recitation, he paused as Ausgamecht finished scribbling.

The little salesman said, "Okay, I can deliver. How much do you vahnt, Maxie?"

Dad waited a moment for effect, then said, "Enough to go from the tip of your nose to the tip of your putz!"

Then silence as Ausgamecht looked up at dad without raising his head. I disappeared farther behind the kitchen door. When dad swore, it meant trouble. I heard the little order book whap shut, and then the rustling as Ausgamecht gathered up his bags.

"Okay, Maxie, I gotcha. Raizelleh, dank you very much. I'll go now."

He and mom lapsed into Yiddish as she walked him to the front door. He did not tip his hat. Once again I did not find out that night whether the payot went with the hat or the head.

That was that, or so I thought. One quiet evening several weeks later, I was playing outside and saw Ausgamecht waddling up the sidewalk. As was the tradition, he ignored me as if I wasn't there. He trundled up our steps and rang the doorbell. Dad answered the door just as a big truck pulled up to the curb. It's been fifty years, I was a little kid, and any truck was a big truck. This truck was a BIG truck. Dad had a stunned look on his face and his paper fell out of his hand.

Ausgamecht said, "Here is da string you ordered. Exactly."

"What do you mean I ordered?" dad replied.

Ausgamecht said, "The tip of MY putz is in Warsaw! Sign here. Here's da bill; tirty days."

Dad was bound by honor. He sighed and signed. Ausgamecht turned around, waddled down the stairs and walked away, a bulging, paper shopping bag in each hand. Dad went to the truck's cab and gave the driver instructions where to deliver the string. The driver casually saluted and drove off.

I later learned that dad's company was still working off that string inventory when he sold the business a dozen years later. No one in the family brought up the subject, even on Passover when mom displayed her fine linen tablecloth and napkins with the ceremonial meal. Nobody raised the Ausgamecht episode in front of dad until he was an old, old man, just a few months prior to his death. He had forgotten much, but he remembered that.

"Warsaw," he said with a laugh.