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A Penguinmas Miracle

I’m out of this world!

In December of 1967, my mother turned twenty. Two days later, I was born. I always felt as if having birthdays two days apart made us even closer. Mom didn’t have a lot of money when I was very young, which isn’t anything I ever noticed. I never had big parties with lots of friends and elaborate gifts. What I had was a good meal, home made eclairs with ice cream, a few candles to blow out, and a few gifts, which always meant the world to me, as modest as they may have been. What I had most of, however, was love. I always cherished how Mom and I would celebrate together, on the day in between. My birthday has always been my favorite day of the year, thanks to all that Mom did to make it so special.

As I got older, I found out that I’m not the only one who loves their birthday. Mother Airline loves birthdays so much, they make it paid holiday. I love this, as I’ve always thought it best to work on your birthday. None of that taking the day off for me. I want the wishes. I want the dinner and a round of drinks. It’s the following day, which should be taken off- if nothing else than to recover! As Mother Airline ensures, it IS a holiday, like Christmas is the day for celebrating Christ’s birthday, I always wish others a similar holiday-styled greeting. Happy Jasonmas. Happy Lindamas. Happy insert-name-here-mas!
I scoff when people apologize for belated birthday wishes. Are you kidding? Make my birthday more than one day? Thank you, please! When I turned forty, I stretched it out to a whole freaking month! I had friends all over the globe, so I had a party at home in the Bay Area, I had a party with friends in Portland, I partied all month on layovers all over the country. I now see why they celebrate the emperor’s birthday in Japan. Were I emperor, we’d be all be celebrating my big day.
Penguin’s first birthday

Then I hit fifty. All of a sudden, I was of the opinion that maybe it was time to put birthday celebrations to rest, sort of like some people no longer celebrate birthdays, but anniversaries of past birthdays. How could I be fifty? I don’t act fifty, whatever that means. I don’t feel fifty, except when my back is in spasm, my eyes are blurry, I can’t remember what day it is…okay, maybe I do feel fifty!

Really, my fiftieth birthday was just another day. I felt no different at the end of the day as I had from the end of the previous one. Hide my calendar and I would have no idea I had circled the sun fifty times. As I fretted about turning fifty in the weeks leading up to it, the dread soon began to fade. I half wanted to celebrate Penguinmas in a big way, and, as I had done for my fortieth, in more than one location. However, I wound up keeping things fairly low-key.
With Penguinmas being a paid holiday, I picked up a trip to Lima, so I decided to celebrate on the day before, as I had done with Mom for so many years. As the day before came and went, I found some very special things, what came to be known as Penguinmas miracles.
As a stark reminder that this was my fiftieth birthday. I awoke, just barely, and began to stretch. Charlie horse. The pain was mind-numbing, but then I started to laugh. My cats backed up and watched in horror. Such pain and laughter all at once. We start losing our minds at fifty, don’t we? It was a miracle I made it to fifty. What a welcome!
When the pain subsided, I realized that I was hearing rain. It filled my home with that wonderful sound it makes as it hits my roof. My cats don’t normally sleep with me, especially the boy. This day, however, they were both glued to my side. Rain on my roof, a chill in the December air, cats at my side, warm covers, all I wanted to do was remain buried under there all day, but I had a lunch date, so I limped out to prepare for Penguinmas.
Driving in the cold rain across town was nothing in order that I could have a wonderful lunch with a good friend. We met at a nice pizza joint near downtown. The rain was relentless, which is not the type of weather I normally enjoy being out in. Rain is normally for naps under the blanket with cats and an old movie, pretty much the way in which my day had begun. Lunch was had, as well as a wonderful conversation. Better yet, it cost me nothing. For this, I’ll venture out any time, birthday or not, rain or shine.
Mom and both of my grand parents dote over me.

Next on the day’s agenda was drinks with one of my longest-time friends. Living in a high rise downtown, I always enjoy the views of one of my favorite skylines in the world. My love of architecture was born in Houston, because of the modern buildings, and they still catch my fancy. I love being in their midst. My friend and I had dinner at the Hard Rock Cafe, and he then treated me to a show. While not a huge fan of Winona Judd, I thoroughly enjoyed an evening listening to her tell stories between songs and carols on a stage, which was illuminated by several Christmas trees. It left me feeling very festive.
After the show, the fun continued by meeting a work friend for yet more drinks. I’m not a fan of bars, or the bar scene, but it’s fun to be out and mingling with the other humans. Since it’s something I do so infrequently, I quite enjoyed it.
Then came my favorite- SNOW! I know, in Houston! It was a Penguinmas miracle! It started to come

My grandparents just after the original Penguinmas

down around 10:00pm and it did so for quite a while, in large flake-clusters. The bar emptied for a few minutes as patrons, with phones in hand, set out for the photos that lit up social media. I’m not exactly a newcomer to snow, so I stayed put, sucking down my brew.

I remember it snowing in Houston when I was very young. Mom even picked me up from school early so I could go home and play. Now that I am a homeowner, it was nice to come home that night and see my lawn turned white-my roof as well. Nothing calms like snow. I’m such a penguin!
Penguinmas Eve turned out to be such a special day, but that would soon pale in comparison to my Penguinmas morn. This would leave me feeling like that Japanese emperor, and all of my fans were celebrating. I had so many calls, texts and greetings on social media, it took me over two hours to view and respond to them all.
Around my third birthday, possibly the year it snowed in Houston

It was the first time I’d seen this on such a grand scale. You see, I’m not very computer literate. For years, I have taken a few moments each day to wish friends a happy birthday on social media. Facebook is great at letting me know the day and rarely do I miss anyone’s big event. I’ve noticed in the past few years that I get far fewer greetings than I feel I deserve. I have invested a lot into celebrating friendmas’s, so I feel I’ve been on the short end of the stick with the comparatively few wishes I receive in return.

Recently, I was informed that my Facebook privacy settings were compromised, so I did some poking around. I found a box that was not clicked, something about displaying my birthday publicly. I clicked it. I have over 600 friends on Facebook who previously had not been getting the Penguinmas notification because that box had not been clicked. The flood gates were now opened. Of course, what resulted was me realizing that in the past, people had been recognizing my big day without being reminded by the big computers at Facebook central. This really made me feel special. I hadn’t been ignored the past few years, I was truly being honored by friends who knew of Penguinmas without the reminder.
Adding to the many emails of the day, a few years ago I figured out that most restaurants have birthday clubs, many of which present terrific birthday offers. Sometimes it’s a buy one get one free deal, which I had used for Penguinmas Eve. Other times it’s a free dessert with purchase. There are a few places that flat out give free food! I’ve always loved going to Denny’s on my birthday for my free breakfast. I normally do this alone, after all, who wants to go to Denny’s to celebrate a friend’s birthday? I say that every year, but as I’m sopping up honey with the fluffy pancakes, I’m always impressed at how good the meal is. I get a free BBQ sandwich from Dickey’s, a free slider from Zaxbies (they used to give a free combo meal), and Red Robin throws in a free burger with endless fries. I get so many deals, I don’t normally get to use them all.
Penguin and his mama

Eager to earn those holiday bucks, and milk my big day even further, I was ready to go to work and fly to Lima. When I got to work and checked my drop file, I found another Penguinmas miracle. I had recently attended the retirement celebrations of the 747 aircraft in Honolulu. I was sad to see her go and as an aviation enthusiast, I wanted to get my hands on the swag being offered. There were gift bags, special booklets and even commemorative pins to wear. Some of the swag was very difficult to get a hold of, so I had put out the word that I was seeking them. A flight attendant based in Hawaii found some swag, both relating to the 747 retirement, as well as from other aviation-related events. When I got to work, there was a large envelope full of neat little things, such as Mother Airline playing cards, pins, special aircraft engine coins and a lovely note. There was also a nice birthday card from my supervisor.

At the end of the day, I had extra cash in my wallet thanks to Penguinmas holiday pay, an inbox full of well wishes, a few great memories, some free meals, and I was in Lima, Peru. I joined some flying partners at the bar. It was past midnight, so Penguinmas was officially over, but the celebrations continued and I had a couple of drinks thanks to my crew. I may still organize a little celebration in the spring to be with my friends who live on the West Coast, but even if that slips past me, I had the kind of birthday I would be envious of. I’m glad it was mine, made special by the many people in my life who bring me joy. It really was a Penguinmas Miracle!

I feel like a king on my birthday
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Shopping on Lordag

Hot Texas skies over the IKEA parking lot

 

Such a day I had today. First was a family lunch to celebrate a 65th wedding anniversary. Afterwards, since I was in that part of town, I went to IKEA. I’ve always thought it interesting how in the cities where there is an IKEA, there is but one. The Bay Area had two, but they were in two different worlds, because the bay seems just seems to be as such. So in Houston, now that I live far north of the loop, it’s a big deal to get there, so I took advantage, against my better judgment of doing so on a Saturday, of being inside the loop to do some shopping.

It’s been over twenty years since I lived in Houston, so when going back to those old parts of town I’ve mostly forgotten about, I now use my car’s navigation. I told my car I was wanting to go to IKEA. My car gave me the directions to IKEA, but I guess my car had no further information, which was a shame. I mean, she tells me about traffic and which roads are closed, why can’t she give me some really useful information, like “You’re about to make a big mistake…are you sure you don’t want to just go home?” I pulled into the IKEA parking lot and quickly began to wonder what it was that they were giving away for free.

Everyone was at IKEA. If you were not at IKEA, where the hell were you? Nothing was being given away for free, but as I was buying a “Malm” dresser (Malm having a definition as being an artificial mixture of chalk and clay for making into bricks, which didn’t seem to have anything to do with the product I purchased, but they do have some weird names in there) I did learn that everything in the store was 15% off because of Hurricane Harvey. Nice.

An old photo of the Astrodome and its huge parking lot.

IKEA has a very large parking lot. I think the only Houston parking lot I’ve ever seen that is larger was the one at the Astrodome. One would go to the Astrodome for an Astro’s ball game, or the Houston Rodeo, or a few times I saw big concerts there, like Pink Floyd and The Rolling Stones. It would take half an hour to walk from the car to the entrance. It was a very large parking lot.

This was IKEA on a Saturday with a 15% post hurricane sale. Every space was taken. It was to the point that I got behind a car that was slowly trailing a young man with his flat-bed cart to his car. This flat-bed cart was filled to the brim. There really was no brim, but that’s the saying that comes to mind in seeing how full this man’s cart was with boxes, crates, bags and all sorts of nifty things from Sweden, or where ever they make Turd Berglin toilets, Fartful desks, Godis Skum marshmallows, or Stenklover bedsheets. (Those are all actual product names, I’m not making them up!) I mean, I saw trucks loaded with this much stuff when I was in India a few years back, and I was always scared that they would fall over onto us as we would pass them.

So I’m behind Mr. Dood in his big black Texas branded pickup, who is trailing this poor guy who is seemingly furnishing his entire house from IKEA, and thinking, dude, it’s going to take this guy another hour to shove all this crap into his compact car. Because that’s the kind of luck I would have, that he is driving a compact car. Finally, I get around Mr. Dood and find a parking space five spaces from San Antonio! I looked back towards IKEA, now a distant blue speck wavering in the heat of the parking lot. I felt like a kid again, off to the Astrodome, but instead of bull riding and pig races, I was surrounded by what, in many ways, seemed to be the same kind of animals, just not as much riding or racing going on.

With my purchases complete, I started back to my car at the far end of the west forty. It may have been the first full day of Autumn, but no one told Houston. It was broiling outside, and the sweat was now starting to soak my shirt. I was fading fast, but soon had entertainment. In front of me was a couple looking proud of the wares they were about to take home. The husband must have been bright enough to leave the shopping to his wife, while he sat upstairs eating Kottbullar (Swedish meatballs) and Knackerbrod Rag (cookies), because he was looking over the items for the first time. She had two large boxes on the bottom of her cart and he asked why she bought two.

“They were 15% off,” she gushed, “so together, I got 30% off!”

I nearly choked, but no one seemed to notice.

He caught on pretty quickly and responded with “Well, don’t you think we should go back and get four more and get 90% off?”

She stopped dead in her tracks, “Can we do that?”

“I don’t think it works that way, dear. I’ll explain it to you later.”

They reached their car long before I did, and wouldn’t you know that they had a Trump bumper sticker!

Again, taking advantage of being in this part of town, I decided to do another stupid thing. Costco on a Saturday. I could have just as easily walked into a biker bar and made an off-hand remark about Tankwelder’s mom, for I must have been out for punishment. One of the things I love most about my job is having weekdays off for such adventures as shopping at a Costco. I learned quickly to avoid this place on weekends like a cat avoids hairballs on a hard surface and instead makes sure to aim for the carpet. But the store near me was out of the candles they had advertised on sale and I knew the one on Bunker Hill had them.

Some funny IKEA names I found on line.

If you know Costco, like IKEA, you know that parking can be troublesome. I usually just aim for the far away spots and forgo the slow search up down the rows of shiny cars. As I got closer to the entrance, I kept seeing parking spaces closer and closer to the entrance. I wound up with rock star parking, space number one. Any closer and I would have been in the handicap spaces, of which in this row, there were only two. I couldn’t believe this prime score!

The walk to the entrance was now short, which sort of made up for the long journey to and from my car at IKEA. Then my heart sank as I saw the door to the entrance had been rolled shut. It’s funny, I never before realized that the entrance doors at Costco were really garage doors that rolled up and down. There, before me, was a large sign with red letters stating that Costco, on Saturdays, closes at 6pm. I looked at my watch. It was 6:14pm. No wonder I got such a close parking space.

I could see inside the exit door. There were still quite a few checkers working down the long lines of shoppers. There were still people meandering back and forth with their oversized shopping carts of such items at twenty-pound boxes of peanuts and bags of five loaves of bread. Emboldened, I meekly approached the two employees checking receipts and gave them my most tired-looking and yet pleasing smile that I could muster.

“I know you’re closed,” I said, nearly water-eyed, “but I just drove all the way from the North Houston Costco because they were out of the LED candles you have advertised, and they sent me here because you have them in inventory on the computer system.” (I’m not above innocent white lies to Costco employees fourteen minutes after closing.) “That’s the only thing I need to buy,” I continued, “could you let me in real quick, and I promise, that’s all I’m buying.”

Underpowered, they had to call for a supervisor’s approval. I repeated my story and he gladly let me in, showing me the way to the location of the candles in the huge warehouse. I was so glad they actually had them, because it was actually three days ago that I was at the North Houston location when I learned that they had sold out. I was told that the Bunker Hill store had over one hundred of them. All right, so I fibbed twice.

Closed entrance door to a Costco (not my image).

A mocha freeze

I’d spent nearly two hours in IKEA and felt like I had walked half way across Houston to do so. I was hot, sweaty and tired and I looked up on the wall across from the register for which I was in line and saw an image. Like a most wondrous mirage to one trapped for days in the desert, was an icy mocha freeze. It was only $1.45. It looked so cold and frosty, with a hint of chocolate. I think I would have paid $5 for it! It was just what I needed to cool me down on this first day of autumn, also known as the 216th day of Texas summer. There was still a line, so they were still open. So sue me, I lied a third time and wound up buying more than just the candles, but it was one of the best iced mochas of all time.

On the drive home I was treated to a fantastic sunset, complete with silver lined clouds and orange hues. There was no traffic until I got to my exit, which made me smile that I was avoiding it by such a close margin. It was a successful shopping trip. I found some needed items for my home, got some exercise, sweat like I was in a sauna, was entertained by a dim-witted woman who thought she got 30% off because she bought two items instead of one, and talked my way into a super-sized box store after closing. I’m in a good mood right now. Just wait until I start putting together my Malm dresser! Anyone want to come lend a hand?

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Adventures in Life: Fantastic Childhood

It’s amazing the little things the mind remembers from our long ago youth. I remember the strangest things from little me; playing outside with a yellow Tonka tractor, the busy street we lived  on, finding a decomposed cat skeleton and making my friend hold it on a stick, the elementary school I used to go to and how we used to play duck-duck-goose and hold classes outdoors, watching the old black and white Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde on a big screen at the nearby park community center, coming home as a latch-key kid and watching Donahue on TV and how I’d make fun of his name.  This was all when I was in first grade. Do they even allow first-graders to be latch-key kids these days?

New building but old name: Housman Elementary School
On nice days, we’d have class under the trees.

We lived in an apartment complex in front of which was a brick wall I used to walk along with my friends. We would jump down and climb back up. I once pushed a girl who was too timid to jump and when she landed she ran away crying. Turns out she sprained her wrist. I got in a lot of trouble for that one.

You can still see where the wall used to be!

The guy who drove me to school was a rotund guy named Moe. I had a red pencil eraser in the shape of W. C. Fields with a top hat. I had no idea who Mr. Fields was- to me he looked like Moe and that’s what I called the little red rubber man when I played with him.

Down the street was the day care Mom would put me in when she went out on dates at night and from time to time I’d be there during the day on weekends. I had girlfriend (as much as one in first grade could have a girlfriend) with red hair and freckles. The sitters would get us all in our cots and would turn the TV on to watch MASH. The name of the place was The Ark.

Freeman Park Center used to show movies for kids.

Mom was dating a man who would become my step-father. He was a funny guy with a thick New York accent that she and I would make fun after his visits. He was my introduction to things Jewish. That Christmas, we didn’t have a Christmas tree in the apartment, we had a Hanukah Bush.
Down the street was a Dairy Queen behind which was a large parcel of land full of trees. Winding through these trees were trails that went up and down dirt hills, around bushes and along the banks of a small creek. Older boys would race their bikes in this forest and I thought they were so cool. I couldn’t wait to get older so I could ride up and down and around the dirt trails.

The very DQ where Dad taught me about manners.
Cleared of trees and bike paths, now an empty lot.

And in that very Dairy Queen holds a very dear memory for me. My father had once picked me up for my weekend visit. I suppose this particular night, he was a little early bringing me back and we stopped for dinner at that Dairy Queen. It was during this meal that I recall Dad telling me about the importance of manners. He instructed me on my use of please and thank you, of yes ma’am and no sir, and this was the first time I heard the word chivalry. It was a strange word to such young ears, and it would be a few more years before I really mastered the meaning of the word.

I took a drive to the old neighborhood. It’s possible that I’ve not been back since we left, circa 1974. The forest of bike trails is gone; it’s now an empty lot and a huge church. The wall I walked on has been torn down but for its foundation and a strong iron fence stands guard instead. The old elementary school is all new and modern; the original since demolished. The park seems so much smaller to my adult eyes. The Ark is now a gas station.  And my father recently passed away.

Inside the DQ

Little from our past ever stays the same. Things change, evolve or give way. Friends disappear as quickly as they became known. People grow old and die. We move on. But there’s nothing like going back down memory lane and seeing what has remained as symbols to remind us that no matter how far we’ve come, our more simple beginnings can always be humbling. 

And as I finished my meal at the DQ (the same meal I recall enjoying as a boy with my father) the rain started coming down. It was Summer Solstice and a Strawberry Full Moon. I looked across the street to the park in which I used to play and then up to the sky. There were huge billowing clouds reaching the upper atmosphere. And closer to Earth…a rainbow. I smiled as I looked at the empty lot behind and for a moment saw the bikes jumping hills and heard a young boy cry out, “It’s getting late, ya’ll. I better get home before Mom worries.” I’m glad I’ve been able to keep parts of that little boy in tact. He certainly had a fantastic childhood!

A rainbow arcs across the skies over where I once lived.

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Adventures in Life: The Apartment

Apartment #1 on bottom left, this was the front door.

I love going back in time. It’s not so hard to do when you live in your home town. Every few years I enjoy driving back through my old neighborhood and seeing how things have changed. The U-Totem convenience store is gone, along with the old washateria next to it. It’s now a bright, shiny new home store. The old GM dealership on the corner is a beauty supply mega-store. The old House of Pies is still there, and then there is the apartment.
The old House of Pies on Kirby Dr., a Houston institution
The apartment I have the most memories of- some of the first and most impressionable memories of my childhood- is on the borders of the artsy Montrose and the affluent River Oaks section of Houston. This is the apartment were I went to kindergarten; I still remember Mom taking pictures of me and my friend, Dallas, on the day I started first grade. Wow, I had a friend named Dallas! In the alley behind the apartment is where I learned to ride a bike…my first bike, a Christmas gift, as was my first Lego set.
 
This is where I learned to ride a bike and I played in that very puddle of water!
This was the apartment where I lost my first pet dog in a battle with a car on nearby Kirby Dr. This is the apartment of my first pet cats, who had kittens in the living room. This is the apartment where I first noticed airplanes in the sky, where I played with Yvette in the bushes under my window, where I admired all the Halloween candy from the mansions a few blocks away, where I played in puddles after a rain and where, one day, I got in trouble for throwing rocks at passing cars. I was four…I had no idea that was bad. But I learned!
Mom was young and struggling after her divorce to a man who turned out to be a selfish, egotistical piece of work. When her struggle became too much, she would walk me onto an airplane and send me to my grandparents. This is the reason I’m so close to my family, and Mom’s independence and ability to overcome her struggles was passed on to me.
For years I’ve driven by this apartment and watched as it got new paint jobs, new flowers in the yard, new curtains in the windows. Eventually, some of the neighboring apartments were torn down and up went shopping strips of furniture and children’s toy stores. Then today, some 44 years after I lived there, as I drove back in time, my old apartment itself has been turned into a store! It’s now an annex of the very store that overtook the neighboring buildings.
These door used to the our covered parking space.
I had planned to park and take some photos, afraid that one day soon, I’d drive by and it would be gone. But I guess that apartment had good bones, for there it was, just as I remembered it, except that the front yard was now paved for cars to park and people shopped for home goods in the place where all my oldest memories were formed. If they only knew! I went inside; something I’d longed to do for oh, so many years.
I walked into what used to be my living room. I could still see the Christmas tree and remember asking Mom how Santa was going to enter without our having a chimney. She told me he had magic keys and would walk in the front door, which was now blocked by a table showing off fancy plates and glassware. This was the room where I discovered Batman on TV, would first watch The Wizard of Oz and laugh at the antics of The Three Stooges before leaving for school (the Montessori school I attended is still there). This was the room my father got into an argument with a man my mother was dating. It made me cry, as it was the first time I realized that my father was flawed.
It was in this corner Mom had our Christmas tree.
As I walked to where my bedroom used to be, I could see where the window was, now blocked by a shelf full of stemware. The space between our apartment and the building next to it has been connected, so instead of the large bushes just outside are now candles and fancy candle holders. That window was home to the air conditioner, that beautiful machine. I loved the sound it made, lulling me to sleep and the cold breeze it provided on sultry Texas nights.
The window of my bedroom used to have a large bush.
Suddenly, I realized that I was standing in the place where, each night, I would lie my head and fall into dream land. The glasses on the shelves blurred through the tears forming in my eyes. I could still see the walls that were now gone, and the posters I had hanging over my bed; see the hole in the ceiling of the bathroom that fell in after the upstairs flooded. (I was able see the upstairs neighbor’s tub when that happened!)
You can see where the walls were. Upper right was the corner of my bedroom; left was the kitchen.
To my right was where my Mom’s room was. I could still see her teasing her hair in front of the mirror in the corner. Beyond her room was the small 1-car covered parking space. And behind me was where our kitchen used to be, the same kitchen Mom worked so hard on to paint…yellow and orange, if I remember correctly. She was such an artistic rebel!
Standing in Mom’s bedroom, the kitchen was on the left and my room was behind that column.
From the living room looking to the back of the apartment.
Now, it was all a huge showroom for Kuhl-Linscomb, a top-end design and lifestyle store. The hardwood floors were now stained concrete, but one can still see where the walls used to be. So many memories from 44 years ago came flooding back as I looked around. This is where I learned to tie my shoes. This is where I watched Carol Burnett. This is where Mom cut her wrist on broken glass and I remembered how badly I felt for her while she cried as we drove to the hospital. This is where I lived when I first went to Astroworld (gone), first went ice skating at the Galleria, first ate wonderful greasy burgers at the Purple Cow down the street from Arthur Treacher’s Fish and Chips (both gone). 
Where the bathroom used to be. You can see the hole in front of the column where the toilet was.
The thrill I had in riding my bike up the parking garage of the building around the block, the top from which I could see the Astrodome, was still with me. I loved that damned building with it’s magical light-up scoreboard with fireworks displays, eventually removed for more seats; yet another sad change from my childhood. Some of the quirky apartment homes in the neighborhood that I loved remain, but many have been torn down and converted to townhomes. How times have changed…how many 4 and 5 year-olds ride their bikes without supervision in the busy streets of Houston today? 
Of the quirky apartment buildings still stands a block away.
So if you find yourself in building 3 of K-L looking at wine glasses, this is where a very young Penguin would attempt to make himself appear hot at night so Mom would turn on my air conditioner, allowing me to sleep better. (To this day, I still sleep with a fan at night.) Take care of my apartment Kuhl-Linscomb. I want to come back and visit again. The old apartment has changed. But so have I…and Mom, too. Just like that home to a single mother struggling to make ends meet and raise her son, now a quaint shop of high-end home décor, we’ve come a long way and are doing much better for ourselves. And don’t worry about Santa, he’s gotten in just fine before!
Where this pickup is parked used to be a large bush under which I would play with Yvette and Dallas.
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Passenger of the Day: Grape Ape

He looked like a giant grape- hulking 6′-5” frame with broad shoulders in a purple polo shirt. This grape ape was topped with dark, curly hair, and had a beard. He sat in 4A next to a woman who appeared to be his mother. She was less than normal-sized- a petite thing, also with curly hair but a strange tan/brown combination, maybe from a few too many dye jobs. They were on their way back to Houston from Santiago and seated in first class.

During boarding, I asked what he wanted to drink. Champagne was the response and I thought to myself, “Good for you! That’s what I would order.” Mom had a gin and tonic. Ick. I like a gin and tonic about as much as I like fruit cake.

He asked for a second glass before we closed the door, just as I would have. Nothing like a bubbly induced tipsy feeling when headed down the runway at a few hundred miles per hour. He tasted every course served during the dinner service, practically licking the plates clean. He asked for wine with his meal, followed by a coffee with Baily’s and then a Jack and Coke. He was taking advantage of every little thing in first class, as if he were an employee, non-revving (flying for free), and not able to enjoy this kind of service too often, as most employes would.
Consulting with the passenger manifest later in flight, I discovered he and Mom were, indeed, employees. One of the most popular benefits of the job is enjoying the best seat on the plane that is available. The seats are divvied out by seniority, and that’s why any flight attendant you may know always talks about their hire date. Seniority can be better than money!
The Grape Ape was a very nice man; polite and soft mannered. He was never presumptive or rude. He knew his place, automatically ordering his second choice entree, knowing that being low on the totem pole meant he might not get his first. Mom was quite kind, as well. It is a nice thing when coming across manners in first class. Not everyone who flies in first class acts first class!
Serving the Grape Ape was fun, as I very quickly realized that he enjoyed first class in the manner to which I do, and I was able to anticipate his desires. Without asking, I handed him the fruit and cheese plate following the main meal and had already began to hand him a glass of port before asking if he’d like it. The Grape Ape consumed his fruit and cheese just in time to take advantage of the ice cream sundae as the credits to the movie he’d been watching began to scroll.

During the landing/breakfast service, when asked what he wanted to drink, he asked for a mimosa. I still don’t understand ruining good champagne with orange juice, but knowing this passenger so well, I brought him a small bottle of champagne and two glasses half full of orange juice, so he could make his own as strong as he wished. He was quite impressed, as was his mother. They thanked me so much during the services, I was this close to suggesting they simply hold off and give me one big thank you at the end of the flight.
As they left the plane, they looked around the galley corner to find me standing by door 1 Right. They thanked me once more, reaching out to shake my hand. It’s always nice to give someone a great experience on a flight. To me it doesn’t matter if a passenger is an employee, a high yield flier or someone flying for the first time; I want everyone to have a great experience and I’ll do what I can to make that happen.
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View to a Thrill: Made in America

Houston Courthouse 

The first piece of furniture I ever bought was a queen-sized bed. I’d moved off campus into an apartment and needed a bed. If you lived in Houston in the 90’s, you know there was one place to shop for a mattress – “Mattress Mack’s” Gallery Furniture. He did his own commercials, jumping up with a wad of cash and a goofy smile exclaiming, “We’ll save you…MONEY!” To this day when I see the exit sign off the interstate, I remember him also saying, “I-45 North, between Tidwell and Parker.” Effective advertising.

With mixed emotions, I recently performed my civic responsibility by serving Jury Duty. Driving to the courthouse downtown, I passed Parker and remembered, “I-45 North between Tidwell and Parker.” Twenty-seven years after buying my bed, he’s still there. So, on the way home, after not being used, (it would have been a boring DUI case, anyway; I’m sure the guy was guilty) I stopped in.
What used to be a small, somewhat dumpy metal building with furniture outside under a large shade structure, is now one of the largest furniture stores in the country; quite grandiose, with large statues, water fountains with live tropical birds, a huge rotunda and even a display of live monkeys. Being Houston royalty, as it were, it wasn’t too surprising to see several areas devoted to his ego, with plaques and photos and displays of Jim McIngvale alongside other Houston royalty, presidents, and sports legends.
What got me most were the numerous US flags and the continuously running infomercial on the many TV screens throughout the show room with an annoyingly twangy country song going on about god and country, images of Old Glory waving, of a Marine and his bride on the steps of a church, of families and children eating hot dogs, and there was a much older, but still sort of goofy looking, Mattress Mack declaring how his furniture store now leans toward items made in America. Red, white and blue. God. American proud. Sappy music sung by a nasally challenged man. ‘Murca!’ (the term a certain inept president recently made famous).
Chilean friends being silly

Earlier this year, I had my first trip to Santiago, Chile. I’d never been to South America until transferring to our Houston base, and it’s been great getting to know the culture of our neighbors to the south. Upon meeting some friends of a friend, I was asked how I liked Santiago. I told them how much I loved the huge Andes Mountains and hadn’t expected the city to be so much like America, with Denny’s, P.F. Chang’s, Fuddruckers, and all the standard fast food restaurants, of course. They looked at me like I had two heads, “Well,” they said, “you ARE in America.” South America.

Of course, I was.
I’d fallen into that trap that so many from the US fall into; thinking America is all there is. People in South America see themselves as American’s too. Made in America, technically, means it could be
made in Canada, or Chile, or Argentina. We seem to forget that we are not the only Americans.
One of Mack’s monkeys

Ever since my new friends in Chile reminded me that we are all American’s, I’ve tried to be more aware of how I use “American”. It’s impressive how people can stand so tall and proud for their homeland. I wish as Earthlings, we could stand a little more in unison of the fact that we are all on this rock together and try to get along a bit more comfortably.

I’m fortunate to have the kind of job that really opens one’s eyes to new concepts, as well as the chance to explore new cultures. I once heard that after being a flight attendant for a while, you learn enough to earn a college degree, and this situation reminded me of that. I love seeking knowledge and exploring new worlds and learning new insights. The world to me has gotten so much smaller with this job. And so much better understood. I wish more ‘Murcan’s could do the same.
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Adventures in Flight: Closing a Chapter

 

I walked into the terminal at SFO all smiles and my head held high. Sure I was going to Beijing, and there is a lot to smile about in going to China. However, as I filed down the hallway among other airport employees and flight attendants, I had a feeling much like that of just after I was hired. There was a newness, a feeling that I was standing at the edge of a great adventure, knowing my life among the clouds was about to begin, that my travel lust would certainly be entertained.
Planes of the SFO International Terminal
This was to be my last flight as a San Francisco-based flight attendant; and perhaps it came too soon – I still have business cards not handed out!
For me, it was a momentous day. I parked on level 7 of the employee parking garage, as I always do. It affords such a wonderful view of the airport and of our gates at SFO. I can see the metal birds tearing down the runway and taking to flight. Often, I arrive early just to sit and watch, as I did on this day, taking a photo for posterity. For others, it was just a day, but I appreciated all the things I was going to miss about living in the Bay Area and being based at SFO. I was going to miss this view when parking for work, but I was also excited for the adventures that lie ahead for me in Houston.

The view of SFO from where my car was parked.
When I walked into the briefing room, the purser had arrived early and placed in each of the chairs our briefing sheet a puzzle page from the newspaper and a small bag of M&Ms. I had flown with this purser a year ago, when I last visited Beijing, and she had done the same thing. She must get Christmas cards from M&Ms! What a great way to start my trip.
There were 15 flight attendants working a 747. Normally, I am the most junior, number15, and I don’t have to choose where I’ll be working, I simply take what ever position is left. Today, however, there were 2 junior to me. It’s been years since I’ve worked in the premium cabins, as they always go senior. I know the service well in the back of the plane and I do well interacting with customers and reacting to minor medical issues that arise from time to time. Today, however, I would have a choice of 3 positions from which to choose, and when they got to number 13, the upper deck galley, a business-class position, was still available.
I remember my first flight on a 747. I’d been flying less than a year and got a trip to Narita, Japan. Those days, we were staffed fully and there were 19 flight attendants. Somehow, I was juniored into the upper deck galley position. The crew was great about it, saying they’d work with me. I worked with 2 great people who would help me along, telling me what to do next in the galley as they went into the aisle with queen carts. I did a great job, in the end, garnering quite a few kudos.
When I get to Houston, there will be no more 747s to work. Until things change, which in this business, they always are, this would be the last time working a 747. There’s talk of retiring the fleet. I will miss working this wondrous bird if they go away.
747 taxiing at SFO
When seeing that the upper deck galley was still open, I decided to go for it. What better way to spend my last flight on the 747 before leaving SFO than working upstairs and having this experience bookend my first flight?
Now that there is only 1 aisle flight attendant, there is more work involved than my first experience upstairs. I worked with a girl named Lulu who shared my enthusiasm and positive attitude. We worked quite well together and had a good time. I soon realized that I preferred working in economy. Upper deck is much less social. When Lulu left for her break, I was left all alone for two hours with no one to talk to.
The service went swimmingly and had I been more familiar with that galley, I could have worked much smarter. Fortunately, the purser came up to give us some help. Help? Sure, while greatly appreciated, she would leave my galley a terrible mess where I am normally very organized.
It was good to finally reach the stage of flight where I took my jumpseat for landing. I could have been landing anywhere in the world. The upper deck jumpseat has no window and the passenger windows I had visuals with, all two of them, were closed. I had to sense the plane to determine at what point to assume my landing position which I got, spot-on.
It’s sad to be leaving but I’m anxious for the next chapter of my life, returning to my home town of Houston and enjoying life in new skies. It’s sad that I won’t be working 747s very much, if even at all, but at least I still have the wondrous metal birds to take me to my next adventure. Onward and upward!
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Mrs. Booker

When I was eight I lived on Creekbend Dr. in the southeast side of Houston. At one end of Creekbend was a park; I lived at the other end. To find the house that I lived in, head up the long first block, then cross a street, which ended at Creekbend. Ours was the brick house with brown trim, second from the corner of the second block.

Other than the community swimming pool, the park at the end of our street wasn’t necessarily the fun kind of park, with swings, trees and such. It was just an open, grassy area with a few basic baseball diamonds and plenty of room for a football or soccer game. And at the opposite end of the park from the street on which I lived was the elementary school at which I attended third grade.

Thinking back on those days has always given me warm feelings. I’ve often felt that the time I spent in third grade was my favorite time in life. The oppressive Houston heat never bothered me then. I had a yellow Schwinn bicycle that I loved to ride. I was active in Cub Scouts and played soccer. I enjoyed school and remember many of the things I learned back then to this day. In fact, I seem to remember more of the things I learned in the third grade than any other grades. I’m not saying I didn’t learn much outside of third grade; after all, I did graduate high school with honors. But the things I learned when I lived on Creekbend have always stuck with me.

It was in third grade that I learned such things as the basics of geography and of the four directions. I also learned the basics of astronomy, which in college would be my favorite subject, along with history. It was in the third grade where I first learned about the concept of time, and how we would be reaching the year 2000, when I would be 32. I got my first wrist watch during this time; it was a racecar watch; a gift from my grandparents.

Every day, after school I would play with Robert, my best friend who lived two houses up from me. We used to watch TV shows and make tin foil boats to float in make believe rivers flowing through worlds created in the sandbox in his back yard. He and I created a language of code that no one else could understand and we often found ourselves playing in the hills of construction dirt, hiding behind them as we threw dirt clumps and small rocks at one another–war. Star Wars was our favorite movie and my C-3PO impression kept all the kids laughing. And it was during the third grade that my brother was born. Ah, Creekbend- so many great memories. I even convinced a dim neighborhood kid that I was from Pluto when he asked where I had come from after jumping out of a tree just behind him. Good times.

Since we lived so close, I would walk to school each day. It wasn’t far at all, but back then, to a nine-year old, it sure seemed to be. Parker Elementary was shaped like an E, with three wings extending from a main wing with the cafeteria and auditorium near the bottom wing of the E. My classroom was at the end of the hall and looked into the courtyard between the top wing of the E and the center. In command of this square room was Mrs. Booker, our teacher.

Mrs. Booker was a short-thick woman with light colored hair. Thinking back on her now, she was probably in her thirties. The one thing that always stands out to me about her was the way she wore her sweaters. Her bosom was ample and the sweaters were tight. She used a wooden pointing stick and at times, like when waiting for a student to give her an answer, she would bounce it off of the stretched material between her breasts. The stick would bounce back and forth- to and fro. She used the resilient force of her sweater to bring the stick forward and let it fall back again on its own, keeping me mesmerized as she did this. There were times she didn’t have her stick, but instead a ruler. But just as with the stick, Mrs. Booker would bounce that ruler on the sweater between her breasts, oblivious to the amazement going on in my head at the sight.

I loved Mrs. Booker – and no, not for the sweater trick. I loved her for the things she taught me. One day I did poorly on a spelling test. After she passed the results back to the students, she came around to go over them with most of us. One of the words I missed was “creek”. When she reached my desk she pointed this out to me with the question: how could I miss that word when I lived on Creekbend?

At first I was amazed that she knew the street on which I lived. But what she had just done was helped me realize how the world, or learning, was inter-connected. It hadn’t dawned on me to utilize my knowledge of spelling my street’s name to figure out how to spell creek. There were numerous resources at my finger tips. I was now on the path to super genius status thanks to one question from my third grade teacher.

When I think back on Mrs. Booker, it’s not for this that I most remember her, however. That was but a small example of the impression she left on me. It’s not for teaching me east from west, nor for her role as teacher during what I now call my great brain expansion. What I remember her for, more than anything else, was opening my eyes to color. Not the spectrum of color, but in people- skin color.

During what I must now presume was February, since that’s Black History Month, I recall Mrs. Booker getting us all quiet and settled down one afternoon and she started telling us about black people. She said many had been brought from Africa and been enslaved. She said blacks had endured many hardships living in America, but since the late sixties, had come a long way in gaining equal rights. But then she got more serious, her eyes squinting and her head moving closer to us, and she said there was still a long way to go.

For the first time since I’d met her, I saw that Mrs. Booker was a black woman. I looked around the room at my classmates and saw that some of them were also black. Others, I realized, were brown. And at the front of the class, my black teacher then thrust her left arm towards us and with her right hand showed us that the color of her skin doesn’t rub off. I thought this was silly, and had she not been so stern-looking, I might have let slip a laugh; the thought of skin color rubbing off. But the image was one that kept with me for many years.

That day, as I walked down Creekbend Dr. on my way home, I studied the people I passed to see who was white and who was black. Then I started to remember people in my past, friends of my mom and the bus driver at my previous school, who were black. I had never noticed.

I recalled my paternal grandparents, who grew up in the Texas Hill County, referring to some people as colored, or as worse. Those terms would never again sit well with me. I understood about prejudice being in the world without even having to study it. Not to say that my grandparent’s were necessarily prejudiced. They grew up in a world where that is simply what they called black people. I never recall them saying anything untoward of a black person. They used the terms as they would to call someone a German or a farmer or a bus driver…colored.

As I got older I could see the prejudice others had towards people who were different from them all around me. And it wasn’t just directed towards blacks; Jews, hicks, Asians, Muslims, anyone different. And as I was witness to it, I would often study it, much like a dog might study a new person in their midst. I wanted to better understand how people could feel a certain way about a group of others without any sound reason. As you can see, before Mrs. Booker, it was quite foreign to me.

What I found, especially in my friends or acquaintances, was that it appeared to be passed down from their parents. Mom never allowed me to judge a book by its cover. I was taught to look things up when I went to her with questions; to be independent and free-thinking. So I realized how fortunate I was not to have picked up bigotry from my home, as so many others around me had.

So I’m quite proud that it took my third grade teacher to open my eyes to skin tones and prejudice. It’s not something I learned at home. And for that I thank my mother…and Mrs. Booker.