Mr. Bear Goes For a Plane Ride

When my daughter Kathleen was little my Dad found a stuffed bear at a garage sale. He bought it for a buck and spent who knows how much having it cleaned. Kathleen loved that bear. He’s white, fair size and real cuddly. I have pics somewhere of my wife sleeping on the sofa curled up with Mr. Bear (that’s his name). So some years went by, and Kathleen went to the hospital to have her appendix out. She didn’t care about anything but having Mr. Bear. So he came to the hospital. I don’t know how Hospital staff felt about it but Mr. Bear was cool. Fast forward to 1994 and I was diagnosed with kidney cancer. I don’t remember when the condition manifested itself, probably around August 10^th, After a series of very comprehensive tests I got my diagnosis on August 19^th. Kathleen was living in France, she and her husband were on vacation in the Pyrenees in the Southwest and we couldn’t contact them. So I went and had my kidney removed. The surgery was on Friday the 26^th. My wife was able to contact Kathleen that weekend and while I couldn’t talk to her Mom assured her the operation went well etc. When you have serious abdominal surgery they keep you in the Hospital until all your functions are normal so I was looking at a week at least. I had lots of visitors from Monday on and Wednesday morning a biiiiiiig package showed up. Mr Bear climbed out and spent the rest of my stay watching over me. When you are a Quality Manager with a “Certain Reputation” having a big white stuffed bear on your bed gives people pause but most of them understood. The ones that didn’t needed to get a life. Mr Bear was watching out for the Cancer Demon one day while I took a nap. When I woke up a guy named Phil Menchaca was sitting in my visitors chair. Now Phil was the Union business agent. He was a long time friend and a decent guy as well as being one of the best workers we had in the plant. I called him “No fuss Phil”. He made every job he did look easy. He smiled and said “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anybody” And he didn’t. Mr. Bear came home from the Hospital with us and when Kathleen came back from France he departed our house and went back to live with her. He’s retired from guard duty now but spends his days on the bed in Kathleen’s spare room relaxing from a busy life. I hired a Gargoyle to replace him. Gerard lives in the garage but he’s on the job twenty four/seven. And so far he hasn’t let us down. That’s seventeen years of life that I have had because of a great surgeon named Lawrence Hildebrandt and an anesthesiologist name Paul Page. And some luck. Mr Bear saw the whole thing. 

Sleepwalk

Stopped at the drugstore today on my way home from lunch. Got back in the car and when the Satellite radio came on Santo and Johnny’s big hit “Sleepwalk” was playing. Now you might think Sleepwalk would take me to section 1962 in the Interior Stadium. Not so. In 1992 basically on a *dare Marilyn and I bought a silver Mitsubishi 3000GTSL. Our Italian students called it the Squalo. It was the coolest car (next to my FIAT 2000) I ever owned. So Marilyn and I went to Santa Cruz, in that silver rocketship, wearing cool clothes and cool sunglasses, fast. Saturday we went to the wharf for lunch, when we finished we drove out and cruised Beach Street. On cue the oldies station played Sleepwalk. So there I was Santa Cruz, with my beautiful wife, after a great lunch, in a hot car, with wonderful music and the warm California sun shining on us and an army of young kids in front of the boardwalk checking out my ride, remembering the times we had in Santa Cruz in the 50‘s and 60‘s. On a grey overcast winter day in Stockton I went back almost 20 years to when I went back another 30. It’s a two stage magic moment.

　

*We were car shopping, had a list of nice sensible four door sedans to check out. I can’t remember one we looked at. We were at the Mercedes dealer. Right next door was the Mitsubishi dealer, I wandered over to check out a red (Monza red) 3000GT. Bada*s car, 300 horsepower, turbocharged, 5 speed gearbox, 4 wheel drive. Parked right behind it was a silver 3000GTSL automatic. We both liked it. On our way to the next dealer on the list Marilyn said “You wouldn’t REALLY buy that car would you?” I said “Sure I would, but you wouldn’t. …. Would you?” Words were exchanged, we went back to the dealer and drove it home that afternoon. Only time we ever did anything impulsive like that with a car and to this day the only thing I’m sorry about is that I didn’t keep it.

She Had Friends All Over the World

　

November 21, 2011

When we built our big family home and decided to get a dog the stars lined up for us. Our nurse at work Mary Vaughn had a Brittany Spaniel who was ready to give birth and after the litter was born we got first pick. My daughter Kathleen and my wife went to Mary’s home and brought back the cutest little bundle of fur you ever saw. Kathleen said she pushed all the other pups aside and tried to climb out of the pen to get in her arms. I have my doubts about her breed but Nicky was a wonderful dog. She played us like Heifetz played the fiddle. The first night we had her she slept in a beer box we had in the service porch with Kathleen right next to her on the floor. As she grew up she became an outside dog and unlike Kathleen’s current Lab she wasn’t allowed on the furniture or in the kitchen. But for those first six weeks or so she slept in that box. I was working on the night shift and since my work shoes weren’t always carpet friendly they stayed in the service porch. On morning I came downstairs to find Nicky in my boot. She was just sitting there waiting to have us see her. Since her breed were water dogs we worried about her with our pool but she fell in by accident a couple of times and never went in again. When the kids went in she ran around the poll barking furiously at them because she thought they were in danger. Nicky was an excellent judge of character. She knew which kids were trouble and let ‘em know she knew. Her favorite place to sleep in the house was under the end table and woe betide a stranger or someone she didn’t trust if they tried to remove her. Nicky patrolled the back yard at regular intervals, she walked the perimeter, looked in the pool equipment running or not, and let us know immediately if anything was going on. Kathleen joined 4-H and one of her projects was to take Nicky to obedience training. The meeting took place at a country house near one of the many schools the kids attended. They had a huge gravel side yard and once a week a dozen or so 4-H’ers and their dogs gathered to be trained. Nicky loved to ride in the car and I learned very quickly to turn onto the country road and shut the engine off. If she heard or saw my car she would tow Kathleen across the yard like a tractor. When she rode her head was always out the window, for Nicky the perfect ride was down the road by the dairy farms, the cows and all the smells really interested her. Nicky was very smart, she learned tricks in a heartbeat. She would sit in a patio chair and catch a tennis ball as long as you would throw it. She loved to run circles around the back yard. Nicky befriended every exchange student we had. She knew they were family members and showed them all her affection. Some had never had a dog and at least two went home and talked their parents into getting one. She had friends in Italy and France and they all lived her. We never worried about her diet, she ate table scraps, pasta, veggies (she liked zucchini) and from time to time she’d take a sip of beer from the palm of my hand. Time passed, the kids grew up and moved out. Her muzzle got gray and she quit getting in the chair to catch the ball. She didn’t want to run anymore and her walks got shorter and slower. When she had problems urinating we took her to the vet and he discovered bladder stones. Gave us the choice of surgery or putting her down. Since the surgery could restore her to some reasonable level of comfort we did it. She didn’t respond well, hid in the pool equipment and prepared to leave us. We offered steak, pasta, every treat in the house, nothing worked. She wouldn’t even raise her head. So I tried as a last resort beer. She licked some off my hand and in an hour she was as close to herself as she was going to get. Had just about what the Vet said, another year. Worth every penny to take her for a walk or a ride in my FIAT with the top down. So lucky to have such a wonderful animal. I am posting this today because Kathleen reminded us that  it’s her birthday. Wherever she is I hope the grass is green and she get to run from time to time. And everybody scratches her ears and pets her. She was special.

Cassolet

We went to a little resturant in the suburbs of Paris with our French friends last year. It's called LaGrange en la Valle and we go there  whenever we visit them. The owner chef has a small regular menu and some specials. Our friends eat there often and the food is always good. Sooo one night the special was cassolet. It was so good I almost cried. I've been hammering Marilyn to try it every since. So yesterday we went shopping. And today she made a meal that while it may not have been good for me was spectacular. Three kinds of sausages, pork belly, duck confit, lardons, white beans, herbes, and what all. Just country food and so incorrect it was perfect. Drank a California barbera mainly because nobody in Stockton has wine from the Southwest of France. Great combination. And the best part is there are leftovers for lunch tomorrow. And they'll be better.

Valentina Calling

We have a wonderful group of exchange kids all over Europe. We have been visiting them and their families for 23 years. I’ll tell you all about them as time passes . We love them all but one of them became our daughter. Her name is Valentina and she may not know it but she came to us almost by accident. Or fate. So I’ll tell her now. Our first student was Marco, The exchange was very successful. I’ll tell you about him in another post. After Marco went home we had summer guests and friends of friends and they were all great but in late Summer 1990 the exchange company called to place a girl from Rome. They told us (I suspect a marketing ploy) that we were her last chance for an exchange. My wife was undecided but I said “How can we turn her down?” We did all the paperwork and exchanged pictures and contact information. Found out her name was Valentina Robles. That she was born in Bari on the Adriatic, had lived in Naples (which she loved) and lived in Rome with her parents. One Saturday morning I was home alone when the phone rang and there she was. She said “Hello, this is Valentina, do you know who I am?“ She sounded so self assured and confident, her English was perfect, and we found out that she speaks German, French and Spanish as well. Surprised me when she told us later how nervous she had been. So some days later, off to the Sacramento airport. Twenty years ago you could go to the arrival gate and presently her flight arrived. She had pictures of us and we had pictures of her so she wasn’t hard to recognize. She was tired, didn’t say much but she was really cute with a dazzling smile and dark eyes that danced when she talked. In three days she was a member of the family. And she still is. I’ve said she has dancing eyes and a megawatt smile, she has a beautiful heart as well. And dark hair and olive skin and a strong chin and high cheekbones. She is one of the most photogenic people I have ever seen. The camera loves her. You can see her heart in every picture we have. And she has a personality to match . She enchanted all my wife’s relatives and all our friends. She protests when I tell her she is beautiful but I’ll convince her someday. It’s my job as Dad. The school year passed very quickly and before we knew it her parents were here for her graduation and a little touring in Nevada and Northern California. Having a really good exchange is a double edged sword. Along with all the fun and frolic comes that day when the plane leaves. Wasn’t easy, but my wife is stronger than I am and we did it. We were driving down the freeway going home and in another lane was a very rare Ferrari F-40. I took this as a sign that we would keep in contact. Don’t ask me to rationalize this, it isn’t rational . The year after she was with us we went to Italy and arraigned to meet her and her parents. We met in Florence, went to dinner and after we were walking around the center when a carload of young men went by and Valentina drew some well deserved male attention. I hadn’t heard a wolf whistle in a while but she got a good one. And said “Here I am, with both sets of parents” When she was here she was 17, we went to San Diego for an extended weekend. One afternoon we went to the Zoo and in her T-Shirt and coveralls with her hair pulled back she got in for the 15 year old junior admission. That night we went to dinner in La Jolla and she put on her sexy red dress, let her hair down and got served when we ordered wine. The toast was “Going from 15 to 21 in 5 hours” Her sense of humor is priceless, and a little wacky. We’ve been to visit her several times, she’s come here a few as well and we always know when we leave her that there will be another time. Failing a visit we chat on Skype or exchange e-mails. Vale has shared her family with us and they are wonderful. She has taken us to Puglia and we have seen the South of Italy with all its history and natural beauty, and eaten in restaurants the tourists are never going to find. In those 20 years we’ve all had our ups and downs. Family life isn’t always smooth but she’s strong and so are we and she’ll always be our daughter. We have a lot of friends that wouldn’t consider for whatever reason having an exchange student. It’s their loss. We’ve never had a bad exchange but if we ever did Valentina would make up for it. I can’t imagine life without that phone call. “Hello, this is Valentina, do you know who I am?” You should be so lucky.

Once in a While Something Takes You Back

Once in a while something takes you back. Something you see or smell or taste makes you a kid again. It’s the best thing about the Interior Stadium. Probably happens to me more often because I have a lot of back to go back to. Last Friday my wife and I were in San Francisco and we decided to do some shopping and have lunch in North Beach Went to Café Pucchini which is kind of rustic but has good food. My wife ordered a bowl of Pappardelle with meat sauce and when it arrived her whole face went all soft. She tasted and said “It’s my mothers gravy” My pasta was great but hers was that “takes you back” moment. Shouldn’t have been a surprise because the Lady who cooks comes from the same city in Tuscany where my wife’s family is from.

Now about one of my “takes you back” moments. Our Italian daughter Valentina has an interest in her grandmothers house in Puglia. Way down in the heel of the boot. The nearest city you might know is Lecce. Before we went the first time in 2008 Vale spent a lot of time telling us about the heat, humidity and mosquitoes. I think she wanted to play it down so we wouldn’t be disappointed. For me it was like going back to the Texas Gulf Coast when I was a kid. Only the beach was better and the water was bluer and Valentina’s family was absolutely wonderful. I couldn’t imagine a better vacation.

She Was Almost Perfect

(An allegory of Italy)

As she strolled down the Via Casouli every eye turned to follow her. She walked with the languid grace every Italian girl used to try to emulate. Her dark hair cascaded to her shoulder blades, her black dress fit to absolute perfection, her makeup was perfect, her tan seamless. Her designer sunglasses, jewelry, purse, watch, and shoes were all of a piece with her image. She glided along as if in a bubble, taking no visible notice of the attention she attracted. Everyone turned to look, men stole furtive glances or stared openly, women evaluated every aspect, looking for something to copy. She was the model of style and beauty for an entire world and there used to be hundreds of her on the streets in every big Italian city, beautiful, refined, and elegant. You saw her and her male counterparts all over Italy. It was the style. I came back a few years later and there she was, still beautiful, but something was lacking, her clothes and accessories weren’t as sophisticated, she walked faster and without the grace she had possessed. As she passed my eyes followed her and there on the back of her right calf was an ugly Goth tattoo. Like I said she was almost perfect.

Talking with some Florentines I found what some of the reasons for my disappointment are. Most of the fashion companies headquartered in Florence found upgrading the historic buildings and installing the information systems they need way too expensive. They moved out of the center. And all those beautiful staffers went with them. Just one of those unintended consequences of the information age. But we still have our memories.

They Were the Best and the Brightest

They went to all the best schools, Eton and Harrow and University at Cambridge. The traveled in the best circles. They did the grand tour with servants and porters. The youngest son went to Sandhurst and did military service. He went to France with the BEF in 1914-17 and taught the Germans a good lesson confronting Spandau machine guns with his chest. They mourned him. Their influence spread through the British political system and when a guttersnipe named Adolph Hitler began to organize a German political party they dismissed him as a fringe player. Sure, he said , “When we are in power we’ll kill all the Jews“. “Ahh” the best and brightest said, “That’s just for local consumption, he doesn’t really mean it.” They all knew the truth because they were smart. Everyone told them so. They went into politics and the professions. God forbid they should build manufacturing businesses. “Those people” did that. We go to Ascot and get married in the right Churches to girls from the right families. And about that fellow Churchill, horrible man, didn’t even study Latin or Greek. American mother of all things. So we all knew he was wrong when he began to warn of German militarism. Hitler had as we all knew every right to re-occupy the Rhineland, After all he was just taking a walk round his own backyard. And everyone knows that increasing defense spending would just compound the problem and might antagonize the Germans who as we all know just want some living space in Europe and look at all those people of German ancestry who are being mistreated in Czechoslovakia and Poland. Everybody who is anybody says so. Except that foolish old failure Churchill. And he’s not one of us is he? So the best and the brightest talked about Czechoslovakia being “A small county far away about which little is known” and abandoned them to their fate, giving up the fourth largest land army in Europe and turning the Skoda arms factory over to the Germans undamaged . When that silly bugger Churchill got up in the House of Commons to talk about an “Unmitigated Defeat” why the best and brightest simply had to shout him down. And they did. Because they were the “Best and the Brightest” and besides killing all the Jews had its advantages didn’t it. Troublesome, argumentative buggers, all of ‘em. Besides didn’t our own Neville Chamberlain get Herr Hitler to sign a paper guaranteeing “Peace in our time” Remember that when some smooth talking pol shows you his CV remind yourself about Lyndon Johnson and Sam Rayburn talking about the Kennedy’s and their retinue. Johnson raved about how smart they were and all the great schools they went to. Rayburn though for a minute and replied “You’re probably right but I just wish one of ‘em has run for County Commissioner back home.”

Friends

We met a young man 25 years ago. He was an exchange student in our town, lived with one of my wifes co-workers. We met him maybe twice. He was pleasant and polite. When my wife and daughter decided to go to France and Italy for my daughters graduation and meet our Italian family my wife called the young man to ask if the three days they had scheduled in Paris would be enough to see a list of things they had developed from guide books. He offered to meet them and help. And he did. This led to a friendship with his family, meeting his wife to be and watching his wonderful childern grow up. They are 15 and 13, Special kids, well behaved and wonderfully affectionate. Mom is one of those beautiful French women who can have two kids, work a full time job, keep the home, and look like a school girl. Enchanting. They just left after spending three weeks in Nevada, Arizona and California. The last five days with us. Our table was alive every night, he went to see the woman who hosted him when he first arrived and we retraced the first visit he made 20 years ago with his fiance. We ate fast food and bar food and burgers and my wife rolled out some of her speciaities. It was the best time we've had in a while.

Lucky

I can close my eyes and see the baseball diamond at old Buffalo Stadium in Houston. I was eight or nine the first time my Dad took me to a game. Buffalo Stadium was an old fashioned ballpark with wooden bleachers and rudimentary concessions. But the hot dogs were great and the buns came from a bakery right down the right field line. The ball didn’t carry so power hitters didn’t prosper in Houston. We probably went to 10 or 12 games before I saw my first dinger. The Buffs were a St Louis farm team and I seem to remember that the Cards built their teams on speed and defense. Minor league baseball is about player development and weeding out the guys who are talented but dumb or uncoachable, not necessarily about winning the Texas League pennant every year so most seasons were disappointing to a kid my age. The Buffs lost a lot of games the first 3 years Dad and I started going to the games.

Now for the luck part. When you went to the movies there was always a newsreel and major league baseball was on the radio every afternoon. The NY Yankees were the name team then (pretty much like they are now). The history of the team and the great players made playing for the Yankees every kids dream. Joe DiMaggio was my hero. His smooth swing and sure base running were something to see even in B/W movies. 1951 was Joe D’s last year and my chances of seeing him actually play were about zero. Then the Yankees got into a dispute with the owners of the complex in Florida where they took Spring training. Yankee management, as was their practice, decided to teach the complex owners a lesson and went to Arizona to train. In those days player salaries were nothing like what they are today. Some of the stars made big money but lots of great ballplayers worked regular jobs or played winter ball in the off season. Soooo … the Yankees barnstormed their way home to New York. They played almost every day, mostly against the local minor leaguers and the players picked up some extra money. They played an exhibition seven inning game against the Buffs on a sunny Saturday afternoon. Dad got tickets and off we went. All the way to the park Dad kept up a stream of directions for watching the Yankees. “These guys have the best infield in baseball. Watch the infielders, they really play this game” Etc. Etc. We arrived hours early to watch infield and batting practice. And there he was, Joe DiMaggio, the real Joe D. Swinging a couple of bats, chatting with the sportswriters, getting his picture taken. My dad was pointing out all the other Yankees but I couldn’t name you one of them today. Well, except for one. Joe was hitting fourth, in the first inning the Yankees got a couple of men on base and Joe stepped into the batters box. He took a pitch, don’t remember if it was a ball or a strike, and hit the next one over the left field fence for a three run homer. I can close my eyes and see it. It just went up and up and cleared the fence by about 5 feet. Joe played three innings, made a nice running catch in center field and came out. He was replaced by a young man, 19 I think, from Oklahoma. Kid by the name of Mantle. My Dad read the Sporting News almost every day and knew who Mickey Mantle was. Mickey’s first at bat he hit a line drive that was still going up when it cleared the scoreboard in right center field. It made a different sound when he hit it. It got out of the park really fast. Until Reggie Jackson came along I never saw a ball hit that hard. Nobody hit balls over the scoreboard in the afternoon in Houston. Noooobody. The air got thin from people going “Uhhhh” So the first time I saw major league ballplayers I saw two of the real greats, plus a supporting cast of the best players in baseball. Tell me I’m not lucky.

Beauty and the Scrounge

Started this in 2008. Not much has changed.

There is a social phenomenon I’ve lately been observing. For a while I thought it was limited to the US but my wife and I are finishing the first month of an extended vacation in Italy and France and I see it here as well.

First a little background, I’m an old guy, when I was a young guy in the late 50’s young men and women dressed up to go out on dates. When you showed up at a young ladies door to take her to the movies or a dance her parents looked you over casually but very carefully and if you didn’t pass muster forget about that second date. When my buddies and I went cruising we had to look sharp, you might meet “the girl” and you better make a good first impression. The young ladies always looked sharp as well and I’ll say that we looked the best of any generation before or since. Then came the mid-sixties and young peoples clothes and grooming went to Hell. I pretty much quit paying attention to the way people dressed for a long time because most of them looked like hell anyway.

Now there appears to be a new style, I first noticed it when my wife and I attended a New Years Eve dinner dance at a famous destination resort in Northern California. The evening was very expensive and was billed as Black Tie Optional so I dusted off my tux, my wife bought a really nice sparkly evening dress and off we went. Imagine my surprise when the couple seated next to us showed up in scruffy grey cords and an old polo shirt and a mu-mu. The dinner was however spectacular and upon finishing the band had started playing so we went to dance. Crossing the dining room it was painfully obvious that Black Tie Optional had become, for the men, code for whatever was on top of the drawer when they got dressed. I saw everything from baseball caps worn fetchingly with rockstar tee shirts and torn jeans to wrinkled Dockers and shirts that had never seen the hot side of an iron. On the other hand the young ladies looked fabulous, almost all were dressed very well and a lovely lot they were. My wife and I expressed our disappointment to the staff (The general manager had fortuitously taken the night off) we were given a substantial discount but the entire evening with the exception of all the well dressed young ladies had left a bad taste and we won’t be returning any time soon.

Now this could be a fluke and I certainly don’t want to seem judgmental about my fellow human beings but….we’ve spent over a month in Italy and a pattern is emerging. If ever a country’s blessed with a surplus of beautiful people it is Italy, men and women, boys and girls, Italy has a wonderfully high percentage of real showstoppers. People will say I’m prejudiced because 44 years ago I married a beautiful Italian-American girl, but, so be it. We’ve been traveling with friends, visiting places few Americans go and I see and have great trouble understanding beautiful young ladies in the company of guys who look like they made a pass through the Salvation Army rag bin and wore whatever they found.

From a Ferragosto celebration at the very tip of the heel to an upscale bar in a suburb of Milan to several evenings wandering around backstreet Florence the pattern repeats itself. Great looking lady, scroungy guy. We’re headed back South soon, Rome, then Capri, If the pattern doesn’t change in Capri or during our 2 weeks in Paris I’m going to consider it kind of a done deal.

If I had showed up at my brides’ door 45 years ago dressed like some of the guys I’ve seen she’d have slammed the door in my face. And been right to do so. It’s hard for me to believe that guys get away with looking so scruffy and harder to believe that so many knockouts will go out with them. Can anyone enlighten me? Money? Nice car? Fill me in here.

Follow Up

　

Capri may well be the exception that proves the rule. After the day trippers go home it is populated by (mostly older) couples who are obviously prosperous and casually but very well dressed. I only saw one young couple in a very upscale restaurant who held the line I described above.

Follow Up Two Years Later

We’re in France now and last night I was standing in front of my friends house in the Paris suburbs. A couple walked by, they were Middle Eastern, or maybe Moroccan, The young lady was a killer, olive skin, jet black hair, wonderful smile, big eyes, lovely figure and dressed in one of those above the knee sheath dresses the young ladies wore in the early sixties. Beige silk. Scoop neck, sleeveless. Probably the sexiest clothes girls have worn in all of history. I was smitten. Boy Friend/Husband/Whatever was handsome but  you guessed it, jeans, scruffy sweatshirt, tennies. Bleagh.

　

　

A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To Monza

The Italian Grand prix takes place at the Autodromo  de Monza usually the first weekend in September. We have friends who live ten minutes or so from the park where the track is located but this post isn’t about going to this race. In 1989 we scheduled our second trip to Europe and included the GP, planning to arrive the weekend before the race, travel mid-week to the East Coast near Ravenna to visit a group of students for whom my wife had arraigned  home stays  when they toured the US in June.  We arrived in Monza Friday evening and the next day set off for the lake country where our friends have a condominium. The place we go is sort of our little secret, there aren’t a lot of tourists and the locals would prefer to keep it that way.  We arrived Saturday afternoon,  went grocery shopping, visited the wine shop and had a wonderful dinner at the local, upscale restaurant.  Our friends condo is in a  nice complex far enough from the main road to make it very quiet and we slept like logs. Sunday morning we were all awakened by the sound of racing engines, I thought there was a group of cyclists touring but when we went down to the road we found a hillclimb being organized. There was every kind of small capacity car represented from  FIAT 600’s to a real (obsolete) race car with a monocoque chassis and a 1600cc Abarth engine.  We had lunch and went back to the village to watch the event.  The course went from the starting line on the main street up the mountain behind the town for about 4 miles.  For the first half mile or so the road was lined with spectators. It was very much like going to the races at Golden Gate Park in San Francisco in the 50’s. We found a safe (sort of) spot and were entertained for most of the afternoon by  the cars being flagged off at 30 second intervals to race up the hill.  My photos are something to see.  Italy is the only country in the world where something like this could happen. Toss in good friends and the beauty of the lake country and nobody is as lucky as we are.

I Can Close My Eyes (The Joys and Sorrows of Motor Racing)

　

I can close my eyes and see an elderly Italian couple sitting in the infield grandstand at the exit of 2^nd Lesmo at Monza. It’s Friday afternoon when all the grandstands are free and the atmosphere is fantastic. The couple is well dressed, he in a softly checked sport coat, tan slacks, a doeskin vest, white shirt, and necktie, she is a blue dress, heels and a pillbox hat. They are reserved and quiet until one of the Ferraris rolls slowly by on a warm up lap. Then they both applaud politely. At the time I didn’t speak enough Italian to find out who they were. They were old enough to have been at the track in the immediate postwar era and have seen Nuvolari, Fangio, Ascari and all the other heroes of the time. Wonder if they did.

　

　

I can close my eyes and see the exit of the Tamburello corner at the racetrack at Imola. My wife and I had traveled from the West Coast to Paris, spent the night and taken the train Paris-Milan, then Milan-Bologna. We arrived on Saturday afternoon. An Italian friend had arraigned race tickets and hotel reservations, we checked in to the hotel, returned to the train station and bought open r/t tickets to Imola the next day. Sunday is a wonderful late spring day in central Italy. We arrive at the track at 10:00 AM or so. Our seats are in the Tribune Verde on the back side of the track. The sun is shining, it’s probably 80F, the crowd are normal Italians, people with ice chests and red shirts, Ferrari banners and Ferrari caps. Imola is ground zero for Ferrari F1 fans. The track is the closest F1 venue to the factory and the locals are all Tifosi. Across the track from the grandstand called Tribune Verde is a small group of Brazilians, they have a Brazilian flag on a long pole and a good natured dialog begins. The infield fence is packed with racefans. The guy with the flag moves up and down behind the fence, no one on our side of the track can see him, every so often he raises the flag and begins to wave it back and forth, as soon as the Italians on our side of the track spot the Brazilian flag they erupt into a chorus of boos’ and Italian imprecations. When the noise reaches a certain level the flag disappears and the crowd quiets. Then the flagbearer moves 30 feet or so, waits a few minutes and repeats the process. Everyone is laughing, cheering and having a good time. Soon enough some of the Italians decide to turn the tables. Shortly after the flag disappears a group on our side of the track stands and begins waving their flags, chanting, Ferrari, Ferrari. The Brazilian has perfect timing, at exactly the right moment he raises his flag and all the Brazilians begin chanting the name of their hero driver Ayrton Senna. “Senna, Senna, Senna,” All the people in two hundred feet of grandstand are laughing and chanting. Of course if you are an F1 fan by now you’ve figured out that it was 1994 and events in the race changed F1 forever.

I can close my eyes and see the exit of the Tamburello corner.

It’s a sweeping lefthander at the end of the front straight taken at very high speed, the sort of corner that the great drivers really relish because doing it right is dangerous and quickly separates the great from the good. Very few average or bad drivers ever get the chance to drive an F1 car. Senna is leading a few laps into the race, right on his tail is the budding German driver Michael Schumacher. The safety car comes out due to a pit accident, when the race resumes Senna begins to pull away. His Williams-Renault is clearly faster than the rest of the field. At the exit of the Tamburello he for some reason still unexplained leaves the track and slides nose first into the retaining wall at probably 130mph. It seems to take forever for the parts that come off the car on impact to quit falling. The crash really doesn’t look as bad as others I’ve seen. I am watching through my telephoto lens expecting Senna to climb out and wave to the crowd or at worst to be put on a stretcher and taken away in the ambulance. The chassis doesn’t appear to be compromised but unfortunately the right front wheel detaches, flies back toward the driver and one of the suspension components punctures his helmet. The F1 medical unit arrives in seconds. Senna is taken by helicopter to one of the best hospitals in the world but his injuries are fatal. Michael Schumacher goes on to win the race. In the next years he sets every significant F1 record and become seven time F1 Champion, twice for Benneton and five times for Ferrari. In Sao Paolo Brazil a 15 year old girl commits suicide. All Brazil mourns.

Personal note: The year before (1993) our son went to Europe. He attended two F1 races, the first at Spa in Belgium and the second two weeks later at Monza. The same friend who got us out tickets to Imola got my son a pit pass for the GP at Monza. Now you must understand that we are pretty much ordinary folks, and getting a pit pass to a GP is no mean task. So when my son had a chance to talk with several of the drivers and get close to the cars it was a very moving experience for him. He describes a five minute conversation with Ayrton Senna. Senna spoke with my son as an equal, My son said it was like talking to a good friend and it’s a moment he treasures above most things in life.

Paris Is

Paris is a lot of things. It’s cool grays and pastels. It’s the beautiful textures of sandstone and granite, it’s the Eifel Tower and the Champs Elyse. It’s bright colored restaurant awnings and ebullient French waiters and little restaurants’ that you stumble into totally by accident where the whole place shakes when the Metro goes right under where you are sitting. And the food is ethereal and the waitress looks like somebody you would see at Denny’s . It’s a pretty French girl running down the Boulevard Haussmann in a Paris drizzle with a newspaper over her head and every man on the street craning his neck to watch her because she has great legs. But most of all it’s a litmus test. The things that make Paris and the French so endearing and make me get tears in my eyes whenever I think about going there annoy a lot of people. I have friends who go there and return shrugging their shoulders. Paris didn’t take. They shouldn’t go there. They should go to Las Vegas or somewhere. They should go to North Dakota to visit the family. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. They won’t take the time to figure out the Metro and the RER. They’ll never go to Saint Chappell and see 270 degrees of the most beautiful stained glass in the world light up in the sunlight. Because the line was too long. Really. Then I have friends who go there and send e-mails saying Woo-Woo. Just Woo-Woo. Paris has a history, it has a feeling unlike any other city I’ve ever seen. Fourteen million people live there. Parts of it are dangerous and riding the Metro late at night is not going to be a habit for me. But I don’t want to know when I’ve made my last visit. And having been to a lot of other cities Paris is the only one I feel that way about. Rome, we have wonderful friends there, ditto Milan, special places and special people but we go to see the people not the places. Ahh, then there is Paris. We have special friends there as well, you can’t imagine how special but if they weren’t there (God forbid) we’d still go there. We’d stay in the Concortel in the Rue Pasquier, I’d pet Elton the Hotel dog every morning and we’d go out for another adventure. I can’t think of another city I feel the same way about.

My Interior Stadium

In one of his baseball books Roger Angell titled a chapter The Interior Stadium. The Interior Stadium was about all those images you carry around in your memory. Whenever you want to you can pull them up and replay them. It's like your own private movie theater. I'm a fan of motor racing, travel, food, wine, baseball and most of all the friends we've made in almost fifty years of married life. I'm going to write down as many of  those memories I can remember and try to bring them to life for anyone else who wants to read them. I hope you enjoy and come back.