Oh, It Looks Like Daniel, Must Be the Clouds in My Eyes

I noticed this morning that he hadn't played Words With Friends in quite a while. From time to time, people drop off, so I checked Facebook, and there I saw my happy birthday message to him in February. But right above it was another post made two days later that read, "Happy belated heavenly Birthday." I had to stop for a while to gather my thoughts.

I remember clearly the day I met Daniel Eremenchuk. I was working in my first IT job back in 1979, and I was on site at a client in downtown Chicago. Our Data General Nova minicomputer needed service, and the office folks said, "Ah...you'll get to meet Dan." He was described as something of a character, so immediately, I was fascinated.

In walked a fortysomething gentleman who looked like he could have been a beat poet in the 60s, but who had grown up in the 70s into a sort of rakish looking fellow, sporting a leather jacket, a mane of salt-and-pepper hair, and a full but neatly-trimmed beard. He introduced himself, and I did likewise. He fixed our computer problem in record time by opening up the back of the chassis and tinkering, all the while carrying on an engaging chatter. By the time he had completed his service call, we were instant friends.

Dan could fix anything with parts on hand or that he could procure at a moment's notice. A native of 1930s Chicago, he knew the city inside out, so if he had to run halfway across town to pick up a part, he would be back before you could bat an eyelash. He had no fear of anything digital and was very accomplished at diagnosing issues. Our equipment was "seasoned," but he assured us that he could keep it running, and that he did. When I took a job as data processing manager for the company, I never worried about whether a hardware issue would be resolved. Dan would do whatever it took to make it work.

He was more than just a service technician, though. Dan befriended almost everyone he met, and we invited him along to many of our lunches at West Loop eateries and taverns. He was splendid company and always had entertaining, offbeat stories to tell. On many occasions, he would complete a late service call at our office, and afterward, he and I would retire to the Golden Gate Restaurant for a brew and some solid chat. He was interested in everything and was great company. He also had this deep "huh, huh, huh" laugh that was his trademark. When Dan chuckled, you had to join in. His humor was infectious.

Dan drove an Audi Fox, which was a sporty car at the time. I remember countless occasions where he would pull up in front of our building on West Lake Street beneath the overhead train tracks, pop the trunk, and retrieve some miscellaneous memory board or power supply, then rush in from the cold only to have us back up and running in record time. One day, he came in looking a bit downtrodden, and I asked him what had happened. He told me that the Audi had broken down under one of the CTA overpasses on the Eisenhower Expressway and that he'd had to leave it to find help. He knew that the car would be stripped in the time it took anyone to arrive, and sure enough, he was right. Nevertheless, the next time I saw him, he was sporting new wheels with no interruption of his humor or the electrical parts inventory.

Dan was well-educated and continued learning throughout his life. In his later years, he fled the cold winters and moved to Arizona, where according to his Facebook profile, he studied "Production cinématographique en France." That was just like him, always expanding his boundaries and venturing into new territory. While living in Arizona, he provided IT and audiovisual assistance to local police departments and theater groups. That was how he rolled, a jack of all trades and a master at more than a few.

So now, when I pick up my phone and launch Words With Friends, it seems that I can still hear that chuckle. Dan, I know you'll never stop learning. Miss you, buddy.

Sonic Boom

I'm "of the age" where I've discovered that my hearing (among other senses) is not what it used to be. Of course, my family and friends have been telling me for years that my hearing was on the fritz, but I didn't really believe it was all that bad; that is, until I started noticing that I couldn't even hear conversations at restaurants unless the person was sitting directly across from me or to either side. I found myself tuning out a lot.

Then, one day in late 2019, I visited an ENT for an ear infection, and as part of my exam, an audiologist tested my hearing. After the test, more detailed that any I'd had before, she showed me the results, which indicated fairly significant hearing loss in both ears. She told me that I could "really benefit" from hearing aids and offered me a pair to try. Curious as to the results, I put them in and walked outside. I was surprised to find that I could hear the fallen dry leaves hitting each other. It's kind of like when you get glasses, then realize that you're supposed to be able to see the leaves on trees. Anyway, I thought the situation over for about five minutes and opted to invest in a pair of Widex Evokes. Hey, who can resist hearing aids that are made in Denmark run by a company whose CEO is named Jorgen Jensen? I mean, there's something to be said for that.

Well, let me tell you, hearing aids have come a long way, my friends. They no longer are the brownish-yellowish behemoth attachments that sit on the back of the ear. Today's models come in all kinds of styles and designer colors. (I'm certain that some of this heightened aesthetic demand is because they're now used by all us Baby Boomers who spent so much time attenuating our hearing at "hard rock concerts" and now want something high-tech but low-profile.) Anyway, the pair I have is this matte grayish silver, and they feature Bluetooth connectivity along with AI-based sound profile creation. What this means is not only can I stream music at any time I have my phone around (which is always), and also carry on private and audible phone conversations, but that the hearing aids actually adapt to the ambient noise for any location that I'm in. This is all very transparent to the user, by the way, except when it's not, which can be interesting and generally humorous.

One thing notable about my entry into the land of artificially-enhanced hearing was that I made it last December, shortly before the pandemic started. That meant that I only had to deal with the noise of the world (much of which I hadn't previously noticed) for only a few months before beginning work at home, in a nice, peaceful environment. So I'm thinking that as we re-enter the riotous post-pandemic world, the adaptability feature of the hearing aids is going to be working overtime to compensate for all the cacophony. As it stands now, I can hear conversations several tables away at quiet restaurants, and that's not even turning up the volume. If I wanted to go all Mission: Impossible, I could jack them up to 10 and hear impending invasions of fire ants and probably lots of other stuff I'd rather not know about.

So, here's the thing: if someone that you trust tells you that you need hearing aids, don't be frightened. Honestly, I love mine. They are expensive, but they are so worth it, and once you have them, you'll think of them just like glasses or contact lenses. As musician Brian Jackson says about his pair, "Life is so much better when you can hear all the colors." Amen to that.

Les dangers du poisson grillé

The best fish I have ever eaten was a marvelous plate of swordfish at Hugo's Lighthouse in Cohasset, Massachusetts. The worst was some dreadful mackerel from a sushi sampler at Yagura Ichiban in L.A.'s Little Tokyo. In between, there have been many other fish dinners, and fortunately, they've typically been on the good side. 

Being married to a Bostonian gives me the occasional opportunity to sample really good Atlantic seafood, and having been raised in Memphis, I absolutely adore a plate of fried catfish and hush puppies. (To be honest, I'm really hooked on Captain D's as well.) All fish is brain food, or so they say. Some people even go whole hog and load themselves up on fish oil for one reason or the other. If the capsules weren't the size of a bus, I'd probably take them myself.

And so it happens that from time to time, and not very often at that, we prepare our own seafood at home. This most often results in a delectable meal, pictures of which either or both of us will promptly post on Facebook or Instagram. But not always.

Years ago before we had children, Karen and I decided one evening to grill some kind of innocuous white fish out on a little Weber tabletop grill that we had procured while testing the waters of back yard grilling. It was a neat little device, and it used a single propane tank, the kind you would use to power a lantern. Everything was going well with the fish grilling until I tried to power off the gas and remove the tank from the grill. I discovered that the valve on the propane tank had not closed; indeed, a small flame had erupted from the tank, and I was unable to extinguish it. In something of a panic, I tossed the tank into the back yard and immediately called the Roswell fire department.

It is worth noting that in those days (the early 1980s), the city of Roswell was still a relative outpost from the city of Atlanta, and perhaps because of this, it had its own volunteer fire department. Hence, any fire call would be answered by a plethora of vehicles, some of which, such as pumper trucks and hook and ladders, were the vehicles of the trade, whereas others were pickup trucks with makeshift sirens and lights, driven in many cases by good ol' boys with the very best of intentions. Within minutes of making my call, trucks started to arrive. And arrive. And arrive. Soon, our street was full of vehicles of all kinds, and the neighbors had come out of their houses to see what had happened. 

An official looking fireman rushed up to us and asked what had happened. I answered, "I was grilling fish." He smiled, then I told him what had happened with the propane. He donned a heavy-duty protective suit, then accompanied me to our back yard, where the lone little propane tank lay flaming. I was, of course, a bit embarrassed by all this attention, and I indicated as such to him, but he told me that I had done the right thing, because occasionally, these small propane tanks explode, producing shrapnel. He managed to put out the flame, but the propane continued to leak from the tank, so he took it back to the front yard and placed it at the edge of our driveway, which sat at the top of a hill, visible to anyone who passed on the street.

We thanked the fire crew, and they went on their way. The little propane tank continued to leak for another two days, so we kept an eye on it, as did many of our neighbors, I'm sure.

We successfully grilled fish many more times until one night in 1995, when we decided to experiment with the somewhat dated Jenn-Air grill that was in the kitchen of our current home. We were leasing at the time, awaiting the sale and closing of our previous house, and owing to the situation, we were trying to be very careful with the fixtures of our (hopefully) new home, just in case things didn't work out. Many years had passed since the Roswell Fish Incident, and perhaps we had let our guard down a bit, but the important thing to note is that our intentions were good. We were a recently relocated family, trying in earnest to feed our two young daughters a healthy and delicious grilled fish meal.

Initially, everything went well. The fish sat sizzling, looking for all intents and purposes like the perfect meal, when suddenly, flames erupted, licking at the bottom of the cabinets above. In a panic, I reached for the nearest fire extinguisher. (One thing to note here -- in my 40 years, I had never used a fire extinguisher.) I pointed the nozzle of its red cylinder at the range top and squeezed the handle, at which point a giant cloud of powdery-looking chemicals filled the kitchen. Karen yelled to me that she wanted me not to spray the fish, because it was expensive. Just to be on the safe side, she wiped it with a paper towel, and the whole thing was done. We transferred the fish to a safer cooking alternative, and we all sat down to a nice meal. No one grew a third eye, so I believe we removed all the chemicals.

We still grill fish, but under closely monitored conditions. The kids made good grades in school, and I hope that at least some of that is owing to brain enhancement from the fish that we so diligently tried to serve them. I'm just glad that we didn't set ourselves on fire in the process. 

Happy grilling, y'all.

The Libes

It's good these days to hear about my alma mater, Northwestern University, even if it's just in passing. This past Sunday evening, I was shopping at Publix, and as I was searching for the perfect slider rolls, I overheard a conversation between a woman and a man, two friends who had run into each other buying groceries in advance of a predicted winter storm.

The woman's daughter was a senior in high school and had applied to a number of colleges. The daughter apparently wanted to stay close to home and had applied to the University of Georgia and a few other area schools, all very popular locally, but her mom, sporting a Nantucket sweat shirt, obviously wanted her daughter to venture North for higher education. Apparently, she and her husband had both attended Georgia and had, in her words, "done well," but at one point, she said, "You know, she really wants to go there...they all want the name, but those places like Northwestern...you never know." I'm not sure where her daughter's "there" was, but I had to chuckle a little inside, because when I went to Northwestern from Memphis, people weren't even sure where it was or why I was going "way up there." (For those of you who still don't know where Northwestern is, it's located in Evanston, Illinois, just north of Chicago. You drive up along Lake Michigan from Chicago, and you run right into Evanston. It's a beautiful community, very Midwestern, with lots of nice architecture.)

South Campus and The Arch

The thing was, Northwestern wasn't exactly known for having a winning football team, and in the South, football was and is a very big deal. One day in 1979, after we had both graduated and were living in Chicago, Karen and I saw a group of Northwestern kids carrying a goal post down Central Avenue in Evanston. We stopped one of the kids and asked them if they'd finally won a game. Turns out that they had just broken the nation's longest losing streak, which had previously been held by Columbia. These days, Northwestern wins football games and even goes to bowl games on a regular basis, but in those days, Saturday game attendance at 55,000-seat Dyche Stadium might average around 10,000. Not to mention that it was often freezing. You get the idea.

One thing about living up North is that you don't have any trouble staying inside and studying, and that was a good thing for Northwestern students. The academic pressure was intense. Most of us spent almost every evening and many weekend days (yes, even Saturdays) at the university library. And since we spent so much time there, the library, which was more commonly referred to as "The Libes," achieved destination status. It became so synonymous with my time at Northwestern that twenty years later, when my wife and I were giving our two young daughters a Parental Nostalgia Tour, The Libes had to be one of our first stops. The girls still joke about how how "exciting" it was for them to be shown the part of the library where I studied.

In 1971, two years before I arrived for my freshman year, Northwestern opened a brand spanking new student center called Norris University Center. It featured study areas, a theater, art galleries, a large cafeteria, and even three large "listening rooms" with floor-to-ceiling windows, each of which afforded a beautiful view of the Lake Michigan waterfront. You checked in to a central desk where you requested a particular LP to be played, and the music would be piped in to the room of your choice. But with all this, Norris still took a back seat to The Libes. The university was perpetually confounded that students elected to visit the second floor student lounge in library instead of using Norris. No one had time to visit Norris, because there was always some exam or other around the corner.

Library South Entrance

Both The Libes, built in 1970, and Norris were designed in the Brutalist architecture style. (Although the term may sound somewhat frivolous, it is a real thing, and it describes a style which features function over form. The most commonly used building material is concrete.) The library structure itself was divided into three similar five-story towers, one with walls painted brick red, one harvest gold, and one deep avocado green, perfectly matched to the aesthetic of the 1970's. On most floors, shelves radiated out from a central point, like spokes of a wheel. In the centers of the wheels, chairs and footrests were provided, with individual study carrels and private study rooms located throughout the floors. One of the first things that most students did upon arriving at Northwestern was to find a favorite place in the library which could be used as an elementary GPS of sorts. For example, in my freshman year, I preferred to study on the fifth floor of the green tower, so I would tell friends at dinner that if they wanted to find me, I'd be in "Five Green." In my sophomore year and later, I branched out to Two Gold at the Core Library, which featured unique, low-slung desk pairs. This was very nice if you found yourself studying with a friend.

One of the most important traditions at Northwestern was the 9:00 Break, during which time most people would head to the student lounge (Two Green) to eat snacks, drink bad but cheap coffee from vending machines, and socialize. This was the time when you would drop the econ, the neuro, the Kafka, whatever you happened to be studying just to hang out with your friends. People would even come to the library just for the 9:00 Break, and it was amazing: at any given time from 9:00 until around 10:00, there would be no seats left in the lounge, and people would have overflowed onto the floor. All this with the spacious Norris Center right next door. After the break, we'd all return to our respective study areas and hit the books until around 11:30 PM, when we'd pack it in and head back to our dorms or residences.

I spent so much time in The Libes that I can still fondly remember so many things: the way the fluorescent lights buzzed incessantly in the Green Tower, the way my roommate and I would sit in the halls of the Red Tower and quiz each other before neurobiology exams, the classic old periodicals on the lower level, the hidden tunnel to Deering (the "pretty library"), the way I would wake up in a study carrel and realize an hour had gone by, and the enormous card catalog that must have taken up a half acre. The memories are still so vivid.

The Campus Today

I don't know exactly how things are at Northwestern these days. There are a lot of new buildings, and the card catalog has long since been dismantled, but I'm sure that The Libes are still a nerve center, and if I'm thinking correctly, they're still something of a gathering place. But I do recall that every night when I left the library, I felt like I really was "at college," that this was something worth doing, and that this effort would pay off some day. In many ways, it has. I was fortunate enough to have much of the cost of my education covered by scholarships and grants, but my parents also contributed a sizable sum on their own. I'm so thankful to them for making it possible for me to attend Northwestern and to experience a life which they never had. I could never really thank them sufficiently, but when they came to visit, I made sure to take them to The Libes.

Herbert's Habits

Every afternoon at precisely 6:00 PM, regardless of the weather or planetary alignment, Herbert Evans would stop whatever he was doing and observe Happy Hour on the front porch of his home high atop the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. Herbert lived at the highest point on Big Ridge Road, and from his front porch, you could gaze out over the crest of the mountains. The view was beyond gorgeous.

When we first traveled to Herbert's mountain home in 1988 with his niece, our friend Ginna, she warned us that Uncle Herbert had some strict habits, so I was immediately fascinated, being a strong creature of habit myself. I knew that he would be a kindred spirit, and indeed, he was. On that very first visit, Herbert came out to meet us and welcomed us graciously, as if we were family, as if he'd known us for years. All of us, including our daughter Sarah, who was only three at the time, immediately settled into his home and became a part of the family fabric.

Born in Savannah, Georgia, Herbert had spent his childhood in Beaufort, South Carolina, and Townshend, Vermont, and throughout his life, he maintained an identity with each of the places he had lived. He would tell stories of riding his bike in Beaufort and then, in the next breath, recall the magnificent fall foliage of Vermont. You could tell that these two places had real significance to him and had helped to shape his early years. After living in New York City, and then serving in World War II, he and his brothers John and Tom decided to open a family restaurant. After considering several cities in the Southeast, they finally opened the first Evans Fine Foods in Atlanta in 1946. Herbert served as bookkeeper while his two brothers ran the day-to-day restaurant operations. Herbert and his brothers made a good living for themselves and their families, and in the 1960's, they purchased a piece of land atop a mountain on Big Ridge Road, close to Glenville, North Carolina, where they built a home in the 1970's. It was to this home that Herbert retired in the early 1980's.

By the time our family made its first trip to Big Ridge, Herbert had it down to a science, and the kitchen especially was a strictly defined workspace. Herbert owned a vintage Philco refrigerator that had a unique door which would open in either direction. For some reason, he preferred that it be opened on one side. He wouldn't say anything if you opened it on the other side, but somehow, if you did that, you just knew that you were going against the grain. Ice cubes had to be manually evacuated from their trays in the Philco and kept in individual resealable sandwich bags. The dishwasher door, even when the dishwasher was not running, had to be closed and locked. It was not enough for it simply to be closed. I didn't know the reason for this, other than that insects might enter the machine if the door was not tightly latched. (Not that such a thing ever happens here in the Southern United States.)

Every evening, at precisely 6:00, Herbert would announce that it was time for Happy Hour. He would poll the crowd for preferred libations, then pour out a little bowl of nuts and Chex Mix. He mixed good drinks, and sometimes, we had seconds, but always only the one bowl of snacks; otherwise, we might spoil our dinner.

Dinner at Herbert's, more specifically grilling out, was a unique experience that I enjoyed immensely. Charcoal on the little portable green grill had to be drenched with charcoal lighter fluid (ah, that smell) and an electric lighter had to be placed in a certain position within the briquettes so as to provide optimal lighting efficiency. The grill had to be placed a few feet from the back porch, where there was an outlet into which the lighter could be plugged. One evening, while we were grilling after Happy Hour, we got a little too close to the house, but the important thing was that nothing was permanently damaged.

Herbert was a wonderful host, and he delighted in taking us to visit at friends' houses in the area, some of which were quite interesting. One friend had an immense wood shop in his basement, and others maintained a sizable Christmas tree farm. An Atlanta attorney and his family recently had built a spacious mountain retreat filled with modern Mexican art, and every Labor Day, we would visit their home for a huge shish-kebab festival. We generally did the driving to the friends' houses, because Herbert had a heavy foot and was not afraid to use it on the winding mountain roads. Every time he fired up his vintage International Harvester Scout with no seat belts, we felt our hearts skip a beat. Once, while Herbert and I were out for a drive in my wife Karen's new Isuzu Trooper, he led me up a mountain road which terminated on a steep ledge. We got stuck, so Herbert got out and helped me maneuver in the opposite direction, until we finally arrived back at the house, where everything was going well until Karen noticed a faint smell of burning clutch. 

In his later years, Herbert had to move to assisted living in Atlanta, because the house and its huge yard were simply too much to maintain, but he continued to be actively engaged in family activities for his remaining years, and when he passed away in December, 2011, at the age of 93, he had lived a very full life indeed.

I think there's a reason we have habits. I think they help define who we are and how we relate to the world at large. They give us a sense of predictability, which often can be quite comforting. In Herbert's case, they made him a unique gentleman who gladly shared his home with others. I treasure those days and those memories. We miss you, Uncle Herbert, every day.