“When I’m 84….”

Today, I’m 84.  (The title is a play on the Beatle’s “When I’m 64“, one of the songs in Yellow Submarine, the 1968 movie I took son, Tom, to see – he was four, then, 56 years ago!).  Before I continue, here are a half dozen responses to the April 17 Earth Day post on Climate and Energy.  They’re worth your time.

My choice today: reminiscence.  Time flies.

*

George Orwell’s prophetic novel, 1984, was published when I was 9 years old, in 1949.  I turned 44 in 1984.  Oh, how naive we were, then.  People born in 1984 are at the edge of 40 today…  The 1960s were also on my ‘watch’.  I’ve purchased Doris Kearns Goodwin new book, “An Unfinished Love Story A Personal History of the 1960s”  – my birthday gift to me.

Now, a couple of memories.

Most of the Fred and Rosa Busch family, at the Berlin ND farm May, 1941.  Rosa and Fred Busch at far left.

pdf of the above photo: Busch farm family May 1941

At the time of the photo, I had just celebrated my first birthday (you see me center stage at the tail end of  the farm dog, who, I know from other period pictures, loved the camera).  My grandparents Bernard are in the photo (Grandpa – oldest of the grandparents at 69 – is at far right; Grandma Bernard is in the back row middle next to her son, my Dad, the tall guy).  Grandma and Grandpa  had invited my parents to drive them from North Dakota to Long Beach CA, a usual winter destination for them beginning in 1937,

It was a very long trip from ND to CA in 1941.  Dad was 33, Mom 31.  Dad recalled St. George UT as a place they traveled through, which gives me an idea of their route: note map from Berlin NDto Long Beach CA here.  We were at Long Beach most of June, we saw their daughter and Dad’s older sister, my aunt Josie, who’d moved to California in the early 1930s.  There were lots of “Dakotas” living on the west coast, so there was doubtless lots of visiting, showing off the one year old.

Unexpectedly, their son, my Uncle Frank, showed up from nearby San Pedro, where his ship, the USS Arizona, was docked for maintenance.  There was, I’m told, an unplanned family reunion, Grandma noted on the back of the photo of the reunion, “our first reunion in 7 years, and also the last”.

Our visit over, Grandma and Grandpa stayed in Long Beach.  We drove home along the coast highway, and crossed the brand new Golden Gate Bridge, heading east probably by way of Washington state.  I know this from a few postcards they mailed enroute home.

Five months later, Dec 7, 1941, Uncle Frank went down with the Arizona at Pearl Harbor, and life changed for everyone.  Both families contributed a great deal to the war effort.

*

Life, of course, is not a straight, predictable, line, nor perfectly smooth. We all have our stories.

Some weeks ago I was waiting for a friend who I was meeting at a restaurant.  I always travel with paper in hand, and decided to calculate 84 years in seconds.  I had to exercise my old elementary school arithmetic method and got the results.

Back home, I had my computer calculator check my math.  I passed!!  Those drills in elementary school worked!

There are a heap of stories hidden within those seconds.  This is as true for you as it is for me.  The trial in Manhattan led me to an embarrassing personal reminiscence which might generate some memories from your own life.  One memory (of many) bubbles to the surface for me.

*

In the 1980s I lived in Hibbing Minnesota, an easy walk from the house where Bob Dylan grew up.  I was single and living in an apartment on the second floor of an old business building, 2014 1st Ave South.  Zoom out and you can see Bob Dylan’s boyhood home, not far from the high school.

Hibbing,  center of the historically famous Mesabi Iron Range, is in cold country, and in the Fall the usual ordinance went into effect: no on-street parking overnight during snow emergencies.

The years I lived there, my parking was always on-street.

Very late one night I woke up  to the sound of a clanging chain below.  I looked out the window and men were towing my car.  There was what looked like a dusting of new snow.  No matter, the car was gone.

Sure enough, the street sign had been posted about snow emergency parking restrictions.  But there had been almost no snow, and I was irritated.

I found out where the car was impounded and rescued it, along with the $2.00 parking ticket.

I made a decision: I am not going to pay this ticket.  I’m going to appeal it.  This is not fair.

A long while later, I got a notice that my appeal would be heard on a certain date at a certain time.  It was in St. Louis County Court, just down the street in Hibbing.  Be there.  I had never been there before.  I was going in well prepared.  I had my photos, and the news account about the snow that night, which had been minimal, including a recording of a local radio station report.  It was a very thin file, but I was ready to do battle.

I wasn’t ready for what unfolded.

I arrived right on time, and soon found out that this was sort of a general court.  The room filled with colleague citizens or their lawyers entering their pleas for the common failings of humankind: public drunkenness, careless driving, petty theft.  My parking ticket began to look insignificant.

I began to ask myself, what am I doing here?  But foolish pride won out.  I was in the room.  Too late now.

Right before the proceedings began, the jury box filled with what turned out to be a dozen police-in-training from the local technical college.  They were all in uniform, there to observe the proceedings, and the people like me who were appearing before the judge.

What a dumb idea I’d had, I thought.  I should have just paid the $2.00.  I was wasting an entire morning.

By the time it was my turn to approach the bench, representing myself,the judge, in my minds eye, appeared to be two floors above me, ready to challenge my pathetic complaint.  I opened my thin file folder, and presented my evidence, with a courtroom full of lawyers representing my fellow cons, and those police cadets in uniform.  I felt stupid.

It was soon over.  The ticket was forgiven, and on to the next for the judge.  An entire morning had been wasted…for $2.

The cadets had had a good day.  I guess I contributed to their education.

It wasn’t until long after the hearing that it occurred to me that I had also paid $50 to rescue my car from impound, but had never asked for a refund from the city.

I didn’t even write a letter.  I was too embarrassed.

*

Of course, this is only one dumb act in a long life, and I don’t mind admitting it, since I know I’m not alone.  We all run afoul of common sense.

There are lots of lessons, just waiting to be learned.

For instance, the person who represents him (or her) self has a fool for a client.

It is useful to consider whether the cost will exceed the benefit.

Stupid is not reserved for the other party, or for the police, or the law.

The best we can hope is that we learn something from our experience….

I did.  I think.

 

1 reply
  1. Catherine Rivard
    Catherine Rivard says:

    Very entertaining stories, old friend. The car tow story could be a movie, with “Maggie’s Farm” as the theme song.

    I’ll be in Concord in a few weeks, staying in the former home of Doris Kearns Goodwin! It’s now an Airbnb and it’s just a few doors down from my old place on Cottage Lane. Fun!

    Reply

Leave a Reply

Want to join the discussion?
Feel free to contribute!

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.