Chuck the Blogger Guy

What need Halloween?

I can’t remember when I first went ‘trick or treating.’ I must had gone with my older siblings at about age 5 or 6. But when I was in second grade, my mom bought me a clown costume from Woolworth’s. I wore it to school in the second grade where we had a Halloween party and ate lots of candy corn. When I came home from that party I discovered my friend Donnie three doors down from me had the same costume as I had. However, his tied down the back and my clown costume tied up the front. A few years later And in retrospect I discovered I had worn my costume backwards. Probably should read the instructions first next time.
None the less, after a few more years of trick or treating and after my family moved to our new house on Sixth Street in 1954 I had never gone Halloweening again. Since finishing the fourth grade and that house move, I do not recall ever again trick or treating. Not sure why. Probably because I had no friends in our new neighborhood. And again, no friends because I didn’t go to Catholic school where all the neighbor kids went.
So, I just ate the left-over candy my mom was handing out. Which by the way was not all that great. It probably was just candy corn.

I chose this book out of curiosity. A book about flying and the airline industry. However, if you know someone who might be interested in either learning to fly leading up to becoming a pilot or just wanting to work for an airline, this is the book for him or her. A most knowledgeable detail look at how an airline works or what one can expect working for today’s modern airline and the ups and downs getting there. Written by an experienced commercial airline pilot and his own perspective of how the airline industry really works. His career started as first officer with small regional commuter airlines and moved up to captain of large commercial Boeing jetliners.

Title, Cockpit Confidential, everything you need to know about air travel, by Patrick Smith. Non-fiction, travel, jobs and industry. 2020.

Library of Congress annotation:

“For millions of people, travel by air is a confounding, uncomfortable, and even frightening experience. When you go behind the scenes, however, you can see that the grand theater of air travel is actually fascinating. From the intricate design of airport architecture to the logistics of inflight service, here is everything you need to know about flying. Commercial airlines like to hide the truth from customers and do nothing to comfort nervous fliers. And what’s scarier than the unknown? In this aviation book, pilot Patrick Smith breaks down that barrier and tells you everything you need to know about flying, including: How planes fly, and a revealing look at the men and women who fly them Straight talk on turbulence, pilot training, and safety The real story on delays, congestion, and the dysfunction of the modern airport The myths and misconceptions of cabin air and cockpit automation Terrorism in perspective, and a provocative look at security Airfare, seating woes, and the pitfalls of airline customer service The true colors and cultures of the airlines we love to hate Cockpit Confidential is a thoughtful, funny, and at times deeply personal look into the strange and misunderstood world of commercial flying.

Read it. You will love it. Absolutely no romance. Just seat of the pants flying. Well, maybe more than that. Just fasten your seatbelts.

I don’t see what is the big issue.

Jewish people I have known.

Joe Ruben, my father’s tax accountant was a soft-spoken kindly man. And he had a nice family with three kids. Kids I went to school with. Most of all he had a swimming pool he let we Christian kids swim in.

Then there was Al Fishman and his cute sister Roxanne. I went to school with them both from elementary up to high school. Their father must had been an orthodontist. Both Al and Roxanne had the biggest brightest toothy smiles.

Then there was Mark Safer. A kid who thought he was a car. Almost always putt putting around like he was a hotrod.

Harvey Issman, a bashful kid who took lots of kidding and didn’t seem to mind it.

However, for a short while I worked at a department store near Beverly Hills. It was called Ohrbach’s. I worked in the credit department and helped many Jewish people.

One girl who I worked with was an heir to the MCA Universal fortune, even though she left the family and didn’t want anything to do with them. One teen Jewish girl I also worked with was such a smart and smiley person and easy to get along with and was most helpful to me.

One customer, a fur wrapped older Jewish woman gave me advice on how to clean my glasses. Obviously I had spots on my glasses. “Just take some hand soap and rub it around the glass then Rince.” I just wanted to hug her she was so sweet and thoughtful.

Then a man I recognized came in with a credit problem. His name was Milt Caman and was at that time on a weekly TV sitcom. Look him up on Wikipedia.

All in all, I am not sure why non-Jewish people have issues with Jewish folks. I found them open and approachable. Oh, I forgot. There was this Jewish man who was a taylor who also worked at Ohrbach’s. I was at lunch in the employee lunch room and he came up to me and asked to sit at my table and was one of the friendliest persons. He obviously wanted to get to know me and welcome me to Ohrbach’s. Just another kindly man.

None the less, I am not sure how or why some people do not care for the Jewish people. They seem as human as the rest of us. But maybe a bit more enterprising and grounded in tradition than some of us. Shalom.

Hose those toes

I need some toe floss.

Yes, toe floss. Like a thick 12-inch cotton string with a knot every inch or so. I need a dozen or two. Don’t really like running my fingers between my toes to remove the sludge. I need a special device like “toe floss.” Something to pull out random particles collected after a days walking. Floss and toss in to the dirty clothes hamper. None the less, I’m really not sure how that yucky stuff gets there between my toseys-wosies anyway in the first place. I wear thick socks and a shoe on each foot and any person would think those items alone would prevent, as they call it, toe jam. Stinky little piggy marmalade. Dawg dew. Puppy puddy. Whatever.

Give me a dozen strings or so. I’ll floss this stuff right out of there. Or, maybe I’ll just go barefoot and walk in beach sand. Yes, that would keep that foot fudge from forming between each toe. That’s it. I’ll go to Waikiki and walk in the sand. Aloha.

Faster than a speeding two wheeler.

Yet another next ten years.

Where we moved to in 1954 backed up against rolling hills. Some as high as 800-feet. Hills with old abandoned oil wells, a few roaming cows and horses, and a small ranch in a valley area where a rodeo performer and trick rider lived. It would have been a great place to film old western movies. However, most of the rolling land was owned by Standard Oil of California and was locked up late in the evening.

However, a great place during the day time hours to ride bicycles.

One of our favorite things to do was to start out up on the highest of the main roads going out of the fenced off hills. You would push off up at the top coast rapidly down, rumble across a cattle crossing, and quickly descend down what then was a narrow and steep two-lane road , passing a two way stop sign and level off going near a very busy boulevard and hope you can slow down and stop before arriving at that busy

intersection. A stretch of about a mile and a half.

Once crossing the cattle crossing one would easily be going about 35 to 40-MPH. All the while hoping and praying no car would be crossing at the stop sign. Using our coaster brakes would be of no use. At the stop sign you would be at maximum speed. I’m surprised we never blew out a bike tire. We did this little bike coasting trick dozens of times. God only knows we could have been road-kill. I’m almost certain our moms never knew what we were doing on our rickety old Schwinn single speed bikes. Otherwise, we would have been home-kill. I’m lucky to be alive today and telling you all about this goofy-kid daredevil trick. But it was what pre-teen Okie boys did. Goofy bike tricks. Boy howdy!

Book Report

No one knew we were coming.

Another from the first ten years.
It probably was Summer 1952. Now there was one or maybe two summers our ‘Old Maid’ redhead Aunt Elsie drove we kids and our mom up to Portland, Oregon to my mom’s and Aunt’s Brothers’s house. Maybe he was also we kids uncle. Are you following me?
But anyway, and to first explain our Aunt Elsie was a bit cantankerous and easy to ignite her short fuse. If you know what I mean. Fussy times ten. Volatile.
So, we drove up old US99 and cut across west once up in Oregon and made our way to Portland. A city that sunshine forgot. If you are a rain fan, this is your place.
Once we got there and rested up a bit our Uncle proposed an idea of driving up to a place on Washington state coast called Port Angeles and catch a ferry boat going over to Victoria, BC on Vancouver Island. And BC meaning British Columbia a province of Canada.
Once we boarded the ferry we were let go to explore the boats many decks. My favorite deck was where they had a candy and drink concession stand. Then my siblings along with our cousins went below to visit the cars that were being ferried to Victoria. Some cars still had their passengers inside. Not sure why they didn’t get out of their cars and go explore the boat as well. But one of the most fascinating things to watch was one of the deck hands dumping garbage off the back of the ferry and observe the flock of seagulls diving down and picking up bits of discarded food as we churned along at 40-knots. So fun to watch and listen to them squawk and come up with half eaten French fries and bits of hotdogs.
Then after exploring every inch of the boat and about two hours later that we had pushed off from Port Angeles, we finally arrived in Victoria harbor. The ivy-covered Empress Hotel was most prominent and I must say an impressive sight as seen from the bow of the boat.
Shortly after all of us deboarded and all cars drove off we had to find a place to spend the night. And to explain, there were no toll-free 800 numbers back then to call ahead for information and reservations. Never mind it cost a small fortune to make a long-distance call to Canada back then. So as night was falling we kids, my mom and our irascible aunt stood out on main street while our uncle scouted around to find a place to spend the night. I’m almost sure the locals thought we must be a bunch of clueless tourist looking for housing and a way to get off the street. We were standing in front of a store display window under an awning and a man came walking by and made some kind of suggestive comment directed at my easy to anger aunt. But my aunt being a raw nerve person that takes nothing from anybody blasted back with a few choice words. So, the guy went on thinking we kids might alone run him off. It was about 9:00 in the evening and our uncle came back and said he found a place for all of us to stay. Then we started off walking this up-hill road and about fifteen minutes later we came to the large house he rented for the night. In retrospect the place was a boarding house ran by a nice old British couple with all kinds of British photos and memorabilia on the walls. We had one large room and had to share a bathroom with other boarders in the house and the bathroom was located down the hall. But it worked.
The next morning, we had a light breakfast and went on a walking tour around the provincial capital, the museum of natural history, and then caught a horse drawn carriage and toured all through Victoria. There was a rather large castle with very high walls around it among many other things to see.
Then we stopped for lunch and our uncle said order the fish and chips. It’s what British Columbians always eat. So, we did.
And shortly after that time we walked back to the boat dock and boarded the ferry and sailed back to Port Angeles and rode our uncle’s car back to Portland. All of this was done by the seat of our pants Nothing really planned. but it was most fun. Once we got back to Portland, it was still raining. Raindrops keep falling on my head…

Read between the toes.

I need some toe floss.
Yes, toe floss. Like a thick 12-inch cotton string with a knot every inch or so. I need a dozen or two. Don’t really like running my fingers between my toes to remove the sludge. I need a special device like “toe floss.” Something to pull out random particles collected after a days walking. Floss and toss in to the dirty clothes hamper. None the less, I’m really not sure how that poopy stuff gets there between my toseys-wosies in the first place. I wear thick socks and a shoe on each foot and a person would think those items alone would prevent, as they call it, toe jam. Stinky moosh marmalade.
Well then, if not toe floss, then an air compressor next to my bed with the air pressure to blow the smelly gook out. Either toe floss or a toe blower. Which will it be?

Boy, did we ever get a snow job.

Oh yes, then there was this in the first ten years.

East Los Angeles 1949.

It was a chilling cold and near freezing January morning. In retrospect, a bit cold for southern California. I was in kindergarten at Montebello Park Elementary school and this was the only time I was at the same school my oldest sister Peggy attended. She was in sixth and again I was in kindergarten.

None the less, somewhere in my mother’s collection of photos kept in a fruitcake tin is a black and white photograph of my sister Peg and a friend tossing snow balls. The photo was taken out front on a grassy area of our elementary school. Mr. Steelman, the school principal, allowed we kids to play in the sparsely accumulated snow up until it melted. Knowing this is a rare occurrence and he proclaimed let’s have fun while the snow lasts.

Based on my own witness this snow was the first and last snow I had experienced in L A proper. Before that event I’m not sure if I knew what snow was. Since then, there were maybe two or three days reaching down to 32-degrees but no snow for decades. At least up to the time I had left California back in 1972.

To play in the snow after that rare 1949 event we had to drive miles to the east to a mountain southern Californians called Mount Baldy. The official name of this 10K foot peak was Mount San Antonio. A mountain peak during the winter season would be covered in snow. Certainly, a favorite place to take your 4-man toboggan and sled down until one became sick of it all.

Before more houses were built around us and smog became a factor one could see Mount Baldy from our back yard. Our backyard was about fifty miles from the icon peak. Snowball fight anyone?