Author: Dave

I spent this summer on the road. Some of my trips, like my visit to the Ann Arbor Artfest with Darcy, were wonderful. Some of my trips were to places I would just as soon not visit again. But you never know what, or who you’ll see when you leave your home. The following are short takes on how I spent my summer vacation.

I

Of all the people sentenced to spend their final years at Unhappy Acres, Barbara and Scott were the hardest to visit.

Call me a glutton for punishment. Call me a masochist. It doesn’t matter. Two, three, sometimes four times a year I pop into “The Home” and visit some people who used to live in the neighborhood. The last week-end in July was one such journey.

It is funny the way character flaws are magnified with age. A middle-aged complainer becomes a world class whiner at 67. Someone who is merely over-solicitous in his fifties can be a real nudge at 75. I, for one, will be an overly judgmental S.O.B. if I live to be 70.

II

The fog lifted at about eight o’clock, one hour into the trip. Nine hours left. Just me and the ghosts driving to Massachusetts.

Phil and Jen were visiting my parents. I was making the long drive to pick them up. Thankfully I wasn’t alone. H.M., A.O., S.S., and even M.S. of my most recent past filled the car with memories of what was and the thoughts of what could have been, but won’t. Good thing I’ve got a Caravan. We all couldn’t have fit in my old Honda.

I’m not complaining. The ghosts are good traveling companions. They never ask me to stop the car for food or rest rooms. They let me drive as fast as I like. But, there is a price for their company.

What could I have done differently? What could we have changed? What should we have not done at all? One by one, each takes her turn in the front seat to discuss her era.

Who gets to be first? M.S. pushes her way to the front. She usually does. She is young and impulsive and in her shy, soft-spoken way always succeeded at demanding my attention. Normally I try to make her wait her turn. Procrastinating, I want to deal with the most painful last. But today’s journey is over five hundred miles, long enough to give her all the time she is due.

III

The insurance business has given me the opportunity to meet, and become friends with, many artists. Over the years I have come to know musicians of every style, writers, sculptors, and painters. I found Greg, a master with watercolors, to be the most expressive. The depth and honesty of Greg’s painting is arresting. I remember the first time I entered his home/studio. I stopped and stared at the canvas leaning against the wall. We discussed that picture for over fifteen minutes. One of my prized possessions is the book from a Butler American Museum of Art show that he gave me that day. That was three years ago. I remember that day for one other reason. That was the day I met Kyra, the woman who was soon to be his bride.

Darcy and I were walking along State Street. We were determined to view every single booth at this year’s Ann Arbor Artfest. The street was packed. I didn’t see the artist’s name until we were already in the booth and out of the hot sun. There was Kyra holding a cold drink. It was Greg’s unit. Greg made us feel welcome and we looked around. I hadn’t seen his new work. Not really. Not enough in one place so that I could really gauge how marriage had changed him. We talked, but a painter’s true emotions are only displayed by his brush.

Greg’s style was unchanged. The colors were still strong. His whole approach was confident. The honesty was apparent. But the subject matter was different. The darkness was gone. Yes, he had told me over the last three years how happy he was and how much he loved his wife. It took a trip to Michigan, however, to see the truth in those words.

I’d like to leave you with something positive, but I can’t think of anything. Will you accept two negatives?
Woody Allen

I had been mourning the abrupt death of a brief, but intense, relationship for about two weeks. I had gone through all the stages; shock, grief, the uncontrollable urge to write an article… You know, the whole process. It was time to get on with my life.

There are people who do nothing but sit and kvetch (bitch). They never take the time or make the effort to analyze their situation or to create a plan to solve their plight. They expend all of their energy complaining. Not me.

It was the end of May. As I’m watching the Today Show I realize that there are three movies coming out this summer that I really want to see. Dave, Much Ado About Nothing, and Sleepless In Seattle all sounded great. All three are well crafted romantic comedies. I then realized that I didn’t have a clue as to who I would take to see any of them.

It is one thing to go to an intense movie like The Crying Game alone or with a friend, but a romantic comedy should be a shared experience. Kenneth Branaugh’s production of Much Ado wouldn’t be the same viewed with my kids or by myself.

So I jumped into action. It only took one Saturday night alone with the laundry to convince me that I needed to expand my options. I answered a personal ad from the back of this paper.

Ok, I admit it. The first one was a unique experience. We never met. We talked twice over the phone and exchanged letters over a four week period. Nice girl. Not my type, but nice girl. More importantly, once I made the initial phone call, I was ready to fully participate.

I answered several ads. I placed ads in two publications. I developed a game plan. In other words, I stopped waiting for someone to find me and began the earnest search to find someone. And not just anyone. The task at hand was to find someone more compatible, someone I would more likely want to be with five, ten, twenty years from now. (Note to regular readers: notice that I said nothing about marriage.)

Within two weeks I received several responses to my ads and had talked to a few of the women who had placed ads. My first reaction was surprise. I’m not sure what I expected but it wasn’t the wonderfully educated, intelligent, articulate women I found. I was truly surprised by the number of health care professionals, attorneys, and educators. These were genuinely interesting people. The task now became to check for true compatibility.

One by one we met at Borders, Arabica, and the Art Walk. Neutral territory. Non-threatening. The first week I met with four different women. They were lovely, wonderful women who, for whatever reason, were meant for someone else.

I wasn’t bothered by the fact that I had no plans for Saturday night. I had been out a lot that week and though the results weren’t great the process was working.

Saturday’s mail brought two responses. The one that really caught my eye was written on mauve stationary. The tone was friendly. The words and writing revealed someone who was both confident and intelligent. I called. We met that night at Arabica. We have been seeing each other since.

By the time this column appears I hope we will have had the opportunity to have seen all three of those movies. And maybe, just maybe, we will have established some new goals for the months ahead.

Hello ruby in the dust
Has your band begun to rust
After all the sin we had
I was hoping that we’d turn bad
Neil Young

Ok, it wasn’t the perfect relationship. Sometimes he expected more openness than she was ready to reveal. But he was intense, and loving, and when he talked to her she could hear the way his voice changed and softened. And when he kissed her shoulders, her knees still buckled the same way as they had that first time…

No, it wasn’t the perfect relationship, but it was damn good. They had crossed the first big hurdle with surprising ease. Shayna wanted to wait for her wedding night to share that most intimate of experiences with Gato. Was she really that pure? He didn’t need to know. He loved and respected her. This was important to Shayna. That made it important to Gato.

But it was over now. Ambushed just as their love was about to take flight, Shayna and Gato stood next to her Ford Escort in the mall parking lot and held each other one last time. He couldn’t believe that he was willingly walking away from the most exciting woman he had ever known. She never expected it to end this way.

Both Shayna and Gato had grown up in the shadow of the Catholic Church. While Shayna had strayed over the years, Gato had completely abandoned the faith. His first marriage, an unfortunate experience for all involved, ended in divorce. His second…well even his closest friends don’t know all the details of that mess. Now, at the age of thirty-six, he found himself dueling with the Church and a parent for the love of a beautiful woman. He was not prepared.

Shayna’s mother, condemned to a loveless marriage, had devoutly dedicated her life to the Church. She couldn’t tolerate her daughter married to a divorced man. Wielding Father Lisinski like a blunt instrument, she pummeled her daughter with a faith whose core was LOVE. The choice was clear. Gato and HELL or her home, her faith, her family and salvation.

Shayna and Gato met in their usual booth in the Arby’s in the mall. Slowly she explained her dilemma to Gato. She was torn. She couldn’t decide. He could hear her say that she wanted to choose him while her eyes revealed her terror of losing her family and her Church. Gato wanted her to have it all. He spoke of peaceful coexistence. But after what her mother and the Priest had said, Shayna couldn’t believe that she could keep the Church, her mother, and Gato.

And now it was time to go. Gato knew that she could not make this choice. No matter what Shayna did, she lost. He told her that some people say “I love you” with flowers. Some recite poetry. But he, Gato, would show her today that he really loved her with all of his heart and soul. He would do this by saying “good-bye”. He drew her close, kissed her on the forehead, then the lips. And then he turned to find his car. He fought back the tears and the urge to return to his beloved.

So it hadn’t been a perfect relationship. But it had been a long time since they were perfect.

That’s it. I’ve had enough. I’ve reached my limit of O.P. P. Now I’m not talking about the recent hit song by Naughty by Nature. That song is about Other Peoples’ “Property.” No. My O.P.P. stands for Other People’s Problems or more specifically, Other People’s Progeny.

Kids! First of all, my children live with me. Regular readers of this column know that I don’t have to tie sandbags around Phillip and Jenny’s ankles to keep them from floating off to heaven. They aren’t perfect. Not even close.

In the last eight years I have been involved with three women and their six children. Four of these children, all girls, were step kids for a time. These six children filled the scale from precocious at one extreme to the kid who is the poster child for Planned Parenthood at the other. One dragged her own personal black cloud with her wherever she went. And the other three were just kids from broken homes who had more baggage than they could sometimes carry.

All six of these children have had some effect on Phil, Jenny, and I. Now this wasn’t all negative. Not by a long shot. But the bad is beginning to outweigh the good.

When I divorced Jen & Phil’s mother in 1985, I told my friends David and Jack that any future relationship I had would include more children. This was my logic:
I. If I got involved with a woman it would lead to marriage.
II. I already had two kids and was not going to father anymore.
III. The woman was going to be a step-mother.
IV. Either she already had kids or she would only have Phil & Jenny for children.
V. It was probably easier to find a woman with strong maternal instincts in her thirties who already had children than it would be to find one satisfied with experiencing motherhood as a step-parent.

As you can see, LOGICAL. There is nothing quite like the analytical male mind. Nothing, including reality. Just because something works in theory does not guarantee that it will work in the real world.

One of the problems I never anticipated was that I would have any trouble loving, much less liking, any of the children I acquired. Through all my years of volunteer work in the public schools as a teacher and coach as well as my experience with the children of relatives and friends, I got along famously with all of the kids. Children tend to be comfortable with someone who is straightforward, who sets guidelines, and who isn’t afraid to laugh at himself.

But the last eight years have been difficult. So many different agendas. So much baggage dumped on our doorstep. Just when Phil, Jen and I think that we have dug ourselves out from beneath the load, a forklift drops another on us.

New relationships don’t bring a woman into our lives. No, a new relationship is the equivalent of an invasion by a full battalion. We get the woman (who is unfortunately seldom the commanding officer of the horde), the children (who often are the real control), the ex-husband, ex-boyfriends, close girlfriends, parents and siblings. As with all invading armies, their first action is to overrun the countryside, declare victory, and then try to convince you that you invited them into your home.

By the time you sort out all of the players (G-d I wish they’d wear name tags) you are two or three months into the relationship. You are already committed, or ready to be. But the real source of conflict still seems to be the children and the parent’s relationship with them. If the children refuse to allow the peaceful union of the adults, the relationship fails. Period.

Well, I’ve walled off the house and fortress Cunix won’t be invaded again for awhile. For the moment, at least, I’m looking for a woman who rides alone.

That’s it. I’ve had enough. I’ve reached my limit of O.P. P. Now I’m not talking about the recent hit song by Naughty by Nature. That song is about Other Peoples’ “Property.” No. My O.P.P. stands for Other People’s Problems or more specifically, Other People’s Progeny.

Kids! First of all, my children live with me. Regular readers of this column know that I don’t have to tie sandbags around Phillip and Jenny’s ankles to keep them from floating off to heaven. They aren’t perfect. Not even close.

In the last eight years I have been involved with three women and their six children. Four of these children, all girls, were step kids for a time. These six children filled the scale from precocious at one extreme to the kid who is the poster child for Planned Parenthood at the other. One dragged her own personal black cloud with her wherever she went. And the other three were just kids from broken homes who had more baggage than they could sometimes carry.

All six of these children have had some effect on Phil, Jenny, and I. Now this wasn’t all negative. Not by a long shot. But the bad is beginning to outweigh the good.

When I divorced Jen & Phil’s mother in 1985, I told my friends David and Jack that any future relationship I had would include more children. This was my logic:
I. If I got involved with a woman it would lead to marriage.
II. I already had two kids and was not going to father anymore.
III. The woman was going to be a step-mother.
IV. Either she already had kids or she would only have Phil & Jenny for children.
V. It was probably easier to find a woman with strong maternal instincts in her thirties who already had children than it would be to find one satisfied with experiencing motherhood as a step-parent.

As you can see, LOGICAL. There is nothing quite like the analytical male mind. Nothing, including reality. Just because something works in theory does not guarantee that it will work in the real world.

One of the problems I never anticipated was that I would have any trouble loving, much less liking, any of the children I acquired. Through all my years of volunteer work in the public schools as a teacher and coach as well as my experience with the children of relatives and friends, I got along famously with all of the kids. Children tend to be comfortable with someone who is straightforward, who sets guidelines, and who isn’t afraid to laugh at himself.

But the last eight years have been difficult. So many different agendas. So much baggage dumped on our doorstep. Just when Phil, Jen and I think that we have dug ourselves out from beneath the load, a forklift drops another on us.

New relationships don’t bring a woman into our lives. No, a new relationship is the equivalent of an invasion by a full battalion. We get the woman (who is unfortunately seldom the commanding officer of the horde), the children (who often are the real control), the ex-husband, ex-boyfriends, close girlfriends, parents and siblings. As with all invading armies, their first action is to overrun the countryside, declare victory, and then try to convince you that you invited them into your home.

By the time you sort out all of the players (G-d I wish they’d wear name tags) you are two or three months into the relationship. You are already committed, or ready to be. But the real source of conflict still seems to be the children and the parent’s relationship with them. If the children refuse to allow the peaceful union of the adults, the relationship fails. Period.

Well, I’ve walled off the house and fortress Cunix won’t be invaded again for awhile. For the moment, at least, I’m looking for a woman who rides alone.

The inscription on the jar caught my eye. I stepped over the clutter of the antique store to get a closer look. I needed something for the end table and this would do just fine.

As I removed a layer of dust and such from the jar, it began to shake. A cloud of red-blue smoke escaped from the jar and as it began to take shape, a voice filled the room.

WHAT IS YOUR PLEASURE, MASTER?

Master?

MASTER! I AM THE GENIE THAT HAS BEEN LOCKED WITHIN THAT VESSEL FOR A THOUSAND YEARS.

Come on. What’s a good Jewish boy like me doing in an old Arabic tale?

IT IS NOT WITHIN MY POWER TO DISCRIMINATE, MASTER. WHAT DO YOU DESIRE ABOVE ALL ELSE? ORDER IT AND IT SHALL BE YOURS.

Really? I would like my children to have a happy and healthy childhood.

AS YOU WISH, SO SHALL IT BE DONE. WHAT DO YOU DESIRE FOR YOURSELF?

For me? Hmmm. I would like a mutually fulfilling permanent relationship with a woman.

TELL ME SOMEHTING I DON’T KNOW. EVEN ONE CONFINED FOR A THOUSAND YEARS IS AWARE OF MY MASTER’S STORIED PAST.

Good news travels fast.

YOUR LAST ADVENTURE WAS A RIVETING TALE. DESCRIBE THE WOMAN YOU TRULY SEEK.

Let’s see. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Soft features. A warm smile…

STOP, I PRAY OF YOU. YOUR DESCRIPTION IS COMMON KNOWLEGDE. DO NOT WASTE A MOMENT SHAPING THE VESSEL. WHAT OF THE CONTENTS? WHAT OF THE SOUL?

What do I really want? I want to be loved.

DO YOU BELIEVE THAT THAT IS UNIQUE IN ANY WAY?

No. I’ll get the hang of this. I want to be loved by someone that I can respect and value so that her love will be of real value to me.

IN OTHER WORDS, IF YOU DON’T RESPECT AND ADMIRE HER, IT DOESN’T MATTER WHETHER SHE LOVES YOU OR NOT?

Yes. That makes sense. An equal. A partner. A co-conspirator.

YES. YES. YES. PLEASE CONTINUE WITH YOUR DESCRIPTION.

I have always been attracted by vulnerability. I have a lot of empathy.

YES MASTER. AND THEIR DEPENDENCY CHASED YOU AWAY ONCE YOU WERE MARRIED.

That is true, but I know that I am vulnerable yet capable of being self-sufficient and organized. Am I that unusual? Is this combination available in a woman?

I CAN NOT SPEAK AS TO HOW USUAL OR UNUSUAL MY MASTER MAY BE. AS TO FEMALE AVAILABILITY, I NEED MORE INFORMATION.

I would like a woman who can function perfectly well without me, but even better with me. I want to enhance her life, not be it. And of course, visa-versa.

CONTINUE MASTER. SHE BEGINS TO TAKE SHAPE.

I want a woman who will love my children, and if she can’t, keep it a secret. I want a woman who will compete with me at Jeopardy!, but not take it personally. I want a woman who excites and stimulates me emotionally and mentally, instead of just sexually.

YES MASTER. FORTUNE MAY SMILE UPON YOU AT LAST.

Great. Now, can you fit all of that into a size 9/10?

You must remember this
A kiss is just a kiss
Casablanca

My evening appointment ran long and I found myself at the corner of Pearl and West 130th Street at 10 PM. It’s a nice neighborhood. It is just not my normal stomping grounds.

I studied the area around me as I waited for the light to change. In front of my Caravan was a little black Chevy pick-up. You know the type. It was one of those trucks that are purchased by people who really don’t need a truck.

The couple in the truck were talking softly. No gestures. They hardly moved as they spoke. Suddenly they leaned together and kissed gently. I don’t know why, but the kiss, their kiss, seemed strangely intimate. It wasn’t a long kiss. It appeared to be no different than thousands of long forgotten good-bye kisses I had shared over the years. But it was different.

The couple resumed their conversation after the kiss. The light changed. They went straight while I turned right to catch the freeway.

A sweet kiss. An innocent kiss. A kiss shared by young lovers. Cliché? Perhaps. But does the fact that these thoughts are common make them any less valid or desirable?

I remember my first kiss. I remember the long, agonizing walks from the car to the doorstep when maybe, just maybe, my date might reward me with that momentary thrill of physical intimacy. How was I to know that she was just as nervous, just as unsure as to what the rules really were?

Is it any different today than it was twenty plus years ago? Not much. The kids seem to age quicker, but they don’t really mature faster. They have the same fears and frustrations as we had when we were in junior high and high school. Their concerns are in some way reassuring. It proves that they aren’t THAT jaded. Innocence changed, but not lost. They’ll be fine.

But what about us? I know that it has been a long time since I have been considered innocent, but as someone starting over I need to know what the rules are in 1993.

I have passed from one serious relationship to another for almost twenty uninterrupted years. Since October 1973 I have never been “unattached” for more than 30 days. I’m wondering if withdrawal symptoms will kick in at the six week mark.

Of course my friends have complete faith in me. The barber shop by my office has a lottery set up to predict the next time I get married. Yes that is as tasteless as betting when an alcoholic will fall off the wagon, but a certain amount of abuse is inevitable.

Is a kiss just a kiss? I don’t think so. I think the first time, each first time, might be the best. The first kiss is the culmination of all our fears, indecision, and sexual tension overwhelmed by the sheer imperative of our need to touch.

It was 3 AM and I was thoroughly exhausted. I had gotten up at 6 the previous morning and had been at her home for about seven hours. We had talked endlessly abut the usual topics: kids, music, cooking, etc… The tension was wonderful. I noticed she touched me when she made a point. I’m a sucker for that. Was she going to kiss me? Would I make a move? I found myself strangely gun-shy.

The moment came as I was about to leave. A kiss. Softly, our lips met for a brief moment. It seemed that the tension evaporated as we hugged and then kissed again. And then I left.

It seems silly to assign so much value to something as common as a kiss. Whether it is the witnessed kiss between two strangers at a stop light or two friends in a kitchen, it is still just a kiss. And we know what a kiss is worth, don’t we?

“No Dave. You can’t buy a 386. It’s already outdated. Ancient history. You have to get a 486.”

My eyes were glazing over.

“And you’ll need a DX. That math coprocessor chip is a must.”

How many stores had I been in? Four? Five? I’d lost count. I barely possessed the qualifications to use a computer and here I was trying to buy one for my office.

Nothing in my background, training or schooling prepared me for this mission. I never took a computer class in high school or college. In fact, the closest I came to a computer in college was to help the pocket protected FORTRAN and COBALT devotees pick up their computer cards that they constantly dropped on the walkways outside of the Student Union.

I checked in to Case Western Reserve University in the fall of 1973. I had an English and Religion double major with a Political Science minor. I was going to be either a Rabbi or an attorney. In either case I would have no need for a computer. One day I had a startling revelation; I wasn’t holy enough to be a rabbi and I wasn’t amoral enough to be an attorney. I have been in the insurance business since 1979. Now I need a computer.

Actually Bill and I have a computer. It is an antique. Our XT clone has a 40 Meg hard drive, no graphics, and we use our typewriter for a printer. This is a system that would have amazed and satisfied all of my computer maven friends ten years ago. Today it brings derisive snickers.

Dealing with computer salesmen is a lot like fielding a solicitation from a charity. “Mr. Cunix you donated $50 when we called last year. We were hoping we could count on you for $100 this year.” No matter what you have done before, you will be pushed to do more.

If you tell the salesman that you want VGA graphics, he will push for Super VGA. Walk into the store in search of Super VGA and you will be advised to purchase Extended. Try shopping for Extended…well, you get the idea. No matter what you choose, you will be counseled by the “computer professional” that you need more.

A guiding maxim of my business is that you never buy more insurance than you need. I have been told that I can’t buy more computer than I need. So I’m looking for a mainframe. Of course, I also need a bigger office to house this new machine and someone to run it. Maybe I can still get into law school.

You heard Brinkley. You saw Feagler. You read George Will. It is now time for me to weigh in with what will hopefully be the last article about the recent election.

Winner- The American people and our system of government. We had the largest voter turnout in twenty years. We are also witnessing a smooth transition of control of the world’s only remaining superpower. We take for granted something that could not happen in the vast majority of countries.

Loser- Negative, deceptive campaign advertisements. From muddy Margaret Meuller to Mike DeWine, the candidate who appeared to hit below the belt (or below the belt the most) lost. By election eve I was beginning to think that Congresswoman Mary Rose Oakar was going to accuse her challenger, Martin Hoke, of kidnapping the Lindbergh baby. And who can forget the Republican version of Arkansas?

Winner- The 13th Congressional District. People who know Sherrod Brown would be tempted to move to Elyria or Chardon just so that they could be represented by him in Washington. I attended an International Leadership Conference in Washington several years ago. Mr. Brown, then Ohio’s Secretary of State, was a featured speaker. His talk, and his obviously bright future as a public servant, were topics of discussion during the balance of the conference. It is great to see one of the “good guys” finish first.

Loser- George Voinovich. You campaigned heavily for George Bush, but Ohio made Bill Clinton the President-Elect. Your Lieutenant-Governor ran a campaign for the U.S. Senate that will be remembered long after his name is forgotten. And even with the newly Republican drawn districts, Ohio’s House, Senate and congressional delegation are substantially unchanged. Not a good election, George.

Winner- Dan Quayle. No, really. Actually, Dan won twice. Had he been re-elected there would have been no way he could have successfully run for the presidency in 1996. The American public would not allow either party to control the White House for five consecutive terms. This loss greatly increases his chances for victory in the future. Also, whether you agree with his stand on the issues or not (and I certainly don’t), you do know his beliefs and values. Dan Quayle is consistent and true to a certain set of positions and that gives him a real foundation.

Loser- Cleveland radio. Now that the election is over, we will again be inundated by commercials for “Hooked on Phonics”.

Winner- My son Phillip. Burke Lakefront Airport was the scene of Governor Clinton’s last campaign stop in Ohio. I took Phillip, Jennifer, and my new step-daughter Andrea to not only hear the candidates, but to also work as volunteers. I had a great time, but my experience paled beside Phil’s. He not only shook the eventual winner’s hand, he also shook hands with the future First Lady and exchanged pleasantries. Energized, Phillip volunteered to work the balance of the campaign. He learned more about the election process in two days than in all his previous schooling

By the way, Andrea was disappointed that Phil and I had the opportunity to shake hands with the future President and she hadn’t. I told her that it wasn’t that big a deal. After all, more people shook hands with Bill Clinton than had seen Madonna naked.

I lied. It was a big deal.