“Go down to the Palazzo Pucci on the Via del Pucci and see if you can get us a private showing by the Marchese Pucci for Saturday morning.”
Those were my marching orders one day fifty years ago in my brief job as a travel escort. “Mark who? Poochie what?” These words meant nothing to me. I was a recently laid off aircraft engineer trying to fake savoir faire and European style with a Carolina accent and a cheap polyester sport jacket and trousers.
The travel company boss/owner, whom I’ll call Dr. Hector, brusquely explained every detail. I learned that Emilio Pucci -- pronounced like the slang diminutive of “dog” -- was an Italian nobleman who lived in a palace near our hotel in Florence. He was best known internationally for being a famous fashion designer of skiwear and fancy print fabrics. He was also a sportsman playboy. Dr. Hector explained that they were great old friends and had even raced cars together. (Decades later I searched Wikipedia and discovered much more, including the Marchese’s intrigues with Mussolini’s daughter and how that led to him being arrested and tortured by the Gestapo.)
Dr. Hector also explained in great detail how to navigate the palace and get an audience with the Marchese. I followed these instructions flawlessly. I entered the palace and strolled confidently past the guard with my head held high, took the first left, and headed up the stairs. Just as Dr. Hector had said, the guard did not challenge me. At the top of the stairs I found a broad hall with a beautiful officious woman dressed in black at a desk and lots of beautiful models, also dressed in black, loitering around. I explained to the desk woman my connection to the great Dr. Hector and my need to see the Marchese about a private showing. She was unimpressed and said it was impossible, that private showings were scheduled months in advance. I pressed on, refusing to give up. Eventually, in disgust, she told me to head up the next flight of stairs and talk to the woman there.
I ascended to the next level and found almost the same scene, except that the officious desk woman there and the models were all dressed in white. I got the same response to my plea and I pressed on and on. Finally the officious woman popped up and snippily said, “I will speak to the Marchese.” Yes!
Eventually, she came back and, to my astonishment, coolly announced, “The Marchese will see you now. Follow me.” I followed her to a huge conference room where floor, walls, and ceiling were all beautifully finished in dark wood. The drapes and chair cushions were all wildly colorful Pucci prints. She bade me wait there. I waited … a long time. Suddenly the Marchese himself dashed in, protesting that he was very busy and that I must be brief. I sputtered away, beginning with how I worked for his great old friend Dr. Hector who desired a private showing the coming Saturday morning. He said he didn’t recall the man and repeated the familiar mantra about how private showings had to be scheduled months in advance. I negotiated and politely insisted, emphasizing how wealthy our American tourists were, and how they admired his designs. When my failure seemed eminent, to my amazement, he agreed and set a time for the showing. Then he dashed out and I all but skipped down the stairs and back to the hotel to report my success.
The showing happened. But, I missed it because I was sent on a mission to search all the nearby Florence bars to find our AWOL bus driver. Later I learned that the tourists (all university faculty and staff) were underwhelmed and they only purchased a couple of neckties.
Thursday, November 14, 2019
Tuesday, January 16, 2018
I cannot name all the stuff, but here are a few notable examples. I had tons of leftover building materials from do-it-yourself repairs and home improvements. These are the things one will never again need until soon after disposing of them. The toughest items to purge were the kids’ stuff. My wife Catherine couldn’t bear to part with the kids’ toys. After all we might need them some future year for anticipated grandchildren. One item was a diorama made by our daughter in elementary school. It was cleverly crafted, probably on the theme of a book she had read. It was the interior of a cabin with tiny furnishings like beds made from empty tuna fish cans. There was a very cute little mouse she had made of clay, peering out from a corner. The diorama took fully a square yard of table space and nothing could be stacked on top of it. Another item was the third row car seat I had fashioned for our children to sit in the back of our ’85 Subaru wagon when we had other car occupants. Its creation was a labor of love and engineering skill directed foremost to safety. I had welded a frame exactly fitted to the space and made seats of plywood and foam carefully contoured with Catherine’s electric knife for comfortable support. Catherine made seat covers for it. It didn’t fit anything but an ’85 Subaru and I couldn’t give it away to anyone after the children grew up and the Subaru was gone.
Back to the dump: We called it a dump but it’s really a transfer station. You drive your vehicle in and out over a scale. They charge based on the weight loss after the vehicle has been emptied. The first stop after weigh-in is the hazardous waste drop-off where you get rid of all the solvents, oil based paint, and other nasty gooey stuff. Then you dump off any recyclable metals. Finally you back up to the gigantic pits where you must unceremoniously hurl your junk, lifetime memories, obsolete electronic gear, and everything else over a precipice. Continuously some Morlock runs a roaring bulldozer over it to crush everything into black hole density to be trucked to a landfill. That’s the hard part. These treasures deserve a more respectful interment.
It was awful when I had to hurl the car seat to its doom. It represented hours of our creative craftsmanship. It had cradled our precious little children for many miles of family adventures. This nearly tore me up but it was even worse when I came to the diorama. I took an extra moment to ask myself if there was any way I could preserve it forever and cart it safely about each time we moved. The answer was “No,” - probably the wrong answer. I hurled it into the path of the raging bulldozer and instantly regretted my actions. Suddenly at my feet, still barely in the trailer, I spotted the tiny clay mouse, looking up at me in horror, pleading for his life. “Yes!” I cried to myself and pounced on him to rescue him for life. This was only to find that something terrible had spilled on him from my potpourri of toxics and he was already dissolving away. Why had I not thought of saving him before?! Sadly, I thumped him over the edge to join his diorama in oblivion, and I instantly began weeping. I guess that silly thing had brought the whole pain of empty nest to a catharsis.
By the time I reached the exit weigh station I was wailing inconsolably and almost unable to communicate with the agent and pay up. No doubt she thought I was a nut case. All the way home and ever since, I’ve been mulling better ways to part with our obsolete treasures. Perhaps there could be grief counselors stationed at the dump. Maybe the treasures could ascend up a conveyor as if to heaven and we could receive a little certificate commemorating their good service on earth. No doubt, I am a nut case because I still have the real treasures. The little girl who made that diorama is very wonderfully alive, wiring peoples homes, teaching exercise classes, and operating an Air BnB while raising our two lovely granddaughters. The little boy who sat in the car seat next to her is a prince of a fellow, nearing age 40, loving his beautiful talented wife, and educating the next generation of college students. I have no cause for grief. Rest in peace little mouse. You played your role well in your hour upon the stage and you wont be forgotten.
Saturday, January 14, 2017
I have no idea where digital photos and files reside any more but it seems that when I alter or delete something from one gizmo it gets altered or deleted from the other gizmos and probably rapidly fills the various clouds, which I am sure are watched over by Putin’s hackers.
Sometimes the gear plays impish tricks on me like a couple of mornings ago when the security system, which was supposed to be disarmed, made video of me shuffling through the living room wearing only a T-shirt. Of course it sent this to its cloud before sending me a “notification” that it had detected “activity” in my living room. I have no idea how to delete it. I’m sure it will resurface in four years if I decide to run for president against Trump.
Sometimes we go for help to the experts who sell us this stuff. In a typical visit we are greeted by the millennials who only thinly disguise their disdain for more geezers whom they suspect of being deep into irreversible dementia. Our visits usually leave us more confused than before and limping home defeated with yet another new $120 external hard drive.
At this point I am afraid to take a photograph and unable to access the landline voicemails that are piling up on my computer. Voicemails don’t really matter though because they are all from telemarketers or worthy organizations seeking money. These will call again in a few days or a few hours when I am frying bacon, sleeping, watching a movie, about to take a shower, using the toilet, entertaining guests, or some combination of the above.
Will somebody please stop the world or at least turn it back to 1958?
Tuesday, November 4, 2014
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
When he wasn’t doing assistant principal duties, i.e. lecturing and punishing bad kids, Mr. Teague taught South Carolina History. I had him for that subject and that part of our relationship wasn’t too bad. He had a wonderful collection of historical artifacts. I remember actual envelopes of letters written by survivors of the Confederate war that were re-used by steaming off the glue and turning the envelope inside out and re-gluing it. Such was their desperate state of poverty after Sherman had killed all their livestock and burned their farms. He even told us how starving survivors had to pick undigested grain kernels out of cow dung for food. Ugh!
With this education from Mr. Teague, you can surely understand my outrage when a kid in my class named Terry Stull (That’s his real name; he deserves to be outed.) called me a Yankee one day at recess. I couldn’t catch him so I threw a rock and bloodied his head. I was promptly marched off to Mr. T but I was sure there would be no punishment for anyone but Terry. Surely Mr. T would understand that such an insult could not be left un-answered. He didn’t understand, even though I explained to him it was only a small rock. He kept insisting that even a small rock could put an eye out. I tried to explain that Terry was running away so his eyes were on the far side of his head from me.
One time the art teacher, Ms. Craig, marched me off to Mr. T for drumming on her garbage can lid. We kids were all queued up for something and in good spirits. The garbage can was right next to me, and the lid seemed to call out to me to make music, so I did. I had no idea there was a rule against drumming on garbage can lids. Ms. Craig never even told me to stop. She just hauled me in for discipline where both she and Mr. T poked fun at me, lampooning my musical aspirations. This scarred me for life and is probably the reason I never learned to play the guitar well.
Foote Jr. high included grades seven through nine. Each grade was divided into about 14 sections (classes) based on how smart you tested. I’m some sort of a genius so I was only about two sections down from the top. When I reached the 9th grade, they decided to try something new with the 9th grade. I’m sure Mr. T was behind the idea. They made two of the sections exclusively for male troublemakers, one for boys who didn’t test well academically and one for those who tested well. I’m proud to say I was in the one for boys who tested well. Still, it was hell. The class was filled with devious rowdies and bullies, and there were no girls. There went my chances of finding a sweetheart in my class. The kids were so bad that the homeroom teacher was forever keeping the whole class after school for being rowdy. This infuriated me because I had an afternoon paper route, being an industrious young man with an entrepreneurial spirit. I only made about a dollar a day and if I was late, customers called in complaints which were assessed to me at the rate of 50 cents per complaint. One day the kids were going berserk and I was sitting quiet as a mouse hoping the whole class wouldn’t get detention. We did. Worse yet, the teacher forbade us to utter a single word during our detention. That was the most disempowered I had ever felt. Finally I raised my hand but was ignored. I blurted out that I needed to go to the bathroom. Still I was ignored. I protested that it was pretty urgent and I couldn’t wait. This was an exaggeration, but how was she to know? Finally she dismissed me to the bathroom, ordered me to return afterwards, and, worse of all, to suffer detention again the next day. Ooh! After a couple of days of me refusing to stay after school (because of my innocence) and my homeroom teacher bursting into tears, I was marched off to Mr. T. My case was weakened by the fact that when I arrived at the bathroom on that initial detention afternoon I found, to my horror, Mr. T in the bathroom, probably erasing graffiti. He regarded me so suspiciously that I was unable to relax enough to relieve myself and I had to return to the classroom un-relieved.
There was a rule against fighting. That’s reasonable of course but Mr. T (being a step ahead of today’s insurance industry) had a no-fault amendment to that rule. It said combatants involved in a fight were punished and punished equally, no matter who was the attacker and who was the victim. Of course I was always the victim or at most, the reluctant party mercilessly taunted into combat. Once Mr. T suspended me for getting into three fights in one week and my father had to meet with him to arrange my re-admittance. I can’t remember the fights per se, but I am certain I was innocent in all cases. I do remember one fight when a lunatic kid arrived late for class and ordered me out of the desk where I was sitting. I refused to budge because it was open seating and he had no right whatsoever to a desk I had already occupied. He charge like a bull and overturned both desk and me. That meant I was involved in a fight and had to take detention and more complaints on the paper route.
If you’re still with me, you need to get a life. No, actually you’re wondering what all this is leading up to. Here it is. I listened to one more lecture from Mr. T last evening! I hadn’t laid eyes on him since 1959, but he is still alive. He looked pretty good for his 86 years. He had a full head of white hair and was commendably trim for an old man in the land of BBQ and hushpuppies. Sponsored by the Edisto Museum, he delivered a very engaging lecture about finding ten unmarked and forgotten Union soldier graves on Otter Island (an uninhabited island between here and Hunting Island).
I had a chance to talk to Mr. T beforehand. Of course he didn't remember me. I didn't expect him too. I told him I was sure he had a thousand Bart Simpsons pass through his office in his teaching years. Nevertheless, I apologized for hitting Terry Stull in the head with a rock. Mr. T’s adult granddaughter and her son were with him. She seemed to find it amusingly incongruous that a white-whiskered old man was calling him Mr. Teague (instead of Harley) and apologizing for hitting a kid in the head with a rock.
But enough about me; what about the lost soldiers of Otter Island? It is an inhospitable place. Yes, boaters party on the beach at Otter Island but they never go into the interior because it is a tangled jungle of brush and vines infested with mosquitoes, chiggers, snakes, and alligators. The amazing part of Mr. T’s story was not just finding previously undiscovered graves with no marker stones in that thicket, but also actually discovering who was in them. The latter discovery was by wild coincident when he somehow found a diary of an Otter Island Union soldier held by an antiquities dealer somewhere near the border between Pennsylvania and New Jersey. Mr. T bought the diary. He wonderfully communicated the emotional experience of finding not only the resting place, but also the identity of these long lost and forgotten soldiers.
Mr. T no longer works to reform bad boys but he still does important primary historical research in S. Carolina. He has donated many artifacts to the Edisto Museum. I no longer want to kick him in the kneecaps. Forgiveness is liberating.
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Anyway I’m not sure why I’m relating this, but it was kind of emotionally wrenching for me to hear someone get such abrupt shocking news, up close and personal. Part of me wanted to laugh and part of me wanted to cry. I felt like jumping up and hobbling over to give him a big hug, but that really didn’t make any sense. He’d probably think he was really in a surrealistic world of craziness. I sat respectfully quiet. I was very thankful that all I had to whine about was a stiff big toe. I’m still counting my blessings.
Sunday, February 2, 2014
Does this represent all that today’s humans thinks about or just what BiLo thinks we think about? Maybe BiLo just figures it’s the only thing that low country southerners want to read. Were there any magazines that both genders would find interesting? No, but one actually exists, Garden & Gun. Yankee friends, I’m not making this up; that’s the actual name of it. It’s published in Charleston of course. Who does BiLo think we are? Men are so much more than this suggests. Where are our hot rod magazines and girly books? This is an island for goodness sake, so where are our fishing magazines? I thought women had also been short-changed, but I discovered those gems that define the feminine gender up by the checkout lines. I’m speaking of celebrity scandal sheets that let you know who else John Kennedy was bonking, what aging movie actress showed acres of cellulite in a bikini, and when Elvis was last sighted.
I’ve got to be fair. There was actually a weekly news magazine. You can see it in the photo, looking lonely down on the right end of the games and kids’ stuff shelf. Couldn’t BiLo give it some company? Maybe a couple of science mags, a business mag or some periodicals on sports other than homicidal sports. Fellow citizens, take up the cause of our enlightenment. I shall certainly do so, but right now I’m taking my erudite carcass into the living room to watch the super bowl. Go Seahawks!