It was another welcome routine run this morning, day #4,069 – same distance, same route, same time. It’s always easier when you don’t have to think about it. This opposed to getting up in a strange hotel room, trying to find your running clothes in the dark, and navigating an unfamiliar location. I tend to check my watch more and relax less when I’m traveling. It’s funny how the same distance seems so much longer some days. I enjoy getting it out of the way first thing in the morning, and settling in front of the keyboard. However, there isn’t as much to write about on a routine day, in contrast to new sights and sounds when I’m on an adventure. Boredom is often a welcome luxury.
Today, Falco, my step-daughter’s puppy, is visiting for the day. She dropped her off before I left for my run, giving our schnauzer Tally something to do before my wife got out of bed. Normally, Tally just goes back to sleep out of boredom. She spent last week with Falco and seemed a bit depressed from separation once we brought her back home. She’s also still getting over the loss of her long-time companion, Tinker. It’s fun to watch the much younger Falco and Tally romp through the halls of our apartment building. The energetic twosome breaks up the monotony of our quiet retirement life.
My wife’s foot injury has healed and the weather is starting to cooperate, allowing her to spend more time outside. One of the reasons that we liked this neighborhood is the convenience of nearby retail shops, movie theaters, and restaurants. The other day she even hauled the cart that was partially responsible for her injury to the grocery store, carefully navigating it over the uneven sidewalks. I too have to be aware of these potential hazards when I run, in addition to the downtown traffic. So far, I’ve only tripped once, resulting in only a skinned-up knee. I’m lucky it wasn’t worse!
I’ll continue watching the Washington mini-series on the History Channel in an attempt to prevent my retired mind from going to waste. There’s been too much science fiction and not enough educational balance in my T.V. diet. I miss the Ken Burns’ documentaries that always seem to satisfy my cravings for knowledge. They are also promoting an upcoming series on U.S. Grant that peaked my interest. I do still enjoy Curse of Oak Island, but another season is coming to a close, and they never seem to find much of anything. There’s really nothing at the movies that has captured my attention, but Call of The Wild starts later this week. We also need to see Parasite that received so much acclaim, but I’m not excited about the subtitles. My reading has been limited to bedtime, but I have been chipping away at a history of the American Mafia – Inside Al Capone’s Empire that my wife bought to enhance our recent visit to the Las Vegas Mob Museum. It’s sometimes good to be quiet and bored.
I was caught in a slot machine massacre, taking the life out of my bank account. On the last night of our week-long Vegas adventure, I tried unsuccessfully to resuscitate my losses with one last flurry of spending. As we were leaving town on Valentine’s Day, I couldn’t help but think about the Mob Museum and the bullet-riddled brick wall that was reassembled to memorialize this famous Chicago shootout. I consequently pulled some information from Wikipedia hoping to learn mire a out this event exactly 91 years later. “The Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre was the 1929 Valentine’s Day murder of seven members and associates of Chicago’s North Side Gang. The men were gathered at a Lincoln Park garage on the morning of Valentine’s Day. They were lined up against a wall and shot by four unknown assailants who were dressed like police officers. The incident resulted from the struggle to control organized crime in the city during Prohibition between the Irish North Siders, headed by George “Bugs” Moran, and their Italian South Side rivals led by Al Capone. The perpetrators have never been conclusively identified, but former members of the Egan’s Rats gang working for Capone are suspected of a significant role, as are members of the Chicago Police Department who allegedly wanted revenge for the killing of a police officer’s son.”
The garage at 2122 North Clark Street, now the parking lot of a nursing home, was the site of the 10:30 a.m. shooting. Seven men were murdered by four unidentified killers. “Two of the shooters were dressed as uniformed policemen, while the others wore suits, ties, overcoats, and hats. Witnesses saw the fake police leading the other men at gunpoint out of the garage after the shooting. The victims included five members of George “Bugs” Moran’s North Side Gang. Al Capone was widely assumed to have been responsible for ordering the Massacre.”
“Capone’s lookouts likely mistook one of Moran’s men for Moran himself, probably Albert Weinshank, who was the same height and build. The physical similarity between the two men was enhanced by their dress that morning; both happened to be wearing the same color overcoats and hats. Two of the killers reportedly opened fire with Thompson sub-machine guns, one with a 20-round box magazine and the other a 50-round drum.” Later in the year, these guns and other related items were found in a St. Joseph, Michigan bungalow, although the case has really never been totally solved.
Victims:
-Brothers Peter and Frank Gusenberg, front-line enforcers for the Moran organizations
-Albert Kachellek (alias “James Clark”), Moran’s second in command
-Adam Heyer, the bookkeeper and business manager of the Moran gang
-Reinhardt Schwimmer, an optician who had abandoned his practice to gamble on horse racing and associate with the gang
-Albert Weinshank, who managed several cleaning and dyeing operations for Moran; his resemblance to Moran is allegedly what set the massacre in motion before Moran arrived, including the clothes that he was wearing.
-John May, an occasional car mechanic for the Moran gang
Massacre
A heart-felt message,
From Al Capone.
Meet by Lincoln Park,
And don’t come alone.
Bring your whole gang,
Those stealing from me.
Around 10:30 a.m.,
If you’re free?
There’s a garage,
On nearby Clark Street.
If you stop by,
I’ll serve a sweet treat.
Seven showed up,
And died that day.
As guns blazed,
Revenge to pay.
As fate would have it,
“Bugs” was late.
His date with death,
Would have to wait.
A Moran double,
The mistaken aim.
Their hats and coats,
Were both the same.
It was a killing,
Never solved.
Though many theories,
Soon evolved.
A brick wall,
Is all that endures.
Al’s Valentine,
A Massacre.
Copyright 2020 johnstonwrites.com
I remain intrigued with this mob mystery and will continue my retirement hobby of visiting related educational sites around the country, including recent visits to Frank Nitti’s Vault below Harry Caray’s in Chicago (See Post #1067), John Dillinger’s capture in downtown Tucson at the Hotel Congress (See Post #845), and the John Gotti Spark’s Steakhouse slaughter in New York City. The common theme is always a nearby Italian restaurant.
I can barely type on the keyboard after my daily run, with my body filled with adrenaline. My hands shake more than normal before my heart rate begins to settle. The first paragraph every morning requires numerous corrections as I try to turn thoughts into words. It’s probably the best I feel all day as well as my most productive hours. The same was true when I was working. Normally, however, I was in a room where I didn’t have to worry about being disruptive. Today, I’m in a hotel room, as will be the case over the next week here in Las Vegas, and my wife is still trying to sleep. Apparently, there were some noisy neighbors that I was able to somehow sleep-through. Sometimes there are advantages to loss of hearing, but my wife isn’t buying that rationalization. “Get a hearing aid,” continues to be her not so subtle mantra. What?
It used to be “get your hearing checked,” but obviously I’ve proven that it’s more than just ear wax. I actually did get it checked a few years ago as the complaints started, and although they found some issues, it was considered to be normal age related hearing loss. Rock concerts! I don’t think I’ll have that concern at the upcoming Barry Manilow concert, as if I really want to hear “Copacabana.” Perhaps it’s gotten worse, but I don’t want to hear what’s going on next door in a hotel room or our apartment building. We have a small child upstairs that sounds like a herd of elephants as she runs with unbounded energy. I think I’ll wait until we move away from downtown Portland before I invest in new ears.
I do use closed captioning when I watch television, claiming that I can’t often understand the character accents, particularly British productions. I’m usually at the keyboard anyway, not totally focused on the plot. I end up re-viewing a program several times before I get the full gist of it. I wish I had the CC option at the movie theater, but there I’m forced to pay close attention. I think I just need to pay fuller attention to my wife rather than try to listen while monitoring game scores on my phone. What? In retirement, nothing urgent comes through my phone anymore, so she should get my total concentration. It might help me get away with a few more years without amplification. Quite simply, if I give her my undivided attention, I shouldn’t need a hearing aid -yet!
It took as long to get from downtown to the airport as it did to fly to Vegas (1 hr. 45 minutes). With some overhead power issues, they shut down the MAX half-way there, loaded us on a shuttle bus to the Blue Gresham bound train, and finally transferred us back to the Red. With our start on the streetcar, it was a 5-step Tri-Met sampler, utilizing all their public transportation options. It took all this plus two elevators, an escalator, handicap ramps, rough sidewalk maneuvering and good old-fashioned muscle to ultimately get our luggage to an Alaska Airline baggage handler. At least, they gave us a break on the extra pounds we packed. Despite all this hassle, we still had time for a Pot Belly sandwich as we waited to board.
The trip had started so smoothly, catching the streetcar and Airport train without any waiting. We were comfortably seated for about ten minutes before they abruptly dumped us off at a busy stop just over the bridge. It was shoulder-to-shoulder from that point on as we were herded like cattle from bus and train-to-train. The big wide smile on my wife’s face began to fade with each detour. Fortunately, the plane took-off even a few minutes early. Our last trip to Vegas was badly delayed, so thoughts of “here we go again” weighed heavily before we got through security unscathed. We were finally on our way.
Travel hassles are all part of the adventure, especially in unhurried retirement. There’s been some doozies through the years, including missed flights or connections, unexpected airport stops, car rental mishaps, rough seas, illness, overnights in airports, lost baggage, miss-booked hotel rooms, bad weather, accidents, and arguments. Flexibility is the best precaution – a luxury we now have without work schedules. Also, our dog Tally is about the only responsibility we can’t always take with us. There’s little reason why we can’t stay a few extra days. It’s only money!
Actually, I still pout and moan if things don’t go as planned. There’s no patience in these old bones, although I am contemplating a meditation course that a friend teaches. Perhaps, I can adopt some of Buddha’s philosophies in the process? In our recent travels to Thailand, we joked about the constant presence of gold statues celebrating Buddha and his often exposed rear end – “Buddha Butt.” When I brought this up at the recent breakfast meeting, the guy next to me claimed to have invented that religion. “I’m a plumber,” he quipped. I hope my Buddhist friends can overlook these crass butt-crack jokes, and I can learn the patient, forgiving ways of Buddhism. Maybe it can even fix my bladder problems?
I hope to get a few paragraphs in before the I.U. vs. Ohio State basketball game starts this morning. I’d like to have Buckeyes for Breakfast but I’m sure they will be a tough nut to crack. As I.U. goes into another of their notorious scoring droughts, I’m sure my anger will start to flair and hands will start to shake. Our poor pup Tally will cower in fear as the sound of my voice starts to express anger and frustration. In the meantime, I’ll spend some peaceful minutes recounting my daily thoughts.
We had a great dinner at Morton’s this past week, taking advantage of a steak and lobster special topped off with their legendary Hot Chocolate Cake and ice cream. We were there early before the Broadway Series presentation of Dear Evan Hanson, a Tony Award winner that we saw a few years ago in New York City. My wife is such a fan of the theater so I was surprised when she wanted to leave at intermission. It was a good show but still a replay of something we’d already seen on a bigger stage. It’s the second-straight show where we’ve left early. This is a clear sign of old age.
Intermission and bed time arrive about the same time any more. A big dinner and a couple drinks followed by a dark room often leads to nodding-off, with no disrespect to the performers. Sometimes it doesn’t even take the lights-off to result in eyes-closed. This happened at the Old Timer’s Baseball Banquet the other evening. It certainly didn’t help that there were four windy speakers. Last month, it was Fiddler on the Roof that caused an early exit. At least, it’s been a long time since I fell asleep in the middle of a movie, but most of those have been in the afternoon.
I’ve never been a fan of the intermission. In my option, if something is too long to need a break then it’s probably not worth seeing. I do, however, understand the need to bolster concessions, network with fellow theater-goers, use the bathroom, and perhaps make a fashion statement. I just don’t have the attention span to handle all these interruptions. It seems to get worse as I get older. To me, intermission is interruption! Even a basketball halftime is tough for me to handle. Let’s just get it over with and all go home!
In retirement, we may have to limit our live theater experiences to matinees so we can see the whole show. When we’re in New York we do two shows a day without a nap. However, we’ve always come from an earlier time zone. While living in Portland, New York shows often end at 8 p.m our time. I’m usually still awake, but when the clock strikes ten here at home after an intermission, I’m ready for bed. It’s also a big waste of money to walk-out halfway through a show. Maybe intermission should extend into the next day? That way we could rest and come back tomorrow for the rest of the show.
I’m amazed that I’ve now reached the 1200th post on my silly little blog. It’s been a staple in keeping my retirement sanity, along with my running streak. This combination occupies the first couple hours of each morning to provide me with a rewarding sense of daily accomplishment. Both can be tedious tasks that require discipline and mental strength to persevere. This morning, for example, I ran my typical downtown route but imagined that I was in my old neighborhood. I visualized every turn, landmark, bus stop, mile-marker and hill that was part of the course that became familiar over a five-year span. As I ran by the waterfront today, I was envisioning what I once called “retirement circle,” a cul-de-sac that was halfway through my former neighborhood route. Instead of seeing the homeless sitting on park benches, I was looking at beautiful landscaped yards and fine homes.
By superimposing one route over the other, it challenged my mind to focus on the past and became a welcome distraction from the monotony of each step. There truly is a sharp contrast between suburbia and downtown, each with a distinct personality. It’s not that I miss the old neighborhood – it’s just a matter of adjusting to running through busy intersections and on uneven sidewalks while avoiding scooters, bicycles, commuters, and homeless people. It requires so much more awareness to circumvent the obstacles of a busy downtown. It was a little less imposing this morning since it was a quiet Saturday and not a hectic work day. Otherwise, I might not have been able to complete this fun mental exercise that accompanied the physical strain of day 4,045 of my continuous running streak.
After the run each morning, I like to relax at the keyboard and let my mind guide my fingers. Often I just start writing without a conscious topic or goal. As a result, many of my posts are nothing but meandering ramblings that somehow come together in the end. By 10 a.m. every single morning, I’ve run 3.1 miles and submitted another short chapter to this blog. Sometimes I add a humorous poem that comes to me during the run and keeps my brain off the tedious task at hand. Today, however, it was just a mind game that kept me going, as I mentally rambled through the old neighborhood while navigating the new.
As I run every morning through the streets of downtown Portland, it’s hard to ignore those sleeping on the ground, rooting through trashcans, and staring off in space. It’s in my nature to try to do something nice – to make their day a little better. We’ve tried leaving leftovers on a nearby park bench, making donations to the local shelters, and passing out cash. With the latter, you never know if you’ve given to a worthy cause or if they’re headed directly to the liquor store. However, if it makes you feel good it’s certainly worth the chance.
Last night was “Date Night,” moved from its traditional Wednesday slot to Thursday, just as “Matinee Monday” was also rearranged. We tried to do both on Thursday night since my wife was finally feeling up to going out after injuring her foot last weekend. We went to see Little Women at the theater via streetcar but then barely had enough time to let our schnauzer Tally out before a dinner reservation at Montesario Pinseria. Public transportation was running behind because of the rainy weather, and after a long wait we finally called an Uber. In the meantime, I’m monitoring a key I.U. basketball game against Michigan State, as update messages come flooding into my phone from friends. My wife, of course, hates it when I’m paying attention to my phone at the dinner table, especially on “Date Night.” Dinner included pizza, one of my favorites, but I was forced to pick-off the broccolini that in my opinion was a strange topping. Going along with my wife’s choice seemed like a small sacrifice considering that I was cheating on her with the phone. It was a close game but the Hoosiers prevailed, otherwise I could have been in a bad mood and ruined the evening. Just to emphasize, broccolini does not belong on pizza nor does anything else healthy!
After dinner, my wife slowly limps along beside me in a boot designed to stabilize her injured foot, as we once again patiently wait for a streetcar in the rain. Out of nowhere a guy pulls up in a wheelchair wearing a Veteran’s cap and begins to commiserate with her injury. She replies that “it’s only temporary” and he nods sadly and bemoans that “he will never get out of the chair from the injuries that he suffered overseas.” He’s puffing on a cigarette, and politely “out of respect” wheels slightly away and into the rain so as “to not subject us to the smoke.” I thank him for his service and pull $20 out of my wallet, as he goes on to tell me that he needs laundry money to get out of the filthy sweatpants that he’s worn for 11 weeks. As the streetcar begins to pull up, he suspiciously pushes off with both feet and heads in the opposite direction. As we climb aboard, I see him actually running full speed behind the wheelchair across the street directly in front of us. I’m doubting that he was rushing to the laundromat! I guess we should have known better after just watching the second season of Better Call Saal.
The scam actually made me feel better after the guilt every morning of not being able to help everyone in need. Just the other day, there was another guy that stopped me in need of a couple bucks to assist in getting his life back in order. It’s a day-to-day occurrence here in Portland, home of the homeless. I will think twice the next time I’m asked for a handout, with the vision of them laughing behind my back about the success of their little scam. Too bad for all of those that really need it!
Our schnauzer pup Tally is slowly getting oriented to being an “only child.” She had always had Tinker to keep her company, as well as other siblings before we adopted her just before her first birthday. Her 10th is a week away and we need a plan to celebrate. Since Tinker passed away a month and a half ago, Tally has spent 15 days with pet sitters, 2 days at the dog spa, and a week with her niece Falco as a playmate. We’re trying to keep her from being lonely, but you can tell that she misses Tinker, as do my wife and I. Falco is my wife’s oldest daughter’s new pup that is also a rescue. She’s fattened up a bit since we first met three months ago, after the trauma of a hurricane and giving birth.
Falco and Tally love to run and frolic about the carpeted hallways outside of our apartment. It’s about the only real freedom they get, as our actual living space is restrictive of playful activity. They also get to run up and down the stairs before and after we take them outside. I like to use the back stairway that exits directly to the sidewalk, rather than the main way out into the lobby. With this preferable egress, before they can actually get outside, there are two doors that when closed form a small “airlock” that contains them while I put-on their flashing collars and raincoats. There’s also less chance of running into other dogs and the related commotion that often happens in the marble lobby. The third way out is the elevator to take them up and down, but it too empties into the lobby. We don’t use this option as much anymore without the need for Tinker’s stroller. It’s also more fun to watch the dogs navigate the stairs and better exercise for all of us.
Falco is gradually getting oriented to visiting us regularly and playing with Tally. Soon, Tally will be spending reciprocal time at Falco’s house, and hopefully she’ll be more mature around the two cats that once lived with us. Tally loved to taunt Jimmy and Zelda, and never learned to befriend them like Tinker. We’re hoping that all of them will get along better, so we can take advantage of sharing pet-sitting responsibilities and costs. The first experiment will be in a few weeks when we go to Las Vegas. In the meantime, the trials and tribulation of pet orientation will continue.
After 15 days away from home, I’m finally back in a comfortable routine. Yesterday was spent unpacking, sorting the mail, putting away Holiday decorations, and doing piles of laundry, followed by an evening of Fiddler On The Roof at the Keller Auditorium. Unfortunately, both my wife and I were a bit jet-lagged and still adjusting to the three-hour difference in time zones, so we only made it to intermission of the lengthy production. We had both seen it several times before and it’s still enjoyable, humorous, and thought provoking, even when cut in half. It was our first Portland Broadway Series show where we got there by public transportation. I was about to boast that we didn’t have to pay for parking either, but my wife once worked in the building next door and could use her parking space for concerts, plays, and musicals that we would attend.
We had frugally taken the MAX and Portland Streetcar from the airport upon our return three days ago to avoid paying for for two weeks of parking. Although living downtown is relatively pricey, we are saving bits-and-pieces by walking and commuting rather than using our cars. My car is parked over at my step-daughter’s house that we will need to retrieve today, along with Falco her puppy that we’ll be dog-sitting for the weekend. Tally, our ten-year old schnauzer, will be glad to have a companion, as she still seems to be mourning the loss of big sister Tinker. She’s also been in the hands of a sitter while we were traveling, and hopefully missed us too! We lazily took my wife’s car to get groceries yesterday to give it a little action after sitting underground while we were gone. We could have walked and pulled our cart as we usually do, but once again our aging bodies were dragging from the two-week adventure of Planes, Trains, Automobiles, Shuttles, Boats, and Roller-coasters.
We might go to a movie this afternoon that has recently become a bi-weekly tradition with our annual passes. There will be no traditional “Leadership Meeting” today because we’ll all get together tomorrow for the annual Old Timer’s Baseball Banquet. I also have a baseball card luncheon tomorrow that is now a bi-annual tradition. My wife will take Tally on her traditional daily walk through the neighborhood while I write, a ritualistic morning tradition that has been interrupted as we frequently moved hotel rooms these past two weeks. Finally, I’ve returned to the traditional downtown Portland running route and radio station after fifteen days of different routes and distances that make maintaining “The Streak” of now 4,030 days even more of a challenge. Yes, traditions and routines are important in making life easier.
Fiddler On The Roof was all about tradition, as its popular opening musical/dance number emphasizes. Here’s a family built-on the tradition of the father determining the marital fate of each of his daughters, that is eventually uprooted and split apart because of their religious beliefs. Tradition and routine gives each of us an important sense of order and comfort in dealing with the hassles and uncertainties of life. While they can become predictable and boring, it often takes a break from doing them to restore the sense of appreciation they play in our existence. Two weeks of different cities and beds, coupled with strict schedules and entertaining grandchildren make coming home a welcome treat. I’ve gladly returned to the familiar, but will soon be ready for another travel challenge and less routine tradition:
Tradition, tradition! Tradition!
Tradition, tradition! Tradition!
Who, day and night, must scramble for a living,
Feed a wife and children, say his daily prayers?
And who has the right, as master of the house,
To have the final word at home?
The Papa, the Papa! Tradition.
The Papa, the Papa! Tradition.
Who must know the way to make a proper home,
A quiet home, a kosher home?
Who must raise the family and run the home,
So Papa’s free to read the holy book?
The Mama, the Mama! Tradition!
The Mama, the Mama! Tradition!
At three, I started Hebrew school. At ten, I learned a trade.
I hear they’ve picked a bride for me. I hope she’s pretty.
The sons, the sons! Tradition!
The sons, the sons! Tradition!
And who does Mama teach to mend and tend and fix,
Preparing me to marry whoever Papa picks?
The daughters, the daughters! Tradition!
The daughters, the daughters! Tradition!
Songwriters: SHELDON HARNICK / Jerrold Lewis Bock
Tradition lyrics © Trio Music Company
This next decade is truly shaping-up to be “the sunset of our lives,” or at least mine. Some call it the return of the “Roaring Twenties.” I already addressed this in a recent post, but I also wanted to take it back another century to see if there are any comparisons. The 1820’s were relatively uneventful, filled with Presidential controversies, so some things never change. This time frame did not really provide any meaningful insight into the future. All that history can effectively prove is that the sun rises and sets every single day.
I’m looking out at a gorgeous sunset over Punta Gorda Bay, as I continue to reflect on my retirement destiny. Will we find a home here in sunny Florida? Can we live in Florida without being directly on the beach, as my wife constantly bemuses? How close to the water is accessible enough to allow enough net savings for aggressive travel spending? We just added a night in Walla-Walla, Washington to our trip to Glacier National Park to stay at the historic Marcus Whitman Hotel. We’ll spend the night at several well-preserved properties on this 1500 mile round-trip drive, including reservations at The Davenport in Spokane, and both the Izaak Walton and Prince of Wales inside the park boundaries that extend over the Canadian line into British Columbia. We’re slowly adding details to our upcoming New Year adventures. Poor Tally, our schnauzer will once again be left behind with a sitter.
Once this decade speeds by, and I rapidly approach my 80’s, it’s important that we see as much as possible before the proverbial sun goes down. None of us knows if even tomorrow will come, let alone another ten years of life. It’s just a matter of how long the sunset will last, not to mention my legs. I started the year with a rough 3.1 miles after a late night of gluttony and gruel. I was up until 1:30 a.m., although granted only 10:30 Pacific Standard Time. A sugar high woke me up at about 4 a.m., as the sweet port and Bananas Foster finally left my stomach and entered the blood stream. The highlight of the first day of 2020 was when my wife finally got to meet my newest grand-girl. It was special to get all three grand-kids, my son, his wife, and my wife all at the same table – the whole famn damily! We’ll head for Orlando in two days following a couple of realtor appointments and a dinner reunion with one of my wife’s oldest friends. We’ll enjoy the sunset from their ocean-side home on Siesta Key.
