Sassafras Tea

He stepped off the patio of the vacation home where he was staying with his family.  His wife and children had gone shopping.  He had begged off, desiring an hour of solitude before their next activity, whatever that might be. 

He could feel the heat starting to build as the bright, July sun climbed high into the cloudless blue sky.  The cool shade of the adjacent woods beckoned.  He decided to enter by the well-worn path that presented itself at the edge of the manicured lawn.  He breathed in the earthy aroma as he followed the path beneath the canopy of trees.  It stirred youthful memories of days spent exploring the woods near his boyhood home. 

“There’s a path we’ve never taken.  Let’s see where it leads.” 

It might dead-end at a cliff or a wall of undergrowth too thick and thorny to push through.  But it might also lead to treasure – at least in the minds of young boys. 

“Wow, I can’t believe someone threw this stuff away.”

“There’s a radio.  I’m going to take it home and see if it still works.”

A fork in the pathway interrupted his reflection.  A cluster of trees caught his eye and drew him down the trail to the left. 

Is that a sassafras tree? he wondered.  He examined its leaves and decided it might be a tulip tree.  His thoughts once again raced back to his boyhood rambles in the woods.  No, I’ll bet it is a sassafras tree, he thought as he looked more closely at the leaves.  There were three different types – a single lobe, another shaped like a mitten and the third looked like a trident with thick, shapely tines.  Only one way to tell for sure.  He plucked one of the leaves from a branch, stuck the stem in his mouth and bit down.  There it is – that root beer-like taste.

“Mom, how do you make sassafras tea?” he asked, looking up from his homework spread across the kitchen table.

“I’m not sure,” she answered as she continued ironing one of her husband’s shirts.  “Why don’t you try calling Ed and Wendy King on Party Line?”

Party Line was a show on KDKA radio.  People called in with all sorts of trivia questions or tried to guess the answer to puzzles that the hosts posed to their audience.  You never heard the voice of the caller.  Party Line was broadcast in the days before radio had figured out how to use a 5-second delay to censor rude or profane callers.  Instead, you just heard Ed or Wendy’s side of the conversation, which always began with one of them saying, “Hello, Party Line.”

His mother listened to Party Line most every night after his younger brothers were tucked into bed.  He was older and got to stay up till 10:30 or so, especially when Dad was working the 4 to 12 shift.  He had homework to finish and guessed that Mom appreciated the company while Dad was at work.

“I suppose it’s worth a try.  What’s their number?”

“Just listen to the radio.  They say the number every few minutes.”

He picked up a pencil and wrote down the call-in number the next time Wendy announced it.  He slid out of his chair and walked over to the black wall phone near the cellar door.  He lifted the receiver and dialed the number. 

“It’s busy.”

“Hang up and try again.”

He tried again.  Still busy.  And again and again.  Still busy.

After about 15 tries, his mother suggested, “Try dialing all but the last number.  When it sounds like they’ve hung up on a caller, dial the last number.  Maybe that will work.”

He tried his mother’s suggestion, but got the same result.  Twice, three and four times and still the annoying busy signal tone came out of the receiver.  Then, on the fifth try, the phone started to ring. 

“Mom, it’s ringing!”

“Please hold for Mr. King,” a voice said.  He listened intently for maybe thirty seconds.

“Hello, Party Line.”  It was Ed King.

“Hi.  I was wondering if you could tell me how to make sassafras tea,” he heard himself speak into the receiver. 

“I have a caller that would like to know how to make sassafras tea,” he heard Ed’s voice coming out of the radio.

“That’s a good question,” Wendy chimed in.  

He hung up the phone and sat back down at the kitchen table to listen for the answer.  Mom continued with her ironing, and Ed and Wendy took a station break.  When they returned, they were on to another caller’s question.

“They’re probably having someone research sassafras tea,” his mother said.  They listened for the next half hour, but neither Ed nor Wendy said another word about sassafras tea.

“It’s getting to be your bedtime,” his mother said as she gathered up the ironed shirts to carry to the bedroom closet.

“That was completely worthless,” he moaned.

“Maybe you should just dig up some roots and boil them,” his mother suggested.

He smiled as he pulled another leaf from the tree, stuck the stem between his teeth and started walking back toward the house.

And When October Goes

I should be over it now I know

It doesn’t matter much

How old I grow

I hate to see October go*

This past Wednesday was the 7^th day of October.  It also was the 62^nd anniversary of my entrance into this world.  I am retired, though I prefer the term, “self-employed.”  In other words, I have a lot of flexibility in my schedule.  So on the afternoon of the day I became eligible for early social security benefits, I decided to take a walk.  My walk took me to a graveyard that I visit quite often.  It’s not far from my home and contains pleasant curving pathways leading past an interesting mix of tombstones.  This cemetery also contains lots of trees that provide shade on warm summer days.  Its paths lead up and down hills which give me a nice workout.  

On this October day I noticed that the leaves on the trees were just beginning to change.  On my way to the cemetery, I saw one tree resplendent in reds, yellows and oranges.  Some of the trees in the cemetery had begun to take on a yellow-green cast.  But most of the trees still wore the dull, dark green of late summer.

As I walked along the cemetery’s pathways, one tall oak caught my attention.  It had just a few shocks of bright yellow within its crown of green.  It reminded me of a man whose hair had started to turn gray around the temples – a mature, distinguished look.  My own hair had once been dark brown, thick and wavy.  Too many years ago it had changed to salt and pepper.  Now it is pure salt.  I considered whether I was now in the October of my life.  If so, I hoped it was early October, but feared it was later in the month.  My leaves have already turned, but at least they haven’t yet fallen. 

I pondered 62.  Is that really so old?  In my forties, I never read the obituaries.  Now I read them every day.  I take note of the ages of those who have died.  Some are in their sixties; some are even younger.  In today’s paper, I noted that most are in their eighties and nineties.  That gives me hope.  On the other hand, my father had a heart attack at 57.  My brother had a stroke at 55.  My mother was stricken with cancer at 63 and died at 67.  My wife’s father died at 62.  But then there’s my uncle who is still active and going on 90.  More hope.  I have a photograph of my grandparents.  They must be in their early sixties because they both were dead at 65.  They look very old to me.  I think I look much younger, but maybe I’m just kidding myself. 

My mother died in mid-November – the 13^th to be exact.  My father survived his first heart attack and made it to December before the second one took his life.  I tell myself I have months ahead of me.  But I hate to see October go. 

* When October Goes, words by Johnny Mercer, music by Barry Manilow.  See Barry perform it on YouTube. 

Life Is What Happens

If someone had told me I’d be this busy in retirement, I may have continued working for a few more years.  My retired brother-in-law says that the most frustrating two words he hears are, “He’s retired.”  These words are not so daunting by themselves, but by what usually follows:  “He’s retired, so sure, he can . . .,” and then, just fill in the blank.  He can mail your package, pick up your suit at the cleaners, walk your dog, paint your living room, he can do anything you need him to do, because, of course, this retired person has nothing but time on his hands.

I had great plans for retirement.  I planned to practice my guitar until I got really good.  I planned to learn to play the banjo.  I planned to play some golf and spend some time fishing.  I planned to hike the area’s parks and bicycle on the various bike trails around Pittsburgh.  And mostly, I planned to write.  Writing would be my job.  It was my passion.  Writing is why I decided to retire early.  I would sit down at my desk each morning and start writing.  Maybe I’d begin with an article or letter to the editor to express my opinion on a controversial subject.  Perhaps I could sway public opinion to my way of thinking on that subject.  After that, I’d write some creative piece of fiction – a short story or maybe work on that Great American Novel that I felt I had in me somewhere.

But to quote John Lennon, “Life is what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans.”    And life presented me with a number of volunteer opportunities.  I signed up for another term on the Board of a struggling, nonprofit theatre company and was appointed Chair of a committee that has kept me very busy.  I likewise signed up for another three-year term on a Board that oversees property in our Diocese, and I was promptly appointed President of that Board – an “honor” that I’ve found requires much more time than I anticipated.  I also continued to volunteer at my church in various capacities including as a teacher, lay minister, newsletter editor and sponsor of our acolyte program. Additionally, I agreed to participate in a literacy program at a local school where I read with a 2^nd or 3^rd grader.  I also volunteer at the school where my wife is a teacher, and, most importantly, I help her with correcting tests and occasionally other tasks in her classroom.  It is largely because of her encouragement and support that I was able to retire early, so the little I do to help her is small repayment.

Anyway, sometimes I consider all the volunteer work I do a distraction from my plans to write.  I am three years into retirement, and I haven’t yet published anything for which I’ve gotten paid.  But is money the ultimate barometer of success?  I’ve read several books on writing, and the authors invariably answer “no” to that question.  When I take the time to think about it, I realize that I am writing, if not doing some of the other fun things I planned to do in retirement.  I write 10 feature articles a year for my church’s newsletter.  I started this blog, and this is my 38^th post in less than three years. I’ve put together a draft history of my family vacations that is now over 225 pages long.  And I have written various articles and short stories that have either been published or might be published if I made the effort to submit them to a newspaper, magazine or publishing house.

Each week in one of the prayers at my church we ask God to “send us out to do the work you have given us to do.”  Doing God’s work is a part of the life that has happened to me in the past several years while I was busy making other plans.  So yes, I’m retired.  Let me know if I can do something for you.  It may even lead to a great story.

Shining Star

You’re a shining star, no matter who you are,

Shining bright to see, what you can truly be.

Shining star for you to see, what your life can truly be.*

Three years ago, I was on a cruise ship headed to the Bahamas with my beautiful wife and soulmate – who happen to be the same person.  We had a marvelous vacation, and on our return to Pittsburgh, I had just three more days to clean out my office before I walked into the first stage of what we call “retirement.”   At the time I told anyone that would listen that though I was retiring from my employer, I was actually just changing jobs.  After 31 years as an attorney, I would now begin a career as a self-employed writer.

 

Over the past three years, I have written a fair amount.  I started this blog, which now has 37 posts.  I’ve written countless journal pages describing my thoughts, activities and emotions.  I have gotten several articles published in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, and I’ve written a featured article each month for our church’s newsletter.  As an ongoing project I have transcribed and edited over 30 years of journal entries describing our family vacations, which I hope will provide treasured memories for my children.  And I have written a number of essays and short stories some of which I will seek to get published in one manner or another.  During this same period, I have become an active volunteer, serving on two boards, working in various capacities at my church and participating in literacy and education programs at two elementary schools. 

Despite the fact that I have kept myself extremely busy with my second career, I hedged my bets and remained on “active” status as a registered Pennsylvania lawyer.  I figured it was part of my financial safety net in case the writing didn’t work out.  Alternatively, I considered that it would allow me to practice pro bono if there was a cause I really wanted to support.  So each year I dutifully paid my $200 attorney registration fee and my local bar association dues and sat through 12 hours of Continuing Legal Education courses.  Beyond giving me additional second career options, remaining “active” let me maintain my identity as a lawyer.  “I may not be practicing law at the present time,” I told myself, “but I’m still a lawyer.”  In some ways, I was not ready to give up the “shining star” status of being an attorney.

But this year something told me that it’s time to give it up.  “If you’re going to be a writer, that’s where you should be putting your time and money,” I said to myself.  “Take the time and money you’d spend on registration, dues and CLE and spend it on a writing course or conference that might help you learn something about writing or help you get something published.”

Yesterday I attended a reunion with many of the clients I served during my career as an environmental lawyer.  Chatting with these dedicated professionals, some retired and some still working, satisfied me that I had had a legal career that I could be proud of.  But that career is in the past, and it is time to take the stage for the second act of my life’s work.  

So I reviewed the annual attorney registration form that I recently received in the mail and checked the box to indicate my “retired” attorney status.  Today I will put that form in the mail.  Then I will see if I can truly be a shining star as a writer and as a volunteer.  

* Shining Star, written by Maurice White, Larry Dunn and Philip Bailey and performed by Earth, Wind and Fire 

New Car Fever

Two things are abundantly clear to readers of this blog:

1. I agree with the vast majority of scientists that burning fossil fuels is causing global warming which can lead to climate change; and,
2. I love cars.

I’m also very frugal.  I don’t like having a car payment, so my wife and I keep our cars as long as we can.  Our 2007 Dodge Caliber has about 85,000 miles on the odometer; our eleven year old Dodge Caravan – over 140,000 miles.  Surprisingly, both cars average around 28 mpg on the highway; respectable gas mileage appeals to both our frugal side as well as our desire to burn less fossil fuel. 

Anyway, I recently took the van in for an oil change and asked my mechanic to do a pre-inspection. He told me that by the inspection deadline (July 31), the minivan would need a new muffler and tail pipe, front brakes and some body work.  All-in-all, the work would probably run around $1,000.  Of greater concern, he pointed out that oil was seeping out around both the oil pan and  head gasket.  He told me that if the seep got worse, oil dripping on the hot engine could catch fire.  So the bottom line was whether to invest $1,000 or so in a car that is nearing the end of its life, or to put that money toward a new car?  That is a valid question to ask a practical woman like my wife.  But for a man, there is only one realistic conclusion:  my mechanic just gave me a perfect excuse to buy a new car!  He told me this old one’s going to catch fire and burn, so it’s a safety issue that is not even subject to debate!  I got a fever, and the only cure is to buy a new car!

So what kind of new car should I get?  Despite the recent downturn in oil prices, I was looking for a significant improvement in gas mileage.  Gas prices will come back up and when they do, I want to be getting better than 40 mpg in whatever I am driving.  I considered a Fiat.  It is quite cute, but very, very small.  I thought about a fully electric car like the Nissan Leaf.  It currently advertises a range of 70+ miles, but when the charge runs out, you better be home or at a charging station or have an up-to-date AAA membership to tow you home.

 

I really liked the Chevrolet Volt.  It’s a plug-in hybrid.  That means it is completely an electric car for the first 40 miles of driving.  But when the charge is depleted, it has a gasoline engine that kicks on.  The engine acts as an electric generator to feed the battery which continues to power the car.  With a fully charged battery and a full tank of gas, the Volt has a range of about 350 miles.  Since I buy my power from a supplier that generates electricity from windmills, I would be significantly reducing my carbon footprint.  The only drawback was the price.  Volts sell for $35,000 and higher.  The most we've ever paid for a car is around $20,000.  Even considering the $7,500 federal tax credit and a potential tax rebate from the state, I had a hard time getting past the sticker shock of a $30,000+ car.

Despite being discouraged by the price, I did some checking with area Chevrolet dealers.  Several did not even have a Volt in their inventories.  But then I found one dealer that was offering several 2014 models at fairly reasonable prices.  I drove out to test drive one. I really enjoyed the quietness of the ride and felt like it had plenty of power to scale Pittsburgh’s hills.  Between the trade-in value of the van and the various incentives offered by General Motors and the dealer, I got what I considered to be a very good deal.  I even got the red color that I liked the best.  And without too much convincing, my very practical wife approved of the purchase.

 

I've been driving our new Chevy Volt around town for the past two weeks.  Its computer and various electronics are several generations advanced from the 2005 minivan, so I am in the process of climbing a fairly steep learning curve.  But what I like most is that I've only used about 2 gallons of gas since I brought it home from the dealer.  Over the past couple hundred miles of driving, I have averaged better than 200 mpg.  Sometime this summer, my wife and I plan to drive it to Colorado.  That will be a true test of how practical this semi-electric car is and how far this country has come in accommodating electric vehicles by providing convenient charging stations.   But the beauty of the Volt is that it can run completely on its gas engine mode even if you can’t find a charging station.

 

So my new car fever has broken.  I hope to drive this one for as many miles and as many years as that reliable old minivan.  And I am pleased that as those miles accumulate, I will be doing my small bit to help reduce emissions of CO₂ and to preserve the global environment for my kids and grandkids. And I’ll be doing it in a cool, red, sleek, sexy automobile.  

Ode to a Rainy Day

I love a rainy day,

A damp, dreary day –

A day when the rain falls

Steady and constant. 

Give me a cool, rainy day –

A hot one defeats the purpose.

When I get hold of a good, rainy day

I never want to let go of it.

I’ll drink lots of coffee,

Hot and strong,

Because coffee says, “morning,”

And I want the morning to last.

 

I want to spend hours reading the paper,

Listening to music, reading for pleasure,

Writing, and playing board games.

Maybe I’ll pound my drums or strum my guitar for a while.

The next thing I know

It’s three in the afternoon

And I think,

God, the day is slipping away!

Pretty soon it’s six

And time for supper.

Eat and set the dishes aside –

The work will wait for tomorrow.

Grab a good book and an afghan,

And curl up on the couch

For the evening,

While the rain continues to fall.

Before very long it’s time for bed

And if I’m lucky,

The sounds of the rain

Will sing me to sleep.

The Last Oil Change

We were dirt poor back in 1979.  I was a full-time law school student.  Susan was a teacher, but the schools weren’t hiring.  She ended up working as a secretary at the University of Pittsburgh for a poverty-level wage and typed papers for graduate students to supplement our meager income.  We lived in a roach-infested apartment in Mt. Oliver and drank powdered milk to stretch our money.  Nevertheless, we were optimistic about the future, and decided to drive to North Carolina for a vacation.  My job was to change the oil in our car, so we could leave early the next morning for our long drive from Pittsburgh to the Outer Banks.

         We owned a stripped down 1976 Plymouth Duster with a three-speed stick shift on the column.  It had Chrysler’s terrifically reliable slant 6 engine.  Based on prior experience with that engine in my father’s 1962 Plymouth, I knew that changing the oil could be a challenge.  The oil filter was the key.  It was hard to get to on a slant 6 and seemed to work itself tighter as you drove the car.  Nevertheless, I was committed to doing the job myself.  I had changed oil many times before and figured we could use the money I saved to do something special on our vacation.  So I bought a new oil filter and six quarts of oil.  Armed with my toolbox and oil filter wrench, I was ready to go.

I crawled under the car, loosened the oil pan nut and drained the oil into an old dishpan.  So far, so good, I said to myself.  Then I got the oil filter wrench and crawled back under the car to remove the oil filter.  It wouldn’t budge.  I exerted some pressure.  Dammit!  The old filter had started to crumple.  I better stop before I ruin this filter, I thought.  If I ruin it and still can’t get it off, I won’t be able to drive the car anywhere.  So I decided to put the old oil back in the engine, and I drove the car to a local gas station to get help.

The mechanic put the car on a rack and lifted it into the air.  He was able to quickly and easily loosen the oil filter. 

“Do you want me to do an oil change for you?” he asked. 

“No,” I replied.  “Just tighten it lightly so I can get it home.  I’ll change the oil myself.”  He charged me a nominal fee, and I drove back to our apartment. 

Our apartment was on the second floor of a three-story building that was built into a hillside.  The parking lot was in the rear of the building. It was built on a cliff that rose about fifteen feet above our 2^nd floor level apartment to nearly the height of the building’s third floor.   Stairs led from both sides of the parking lot down to the second floor apartments.  A central staircase led from the parking lot to the third floor balcony that extended across the back of the building.  Pillars supported the balcony on its right and left corners and on either side of the central staircase.  The parking lot was slanted toward the gulf between the cliff and the building. 

I drove down the alley behind our apartment building and backed into the parking lot. I wanted the car to face uphill to make it easier to crawl under the engine compartment.  I immediately got to work and re-drained the old oil.  I easily removed the old oil filter thanks to the help from the service station.  I installed the new filter and put in the new oil.  Everything went smoothly.  I now just had to start the motor and check for leaks. 

I started the engine, and everything seemed fine.  I depressed the clutch and shifted the car into neutral.  I made sure the hand brake was well set and got out of the car.  I crawled underneath the front of the car and looked for leaks.  I didn’t see any.  I had successfully completed the oil change!

Suddenly, I heard a click and the car started to move.  I jumped out from underneath it and saw it starting to roll toward the edge of the cliff.  The hood was open so I grabbed the front of the car.  But there was no way I could hold back a two-ton automobile as it started to roll over the edge.  “Oh, my God!  Noooo!” I screamed. 

Just as the car was rolling over the cliff, the front wheels hit a bump and turned slightly causing the rear fender to collide with one of the pillars near the third floor steps.  This collision stopped the car’s descent but left my car suspended in mid-air with one front tire planted on the cliff and the rear fender wedged against the pillar.  It looked like it could go crashing down into the pit at any moment.  “My God, My God!” I screamed, and started to hyperventilate.  The third floor neighbors came out to see what was going on. 

I ran into my apartment.  I was unsure of what to do next.  I called AAA and told them I had an emergency and needed a tow truck as quickly as possible.  I called Susan at work and told her I had destroyed our vacation by wrecking the car.  I started thinking of all the idiotic mistakes I had made.  Why hadn’t I just allowed the garage to change the oil?  How could I be so stupid not to put blocks behind the tires before I got out of the car to check for oil leaks? 

A tow truck arrived sooner than I expected. 

“I heard the call on the radio and came right away,” the driver said eyeing up my car.  “I think I can get you out of there.” 

“Are you with AAA?” I asked.

“No, so this will cost you,” he replied.  “Or you could just wait for the AAA tow truck if you want.”

I looked at my car which hung, precariously balanced over the abyss.  Whatever it cost for the tow truck couldn’t compare to the cost of replacing the car.  I knew I had no choice.  “Go ahead,” I told him.  “And please hurry.” 

I could hardly bear to watch as he connected cables to the car’s front end.  While he was working, the AAA tow truck arrived.  “I’m sorry, but I’ve already hired this guy to do the job,” I told him. 

“That’s okay,” he said.   “I think I’ll just stick around to watch this.”

The other tow truck operator checked the cables and engaged the mechanism on his truck.  The cables tightened and the car started to move.  At first I thought it would still fall, but the tow truck operator must have known what he was doing.  The wood from the supporting pillar groaned as the car was slowly lifted from its resting place.  Metal ground against concrete as the car was dragged slowly across the edge of the cliff.  Finally, the rear wheels were resting on solid ground, and then the car was pulled back into the parking lot. 

The tow truck operator unhooked the cables from my car, and I happily paid his fee.  I looked the car over.  There was a dent in the rear fender where it had been wedged against the pillar.  Outside of that, I could not detect any damage.  I started it up and everything worked fine.  I parked the car, and called Susan.

“You won’t believe this, but the car is okay,” I told her.  “I mean, it has a dent, but everything else works, and we can still leave for our vacation tomorrow.”

“You’re telling me you were under it when it started to move?” she said.  “You’re lucky to be alive!”

“I know.  When I think of how much of a tragedy this could have been, I know that God must have really been watching over me.”

We left early the next morning for the Outer Banks.  The car ran fine.  At one point, we noticed a rattle, but that was easily fixed at a service station along the way. 

We held onto that car for a couple more years until I was out of law school and Susan got a job as a teacher.  Then we bought a brand new car and placed an ad in the newspaper to sell the Duster.  A Brazilian student offered to buy it over the phone, sight unseen, and the Duster was gone from our lives.  However, the experience of that oil change has never left me.  I’ve taken my cars to service stations ever since!