Lou Carreras

July 25, 2020July 24, 2020

Favorites

My father’s favorite ship was the S.S. President Tyler. He sailed aboard it whenever possible from his first voyage around 1932 till he came ashore in 1946, the year I was born. Several World and Asian cruises made him a genuine China Sailor.
Sailors, merchant or naval, can have deep relationships with their ships. Call it loyalty, affection, longing, or call it what it really can be – romance. I know, I have an ache for a certain ketch I’ll never see again. Women are known to jealous of ships and boats. My first mother in law was jealous of the Cap’ns Psyche. For the sake of peace, she hid it well. My mother was not so diplomatic about my father’s love of the sea, and “that ship.” She had been a sea widow throughout their marriage and two pregnancies. Like many sea widow’s, there came a time when the husband was expected to “swallow the anchor.” More than a few arguments ended with my father threatening to go to the hiring hall and “look for a ship.”
So growing up, the Tyler was a sensitive issue. We’d regularly drive along the Hudson River to where the reserve fleet was anchored. He was looking for the Tyler. My mother was never on any of these excursions.

I had seen my father’s pictures onboard the Tyler, But I had never seen a photo of the ship itself. My mother was famous for editing her life, so it’s more than likely that she disposed of those photos when she threw out dad’s cruise scrapbooks. For her, those were not good times.

Many years later, I was teaching marine carving at the WoodenBoat School in Maine. Teaching at WoodenBoat is not just an opportunity to learn. It’s an opportunity to grow as a person through the freindhips formed with the individuals you meet there. One year one of my students was a former Master Mariner who worked for the American Bureau of Shipping. We talked about ships one night, and I told him all that I knew of the Tyler and my father’s affection for the ship. I mentioned that I’d love to carve a portrait of the Tyler but could not find enough data to start the project. I thought no more about the conversation, and at the end of the course, said goodbye to my students and returned to Massachusetts.

About three weeks later, a large envelope arrived from the ABS (American Bureau of Shipping). In it was were copies of plans and articles relating to the class of vessel to which the Tyler had belonged; enough to start the portrait. My student had searched the ABS library for the documentation that I needed.

The Tyler was my first large portrait. I can now look at it and see a dozen things that I would and could do differently with twenty years of experience carving portraits. But when you finish a project it’s best to move on, or you’ll never finish.

It sails on my wall with a cherry ocean and sky heading east from Japan or China towards Los Angelos. I think my father is pleased that his ship is restored to an essential place in our lives, through the unexpected kindness of a fellow seaman.

July 23, 2020March 18, 2021

GIGO

Garbage in Garbage out – GIGO. It was a sort of early computer mantra indicating that if the information being input into the program were trash, the output would be trash. I knew this, and then I had preached this to the professor who hired me to run his data. But he had a sort of fascination with each data run as I weighted variables, changed factors, and ran rotations of the data through the statistical package he was using at the university's computer center. In those days, computer centers were full of noisy, heat-producing behemoths. Students, grad students, post-docs, and professors shuffled about with huge boxes filled with cards. The greatest calamity was when a box fell spewing its contents on the floor. Carefully picking up and reordering the punched cards was an awful job. One card out of order would get the run rejected. I had a team of punchers and card verifiers working for me on the several projects I had running. Most were very straight forward projects where simple statistical measures were applied to data sets to create tables for a researcher's thesis. How many of this, how many of that, here's the beautiful bell curve. For me, it was extra bread and butter while in grad school. As an undergrad, I had taken, and done well in, several computer science courses. That was several more than anyone else in my department at that time. This background made me the go-to guy if you needed computer work. I worked hard to keep it simple because I knew the limits of my limited expertise, and because I, too, had been seduced by how bad data sets could become manipulated into bad statistics. I recognized Professor Wingate's symptoms. Reading the manual on the statistical package, Wingate would almost froth at the mouth eyes glazed over and ask me to run a particular procedure. Having read a chapter ahead of him on the manual, I'd suggest that this procedure didn't apply to his limited data set. He said, "run it." The ladies who punched cards and verified were happy to get the continual work. They were independent contractors with no stake in how useful the data was or in the results. But even they knew it was garbage in garbage out on this job. Eleanor, the woman who verified that the punched cards were accurate, advised me to sit back and enjoy the ride. As she told me, "this isn't Wingate's first rodeo." The good doctor was a regular at the computer center, and I only the latest data jockey. I began to feel guilty about taking his money. I found out that he was a regular at several floating poker games. And, was no stranger to the mind-altering substances that were readily available off-campus.Garbage in Garbage out – GIGO. It was a sort of early computer mantra indicating that if the information being input into the program were trash, the output would be trash. I knew this, and then I had preached this to the professor who hired me to run his data. But he had a sort of fascination with each data run as I weighted variables, changed factors, and ran rotations of the data through the statistical package he was using at the university’s computer center.
In those days, computer centers were full of noisy, heat-producing behemoths. Students, grad students, post-docs, and professors shuffled about with huge boxes filled with cards. The greatest calamity was when a box fell spewing its contents on the floor. Carefully picking up and reordering the punched cards was an awful job. One card out of order would get the run rejected.
I had a team of punchers and card verifiers working for me on the several projects I had running. Most were very straight forward projects where simple statistical measures were applied to data sets to create tables for a researcher’s thesis. How many of this, how many of that, here’s the beautiful bell curve. For me, it was extra bread and butter while in grad school. As an undergrad, I had taken, and done well in, several computer science courses. That was several more than anyone else in my department at that time. This background made me the go-to guy if you needed computer work. I worked hard to keep it simple because I knew the limits of my limited expertise, and because I, too, had been seduced by how bad data sets could become manipulated into bad statistics.
I recognized Professor Wingate’s symptoms. Reading the manual on the statistical package, Wingate would almost froth at the mouth eyes glazed over and ask me to run a particular procedure. Having read a chapter ahead of him on the manual, I’d suggest that this procedure didn’t apply to his limited data set. He said, “run it.”
The ladies who punched cards and verified were happy to get the continual work. They were independent contractors with no stake in how useful the data was or in the results. But even they knew it was garbage in garbage out on this job. Eleanor, the woman who verified that the punched cards were accurate, advised me to sit back and enjoy the ride. As she told me, “this isn’t Wingate’s first rodeo.” The good doctor was a regular at the computer center, and I only the latest data jockey.
I began to feel guilty about taking his money. I found out that he was a regular at several floating poker games. And, was no stranger to the mind-altering substances that were readily available off-campus.

Being naive, I approached Wingate. I’m no stranger to the offside of life. I’ve been shot at, been on frolicking detours through some of the more salubrious neighborhoods of Hell, and seen many odd places and things. But Wingate was different. I explained to him that I’d only seen the particular glazed look on slots habitues in Vegas. His reply- “which casino, I’ve done then all.” I now knew that I had stepped into a deep pool. We spent an hour trading shots and talking about adventures on the risky side. It was not a conversation I had ever expected to have with a tenured professor at an Ivy League University.
I had spent several years on the wild side, learning about life. But Wingate’s take on similar frolics was different. He was interested in creating reality, not experiencing it. The commonality of our experiences did not unite us; it divided us. From his bookshelf, he drew out a fat volume. Handing it to me, he told me that people process the same information in different ways, and that influenced the reality they perceived. “Shelby Foote says it best-” pointing out a passage to me I read:
“People make a grievous error thinking that a list of facts is the truth. Facts are just the bare bones out of which truth is made.”

I looked at him and realized that I couldn’t continue taking his money, running his bad data sets, and listening to his philosophy over bourbon shots. I had been over the top of reality a few times in the previous decade and wasn’t sure that my grip on reality could take it if Wingate were an ongoing influence. Or, worse if Wingate was correct.
I looked at him and made one final attempt to haul him in from the thin ice. “Professor, if the facts you input are garbage, it’s all garbage output.”
“It’s all a matter of perspective, Wes, just a matter of perspective.”

July 22, 2020March 18, 2021

Baltimore

When I go down to Baltimore
Ain’t no carpet on the floor
Come along and follow me
We’ll go down to Galilee.

Well, I used to go down to Baltimore, lots. My friends Bob and Chris had a place on Saint Paul Street, back in the day. It was nothing but guitar playing, singing, and arguments about folk music all night, every night. The music would get started as soon as dinner got cleared off. Sometimes you could hear the sound of the music out in the street. We all sat in a circle and went round-robin until everybody needed a break, and at that point, it would be storytime. I remember telling the story about Bill and I going on pilgrimage to a Trappist monastery, and the dismay that had caused among the monks. Bob and Chris told about how their son Robby had flummoxed the Kindergarten teachers by singing the alphabet song as a twelve-bar blues. Then Robby would come in because we had woken him up, and we all quieted down until he went back to sleep. Some of us would roll on until about two in the morning. Then those of us who had jobs would go to bed. Diehards would be strumming and arguing till later.Well, I used to go down to Baltimore, lots.
My friends Bob and Chris had a place on Saint Paul Street, back in the day. It was nothing but guitar playing, singing, and arguments about folk music all night, every night. The music would get started as soon as dinner got cleared off. Sometimes you could hear the sound of the music out in the street. We all sat in a circle and went round-robin until everybody needed a break, and at that point, it would be storytime. I remember telling the story about Bill and I going on pilgrimage to a Trappist monastery, and the dismay that had caused among the monks. Bob and Chris told about how their son Robby had flummoxed the Kindergarten teachers by singing the alphabet song as a twelve-bar blues. Then Robby would come in because we had woken him up, and we all quieted down until he went back to sleep.
Some of us would roll on until about two in the morning. Then those of us who had jobs would go to bed. Diehards would be strumming and arguing till later.

After a few days, Bob and Chris would sweep us out of the house if we hadn’t already crisped our welcome by arguing too loud at four in the morning.
And, we’d leave singing to Chris:

Hooka tooka, my soda cracker
Does your mama chaw tobacker
If your mama chaws tobacker
Hooka tooka, my soda cracker.
When I go by Baltimore
Chris needs no carpet on her floor
You come along and go with me
We’ll go down to Galilee.

July 21, 2020July 7, 2022

R.M.S. Servia – 1881

I’ve been interested in steam/sail transition vessels for years. Ships with steam Auxillary and later sail auxiliary revolutionized travel at sea. Oceanic travel was no longer at the mercy of the winds.
Servia has the distinction of three significant innovations in passenger travel: the first passenger liner built of steel, first liner built with electric lighting, and significantly improved accommodations for third-class passengers. Elegantly fitted out as she was, she lasted a bare year as the Cunard flagship. Servia failed to win the coveted trophy, the Blue Ribband, awarded to ships making record crossings of the Atlantic.

Built-in 1881 by 1900, she was being sailed under bare poles, dependent on her steam engines. Servia was sent to the scrapers by 1910.

I have portrayed Servia as she might have looked on her first voyage to New York. Graceful, under a press of sail. Her modified barque rig is propelling Servia towards New York Harbor.
Framed by a shop built teak frame, Servia is primarily constructed of cherry with mixed media detail parts and paint. Servia itself is LOA (length overall) 18.75 inches (476.25 millimeters). The portrait framed is 29.25 inches wide (743 millimeters) and 12.5 inches ( 314.5 millimeters) tall.

July 21, 2020March 18, 2021

Slap shot

My first wife, Georgia, and I found him as a kitten while living in Ottawa, Ontario. He started life as a combative kitten and grew into an adult that liked a good brawl. Georgia called him our little vampire kitty because he would lick your blood off his claws. After the marriage "went south," he wound up with me. He loved graduate school in Philadelphia. It was his type of place.My first wife, Georgia, and I found him as a kitten while living in Ottawa, Ontario. He started life as a combative kitten and grew into an adult that liked a good brawl. Georgia called him our little vampire kitty because he would lick your blood off his claws. After the marriage “went south,” he wound up with me. He loved graduate school in Philadelphia. It was his type of place.

Clancy had a favorite musician, Warren Zevon. Clancy especially liked numbers like Werewolves of London, Lawyers Guns and Money, and Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner. There was a beat-up Windsor chair in my Philly apartment, and if I put a Warren Zevon tape on, the cat would jump onto it and challenge me to a duel. He hated it when I gave in too quickly. He preferred a quality combat experience – one with blood spilled – mine. He would sulk around the apartment, mutter to himself, and then attack my leg suddenly, forcing me back onto a combat footing until he tired.

I found one way to distract him, a game we called Cat Hockey. Playing this game requires a multitude of small hi-bounce balls. We had dozens. The play took place in the kitchen using the refrigerator as the goal. He, of course, was the goalie. It was my job to get a ball past him and under the fridge. Clancy took great pride in deflecting my shots, making moves where he’d leave the “net” and attack me, or finesse a shot into the living room. Clancy typically won this game…it was safest that way. He didn’t handle defeat in a sports cat manner. We had so many balls to put off the moment when I had to get on my knees with a stick and retrieve the balls. Clancy had to supervise and crowded my view of the dusty under the fridge goal zone.

Ultimately someone unfamiliar with his proud Canadian heritage would suggest that the game could be cat soccer. At which point, I’d recommend that they came around some night when the Maple Leafs played the Bruins. When the movie Slap Shot came out, it was for sure his type of movie. Clancy would have fit right in with the Hanson twins, Killer Carlson and Ogie Oglethorpe. He loved to “drop the gloves” just like the hockey players of that era.

July 19, 2020March 18, 2021

What You Know

Where I went to grad school, you took a series of qualification exams after your first year to demonstrate your readiness for Ph. D. work. The tests were on all four of the discipline's quadrants: cultural anthropology, Physical anthropology, linguistics, and archeology. At the minimum, it was expected that you should be able to teach an introductory course in each quadrant. The tests spanned an entire week during which you ate, slept and, dreamed anthropology. My recurrent dream that week was sitting down to write my essays in the traditional little blue books, but my writing disappeared as soon as I finished. It was not the tests or the classes that guided much of the following years. I left grad school before I completed my doctorate. Despite teaching as an adjunct professor, I knew that an academic career would not be for me. I worked in the practice of applied anthropology. I prepared curriculum, researched topics for government, nonprofits, and for-profit corporations. I had an incredible time studying traditional crafts. I lost track of how many public programs I designed, developed, and implemented. Throughout it all, it wasn't the book learning or the lectures that influenced me. It was the pervasive influence of four professors. One taught me the essentials of fieldwork and applied research, another to teach—the third how to adopt the book learning to practice. And the last taught me his dry humor, perhaps the most valuable gift of all. As we would say at the end of a research paper – in conclusion – it's not what you know, but how you use it that counts and much of that came from people, not books. As John Wooden said: "It's what you learn after you know it all that counts."Where I went to grad school, you took a series of qualification exams after your first year to demonstrate your readiness for Ph. D. work. The tests were on all four of the discipline’s quadrants: cultural anthropology, Physical anthropology, linguistics, and archeology. At the minimum, it was expected that you should be able to teach an introductory course in each quadrant.
The tests spanned an entire week during which you ate, slept and, dreamed anthropology. My recurrent dream that week was sitting down to write my essays in the traditional little blue books, but my writing disappeared as soon as I finished.
It was not the tests or the classes that guided much of the following years. I left grad school before I completed my doctorate. Despite teaching as an adjunct professor, I knew that an academic career would not be for me. I worked in the practice of applied anthropology.
I prepared curriculum, researched topics for government, nonprofits, and for-profit corporations. I had an incredible time studying traditional crafts.
I lost track of how many public programs I designed, developed, and implemented. Throughout it all, it wasn’t the book learning or the lectures that influenced me. It was the pervasive influence of four professors. One taught me the essentials of fieldwork and applied research, another to teach—the third how to adopt the book learning to practice. And the last taught me his dry humor, perhaps the most valuable gift of all.
As we would say at the end of a research paper – in conclusion – it’s not what you know, but how you use it that counts and much of that came from people, not books. As John Wooden said: “It’s what you learn after you know it all that counts.”

July 18, 2020

Eagle Eyes

While teaching, I always like to decorate the workshop with carving examples for students to use as a reference. Week-long excursions to teach away from home mean emptying the house of many of my carvings. But samples in three dimensions often are better than pictures or demonstration, and the extra work was worth it.
During one summer course, A student was working on an eagle and suddenly stopped, got up, and went over to an eagle billet head. He picked it up and turned the head away from him. Noticing me watching, he shrugged his shoulders and said: “it was watching me.”
Smiling, I pointed out that he was perfecting the eagle’s body plan and feathers without working on the head, most notably the eye. He asked me why it mattered, and I told him that it was essential to fair the contours of the head and neck into the body, so the eagle looked all of one piece when finished. The head is temporarily attached to the body with a screw while you carve the neck fair to the body.
” But why was it watching me?”
Well, I explained, years ago, while I was first carving eagles, a talented carver from Boothbay Harbor advised me to always start the head before detailing and finish the eye first. There was a practical reason for this. The eye was a delicate piece of work, and if not done right could ruin the whole birdie. He then added that he had been taught to do the eye first so the eagle could oversee the carving’s remainder. ” As I was taught, so am I teaching you.” I then turned the eagle about so it’s beady eyes were on the student. ” Being that you haven’t done the eye first, this birdie’s cousin in watching you.” I can be a first-class pain sometimes.

I carved the eyes on that particular eagle with a “tunnel” eye effect. With that manner of carving, you could get the impression that the eye watches you and moves with you. To someone easily spooked, like my student, it could be an unpleasant sensation.
There are several ways to carve eagle eyes for traditional marine eagles. Please note that if you carve more realistic styles, these will not appeal to you. I’m a nineteenth-century carver stuck in the twenty-first century. Be all modern if you like. Another ships carver reminded me that most people do not get close eough to smell the eagle; all these things in full size are meant to be viewed from a distance. Here are some examples of eyes:

July 18, 2020March 18, 2021

Viewpoint

I was born and raised in New York City. Please don't laugh, but when I was little, I thought that country referred to the vacant lot with a tree. Eventually, my mother took me to some of the larger parks in the city, and my concept of the country developed just a bit. Joining the Scouts saved me from a terminal New York focus by introducing me to the world across from Washington Heights accessible only by crossing the George Washington Bridge. I began to have dreams of leaving New York and voyaging over the map's edge into that great unknown. I had been to camp in New Jersey and upstate New York, but by and large, my view of the world was one of a vast horizon across from the Bridge with indicator arrows stabbing down from the sky. The neon arrows marked California, the "West," Chicago, and the Mississippi. To the North was Boston and the "North Woods." The illustrations of " A New Yorker's View of America" are close to how I imagined it. It rested there until one late March morning when I departed from New York's Greenwich Village for Boston. Later, I traveled north during the summer to see what was on offer elsewhere in New England. Among other things, I discovered towns with actual rural borders. You came to a place where the town ended. Snip. In town, then out of town into fields and woods. No suburbs – NYC went on for miles with nothing but the city, and then miles of suburbs. It never seemed to end, like a nightmare where the urban landscape went on forever. When I came to the border, and there was nothing but fields and woods, I was amazed that It seemed for a second as though I had stepped into a Twilight Zone episode. Cue Rod Serling – "Imagine that you've stepped into a world…" Deciding to explore this strange phenomenon, I traveled to Maine, where I took a job at the Poland Springs Hotel. From my room in the dorm for hotel workers, I could see nothing but forest. Early in the morning, rivers of fog crept up the valley to the hilltop where the hotel sat. In the evening, I watched gaudy sunsets over the Presidential Mountains to the west. None of my previous life experiences compared. Sunsets over the New Jersey Palisades were boring by comparison, Among the friends I met were a brother and sister working at the hotel to earn college money. Each week, we'd spend time around a campfire singing songs and exchanging stories about our lives. There were lots of differences and some similarities. We were all currently as far away from home as we had ever been in our short lives, and we all had an appetite to see more of the country. The differences were substantial. They had never been as far as the state capitol in Augusta or Portland ( Maine's largest city). They had seen those places on television, and that was the only reassurance that I wasn't spinning a fantasy. Boston was near the end of the world. One night around the campfire, I told them about the cartoons and illustrations of a New Yorkers view of the United States. They laughed because it was the same sort of picture they had had of the United States except their tiny island was the viewpoint, and small lights indicated everything to the westward.I was born and raised in New York City. Please don’t laugh, but when I was little, I thought that country referred to the vacant lot with a tree. Eventually, my mother took me to some of the larger parks in the city, and my concept of the country developed just a bit. Joining the Scouts saved me from a terminal New York focus by introducing me to the world across from Washington Heights accessible only by crossing the George Washington Bridge. I began to have dreams of leaving New York and voyaging over the map’s edge into that great unknown. I had been to camp in New Jersey and upstate New York, but by and large, my view of the world was one of a vast horizon across from the Bridge with indicator arrows stabbing down from the sky. The neon arrows marked California, the “West,” Chicago, and the Mississippi. To the North was Boston and the “North Woods.”
The illustrations of ” A New Yorker’s View of America” are close to how I imagined it.
It rested there until one late March morning when I departed from New York’s Greenwich Village for Boston. Later, I traveled north during the summer to see what was on offer elsewhere in New England. Among other things, I discovered towns with actual rural borders. You came to a place where the town ended. Snip. In town, then out of town into fields and woods. No suburbs – NYC went on for miles with nothing but the city, and then miles of suburbs. It never seemed to end, like a nightmare where the urban landscape went on forever.
When I came to the border, and there was nothing but fields and woods, I was amazed that It seemed for a second as though I had stepped into a Twilight Zone episode. Cue Rod Serling – “Imagine that you’ve stepped into a world…”
Deciding to explore this strange phenomenon, I traveled to Maine, where I took a job at the Poland Springs Hotel. From my room in the dorm for hotel workers, I could see nothing but forest. Early in the morning, rivers of fog crept up the valley to the hilltop where the hotel sat. In the evening, I watched gaudy sunsets over the Presidential Mountains to the west. None of my previous life experiences compared. Sunsets over the New Jersey Palisades were boring by comparison,
Among the friends I met were a brother and sister working at the hotel to earn college money. Each week, we’d spend time around a campfire singing songs and exchanging stories about our lives. There were lots of differences and some similarities. We were all currently as far away from home as we had ever been in our short lives, and we all had an appetite to see more of the country. The differences were substantial. They had never been as far as the state capitol in Augusta or Portland ( Maine’s largest city). They had seen those places on television, and that was the only reassurance that I wasn’t spinning a fantasy. Boston was near the end of the world.
One night around the campfire, I told them about the cartoons and illustrations of a New Yorkers view of the United States. They laughed because it was the same sort of picture they had had of the United States except their tiny island was the viewpoint, and small lights indicated everything to the westward.

When the hotel closed for the season, we went our sperate ways. They went off to college, and I moved on to other “frolicking detours.”
I don’t think I ever expected to hear from them again. But just before Christmas, I got a call from the Teahead of the August Moon (self-proclaimed chief potentate of the Folkie Palace) that a package had arrived from Maine for me. That evening we all sat at our table in the Back of the Harvard Gardens drinking beer. My friend Bill handed me the package. After carefully removing the outer paper wrapping, I removed two protective cardboard panels to find a watercolor painted on heavy paper. It was the view from the top of the hill where the hotel sat. Looking west and south from the hotel were little arrows marking places like New York, Portland, and Los Angelos.
There was one arrow that was labeled “Wes’ Folkie Palace, Grove Street, Boston.”

July 17, 2020March 19, 2021

Dress Code

I had a friend who had a bad habit of going into his shop and working in good clothes. His sainted wife was the individual in charge of keeping him supplied with dress khakis and blue button-down Oxford shirts. She also was in charge of repairing the abuses he inflicted on them. He would get grease stains on the pants from the 1929 Rolls he was restoring. The daubs of model paint from the models he constructed for clients went on the Oxford shirts. Precise to a fault in his work, his focus did not extend to the hand rubbing off a bit of glue on his pants leg. All this is OK if you have someone to scrape the glue bits off, place stain remover on stains, and grease dissolver on grease. And, by the way, she folded and hung up too. Since I habitually wear the grodiest jeans and torn t-shirts in my wardrobe when in the shop, I have no issues with this sort of thing. A bit of extra glue on my jeans doesn't make a bit of difference. It may even help things hang together for a while longer. My wife doesn't touch my laundry. I was firmly taught as a youth to do my own. However, one evening when both couples were together, laundry notes were compared, and tally's made. I was up by five points over my friend for not soiling good clothing, and doing my laundry. On the other hand, I went down five points when my wife pointed out my bad habit of running towels through the wash in the same load as clothing. I was now even with my friend, who had lost the same number of points. I was up five points again when it came out that I put my clothes away and hung up shirts and pants. My friend went down the same amount because he did neither. I snidely grinned. My wife then revealed that I never folded anything that I put away in the draws; I just shoved in the stuff. Back down again. It was my friend's turn to grin. At last, our wives began to calculate our ill-begotten ways in terms of much it cost to buy all the detergent, bleach, and assorted goods. Because, after our loads were filthy and needed more attention. We both lost whatever positive points we had remaining and began to head into negative numbers. Glancing at each other, we silently and wisely determined not to mention all the fabric softener, Woolite, and anti-static sheets that our spouses bought. Nor did we mention the number of delicate cycles used. There were worse sins that could get tallied, and we had no desire to attract attention to them.I had a friend who had a bad habit of going into his shop and working in good clothes. His sainted wife was the individual in charge of keeping him supplied with dress khakis and blue button-down Oxford shirts.
She also was in charge of repairing the abuses he inflicted on them.
He would get grease stains on the pants from the 1929 Rolls he was restoring. The daubs of model paint from the models he constructed for clients went on the Oxford shirts. Precise to a fault in his work, his focus did not extend to the hand rubbing off a bit of glue on his pants leg.
All this is OK if you have someone to scrape the glue bits off, place stain remover on stains, and grease dissolver on grease. And, by the way, she folded and hung up too.
Since I habitually wear the grodiest jeans and torn t-shirts in my wardrobe when in the shop, I have no issues with this sort of thing. A bit of extra glue on my jeans doesn’t make a bit of difference. It may even help things hang together for a while longer.
My wife doesn’t touch my laundry. I was firmly taught as a youth to do my own.
However, one evening when both couples were together, laundry notes were compared, and tally’s made. I was up by five points over my friend for not soiling good clothing, and doing my laundry. On the other hand, I went down five points when my wife pointed out my bad habit of running towels through the wash in the same load as clothing. I was now even with my friend, who had lost the same number of points. I was up five points again when it came out that I put my clothes away and hung up shirts and pants. My friend went down the same amount because he did neither. I snidely grinned. My wife then revealed that I never folded anything that I put away in the draws; I just shoved in the stuff. Back down again. It was my friend’s turn to grin.
At last, our wives began to calculate our ill-begotten ways in terms of much it cost to buy all the detergent, bleach, and assorted goods. Because, after our loads were filthy and needed more attention. We both lost whatever positive points we had remaining and began to head into negative numbers.
Glancing at each other, we silently and wisely determined not to mention all the fabric softener, Woolite, and anti-static sheets that our spouses bought. Nor did we mention the number of delicate cycles used.
There were worse sins that could get tallied, and we had no desire to attract attention to them.

July 16, 2020March 18, 2021

Memento

The postal notice said it was the third attempt. I didn't remember any previous, so I trotted down to the post office before it closed to retrieve the unknown package. It was soft, Taped over thoroughly, and wrapped with string. I neither recognized the shipper's address nor the shipper's name. I asked the postal clerk if she was sure it was for me. She indicated my name and my address – "sign here." I signed. Inside was my old backpack, my old fleece-lined denim jacket, and an odd assortment of small items I vaguely remembered owning. The last I member seeing this assortment of possessions had been in 1968, lost somewhere on one of my road trips to nowhere. A note, there must be a note? Here - Dear Wes, Nothing is ever truly lost. Between the stories, our mother told about you, and the two old letters from New York, we were able to locate your address on the internet. Mom would have loved to read the stories you've written. She would have wondered though why you never wrote about her. You really should, you know. Just before she passed, she asked that we locate you and return your pack and jacket. She was sorry afterward that she swiped them from you.The postal notice said it was the third attempt. I didn’t remember any previous, so I trotted down to the post office before it closed to retrieve the unknown package. It was soft, Taped over thoroughly, and wrapped with string. I neither recognized the shipper’s address nor the shipper’s name. I asked the postal clerk if she was sure it was for me. She indicated my name and my address – “sign here.” I signed.
Inside was my old backpack, my old fleece-lined denim jacket, and an odd assortment of small items I vaguely remembered owning. The last I member seeing this assortment of possessions had been in 1968, lost somewhere on one of my road trips to nowhere. A note, there must be a note? Here –
Dear Wes,
Nothing is ever truly lost. Between the stories, our mother told about you, and the two old letters from New York, we were able to locate your address on the internet. Mom would have loved to read the stories you’ve written. She would have wondered though why you never wrote about her. You really should, you know. Just before she passed, she asked that we locate you and return your pack and jacket. She was sorry afterward that she swiped them from you.

Betsy Hildegard

I pawed over the pack, the jacket, the assorted items, and the letter. I was grimly looking for the identity of the woman who had ordered this package sent to me. Nothing. Betsy Hildegard had been confident that I’d instantly recognize who her mom had been, and her great importance to me. No recall, no stories. Just unfair.

Then in one of the side pockets, I found a small note card envelope. Opening it here was the message: “Wes, Thanks for all the wonderful memories.”

Author: Lou Carreras

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