Rest In Peace, Mr. Fix-It

Today, I was unfortunate to attend a funeral for a very dear man.  Marty was our neighbor and loved by everyone in our community.  A great loss, for sure.  He lived to serve.

Marty was happiest when helping others.  He was our talented handyman, and when anyone in our community needed assistance with a door or a window or a lock or anything around the house, Marty was your man.  I believe there isn’t a person living here who didn’t receive Marty’s help with something.

Personally speaking, Marty assisted me by re-routing an outside pipe leading from the hose connection to a hose reel; climbing a ladder in the garage to install a new heavy battery for the garage door opener; changed the batteries in the smoke detector alarms; and convinced me and many of my neighbors to get a carbon monoxide detector.  He was so happy to install them all.

We have a community newspaper here where I live, and Marty submitted a new article for every issue.  The subject was usually how to help ourselves to be safe in our homes and in the community.  We learned a great deal from his expertise.

Marty was also our amateur magician.  He loved to perform in our clubhouse; usually before some event, just to “get things started.”  He always made us laugh with his hi-jinx, costumes, props, and comical imitations.  It’s very possible he got some of his tricks from the following book:

Whether you needed a little encouragement if you were feeling down, or not, Marty always had a great short story or one-liner that was guaranteed to at least make you smile.

The chapel held seats for 160 people; however, when the services began, it was SRO.  Several people from our community stood up and spoke about how Marty’s caring affected them.  One person mentioned that people in show business and sports were highly regarded and when performing, people in the audience and in the sports stadiums stood and applauded.  Well, he suggested we should all stand and applaud Marty as a way of showing our admiration and love for him, as we say “goodbye” to him one final time.  It was as if this was rehearsed, because everyone stood up as one rippling wave, and we very gladly put our hands together and sent Marty on his way to a beautiful, peaceful place, riding on that wave.

Memories Of My Past: Mr. Turner

 

My earliest memories of Mr. Turner go back to 1950.  I had just moved with my family from E. 42nd St. in Brooklyn to E. 51st St.  Our new house was a “row” house:  one story brick; with a small front porch outside and connected on both sides with other “row” houses.  It came with a garage out back, but in order for Dad to bring our car into the garage, he had to drive down a steep, common driveway that was accessible only between two of the houses.

Moving to E. 51st St. was a welcome change for the whole family.  We were not happy in the E. 42nd St. house (a long story, perhaps told at another time).

I was in the 7th grade and transferred from P. S. 135 to P. S. 203, which was a very good thing for me.  My walk was so much shorter and more pleasant than walking to P. S. 135.

Mr. Turner’s house was on the way to school.  He and his wife lived in a “wooden” house.  All our neighbors differentiated the houses on the block by calling them “row” houses or “wooden” houses.  “Wooden” houses, of course, were constructed of wooden frames as opposed to the brick-constructed “row” houses.  All the homes were not large and it was a very friendly block:  all the neighbors knew each other and were friendly and many became very good, close friends.

I believe the Turners were original owners; one of two of the original houses built many years before builders came along and built the brick houses.

Mr. and Mrs. Turner were definitely from a time that preceded my grandparents.  Mr. Turner was always in the garden, wearing his hat, tending to his plants, vegetables and flowers.  The Turners had a “double lot” which gave them the extra space where Mr. Turner happily puttered most of the day, weather permitting.

The Turners were quite elderly; at least he was, to me.  Mrs. Turner was starting to fail in health, and Mr. Turner was very solicitous where his wife was concerned.  It was evident that he cared for her deeply.  Even I, as a young girl, was impressed by the care and love he showered upon her.  When he spoke of her, it was with an obviously loving tone in his voice.

As a child, I was invited into their home on more than one occasion, where I would be treated to a cookie that Mrs. Turner baked.  She was a great baker:  Mr. Turner was very appreciative of his wife’s baking, and spoke of her in warm, loving terms whenever we spoke.

Years went by; I married, had my daughter, and moved back onto E. 51st St., halfway down the street from my parents’ house.

Mr. Turner was still going strong:  tending to his garden and taking care of his house.  It was with tears in his eyes that he told me of his sweet wife’s passing.

I also found that Mr. Turner had become the block’s “handyman” while I was living elsewhere.  He welcomed the extra income, and besides, as he put it, “It keeps me busy.”

We purchased the house we lived in from Dan’s parents (they lived in another state at the time), and it was after that that Mr. Turner approached us about the brick facade of the house.  He said it needed “pointing.”  What was that?  The mortar between the bricks needed to be filled in due to age, and the elements.  We agreed to have Mr. Turner do the work.  His rate was quite reasonable.

It was almost a ridiculous site to see this wiry, white-haired old man (he was in his 80s), in his farmer’s overalls, carrying his long ladder down the street, with pail in the other hand, ready for a day’s work.  And a day’s work it was – several days, actually.  He worked slowly, but steadily and with careful attention to his task.

It was a few years later, that I heard he had also passed, and joined his beloved wife in their afterlife together.  My memories of Mr. Turner – farmer, patriot (flag flew from his flagpole every day), good neighbor, talented “handyman,” friendly gentleman, and devoted husband – are still vivid.

 

Comic Relief

I send emails back and forth with many friends, and I received one with this message:

If my body was a car, I would be trading it in for a newer model.  I’ve got bumps, dents, scratches & my headlights are out of focus. My gear box is seizing up & it takes me hours to reach maximum speed. Overheat for no reason and every time I sneeze, cough or laugh either my radiator leaks or my exhaust backfires!

I forwarded the message to several friends, and the following response was the best of the lot:

“My toaster just set off the fire alarm.  Entered my code three times trying to turn it off.  Only after placing the toaster outside did the system accept the code and turn off the alarm.  The alarm was surprisingly loud with the front door & garage open as an un-neighborly neighbor passing by showed no concern of me or the property’s well being.

So I appreciate the comic relief.  Perfect timing and utterly fantastic.  I will pass it on.”

Memories of a Time Past: Part 1

When I was a little girl, growing up in Brooklyn NY, we used to live on a dead end street.

The dead end street I used to live on butted up against a cemetery wall which belonged to the largest cemetery in Brooklyn, I believe, at the time.  We kids used to wait outside the entrance through which the workers would exit at the end of their work day.  They would throw chestnuts to us which fell from the numerous chestnut trees that grew in there.  We ran and scrambled to get them, and the workers laughed and enjoyed our excitement!  We’d drill a hole in the nuts, thread string (or shoe laces) through them and play games with them.

Our house was a semi-detached, and so we had a common wall with our neighbor next door.  When I grew enough so that I was able to reach the electric outlet that was on that adjoining wall, I used it to speak through it with my neighbor friend, Sonja.  We used it quite often in place of a telephone.  We didn’t have a telephone yet, at that time.  We had a bench against that wall in our kitchen, so I would stand on it to speak with her.

I also remember enjoying visiting Sonja in her house next door.  Her parents were very nice, and her father played the mandolin.  I loved listening to his music and watching how his fingers strummed the strings.  It was the very first time I had seen someone play an instrument.  He would sing in the Norwegian language; they were originally from Norway.  Her mother baked the most wonderful cookies, too.!  It was a warm, friendly home.

Sonja was 3 years older than I, and I remember playing in her backyard.  My vivid memory from that time is of sitting at her play table; the chair I was sitting on matched the table and they were made of metal.  I still can “hear” the scraping of the chair on the rough concrete of the yard as I moved it.

Sonja and me in her backyard. I was 2 and she was 5 yrs old.

My father took this photo of Sonja and me with his simple box camera.  I remember the leather carry-handle at the top of it.  He developed his film in a small, dark closet in our house.

I was able to find a photo of the camera my father used.  He gave me his camera to use when I was a teenager.

 

In this photo, I am advancing the film manually in the old box camera. There was a little window through which the number of the next unexposed area of the film roll would be viewed in order to be sure the next picture would be centered when the film was developed.

It was a more simple time of life, and there were many pleasures to be enjoyed.

Credits:  dead end, agfa box camera; bingdotcom.  Original old photos from personal collection of Sunshinebright.

How Do You Stop a Pesky Bird From Pecking on Your Window?

This question plagued my husband and me several years ago.

We had moved into our new home at the beginning of Spring.  Things were going along very well.  We met our new neighbors, were getting acquainted with our neighborhood and the local stores, etc.  We got settled in, and were finally able to get some well-deserved sleep in our new bed, in our new bedroom.

That fateful morning was a beautiful morning in South Florida.  The birds were chirping in their newly-found tree; dawn was lifting its head above the horizon and just starting to tell us it was time to start another day in Paradise.  Dawn didn’t have to lift its head too high to let us know another day was beginning.  We were told to wake up by a knocking noise.

“What is that noise?”  “Where is it coming from?”  “Ugh!”  “Groan!”  We pulled the covers over our heads to try to make it go away.  It was persistent.  It was almost like the hammering of a woodpecker pounding on a tree trunk.

Finally, we had to give up.  We got the message.  The day was starting without our permission!

We traced the noise to our south-facing window.  What a beautiful yellow bird!  He was sitting on the top ledge of the bottom section of the window.  As soon as we got close to the window, he flew away.

 

Beautiful (and hateful) yellow finch looking into our window.

Well, that was a rude awakening, and we sure hoped it wouldn’t happen again!

It did.  Every morning.  For weeks.

We endured our early alarm-clock pecking-hammering and it finally stopped just as we were at our wits end to finding a way to make it stop.  Ah!  Peace.

Next year, our yellow-feathered “friend” made his noisy unwelcome appearance again.  In our frustration of being awakened so early, we resorted to throwing pillows at the window in an unsuccessful attempt to scare him away.

We thought we would outsmart this little bird – after all, we were humans.  Our brains are bigger than his!  I devised a picture of an owl.  Little birds are afraid of predators.  I taped it on the outside of the window.  “Well, that should solve that problem,” I thought to myself with smug satisfaction.  We went to bed that night with “smileys” dancing around our heads.

Next morning, we were awakened again by that pesky bird.  Oh no!  Will this nightmare (morningmare?) end?  We had figured out what actually was causing this poor bird to peck at our window.

Soon after moving into our new home, we had UV-protection film installed on the inside of the windows that faced south and west, in order to cut down on the sun’s rays from damaging our furniture and carpeting.  If we went outside to look at those windows, we were looking at ourselves.  This thick protective film acted like a mirror.  The top and bottom sections of the window had that film.

We made the hard decision:  we had to remove the protective film from the top section of the window.  It was a drastic decision, for sure.  But, our loss of our morning sleep called for drastic measures.

We got a bottle of “Goo Gone” (yes, there really is a product with that name).  We worked with 2 window scrapers, used up more than a giant roll of paper towels, and used more than half a large bottle of that glue solvent.  It took more than 2 hours, but we got it all off; film and glue, and the window has never seen as clean a day as it was on that day!

A few weeks later, we met one of our neighbors outside, 2 houses down from ours, and we were chatting away, as neighbors do.  Then, she told us about a peculiar thing that was happening outside her bedroom window.

Evidently, she had the same protective film installed on the inside of her windows, too!  We kept our mouths shut, but our eyes opened wide in amazement!

Some time after that, they moved.  I’m still wondering if it was because of the pesky little yellow finch.

 

Photo credit:  bingdotcom