Days Gone By - Memory

Memories of Days Gone By

B&W TV Commercial

By

B.D. Adams ©2017

   For those who remember photo albums filled with B&W (black and white) square photos with beveled edges, then you’re around my generation. It is amazing what we remember.

   When I was fairly young, we had a B&W Zenith television that sat on a rolling cabinet. Actually, it stayed in the living room – never rolled anywhere except to have the floor vacuumed underneath.

   Color TVs were way too expensive -- so said my parents. I didn’t mind, just having a TV to watch all the cartoons and kid programs was a treat. Like Mighty Mouse, Popeye and Bugs Bunny along with Hopalong Cassidy, Lassie, and Sky King, to name a few.

   With these memories of B&W televisions, this wonder came to my mind’s eye. How do I remember my past? Is it in color or in B&W?

   The first time I ever saw “The Wizard of Oz” in color, I was mesmerized!! So wondrous!!

   One thing I remember the most, along this line, was a TV commercial that advertised color TVs. By Zenith, by chance, and the commercial was in B&W:

            The announcer begins – “Zenith Televisions are ahead of the time … blah … blah … blah.”

            As the announcer continues his spiel, the camera pans back to show a football field, empty with no players, just the field with the uprights at the far end zone.

            Then the announcer hits the viewers with a definite guilt trip that no parent wants, as he asks,

            “Do you want your children to grow up thinking football is played on gray grass?”

   As a child, and then as an adult, that commercial rather stuck with me. When my son was born and when I got older, I began using color film in my dinky Kodak camera. Of course, as I became a pro photographer, color film was primarily used.

   I asked my son once how he remembered his world as a little boy – I had taken photos of him in B&W, as well as color. With evolution, he remembers his life in color.

   Nice how those memories grow.

Son, Jacob, and Mom, Brandy 1985

Article -- Protests

To Protest or Not to Protest –

That Is Not the Question!

By

B.D. Adams  ©2017

   There are many reasons to protest in the world. For more understanding, more righteousness, more justice. Some reasons are extremely hard to comprehend --- ISIS or ISIL, for example.

   When there are even two people who do not see eye to eye, an eye for an eye confrontation can occur. Even with the non-violent protests, violence seems to rear its ugly head.

   And, with these thoughts, differences of opinion are more common – and as ridiculous.

** Several Readers might deem me as anti-veteran. That was and is the farthest from the minds of MOST people I know and knew. We wanted the war and discriminations to end – peacefully. However, the angry activists got more attention. **

   When I was 20, I decided I wanted to go back to Texas, which made my mother deliriously happy. I had been attending Ohio State University in Columbus OH. I had experienced the protests/ riots against the university and the establishment and the Vietnam War. Those were our reasons in 1970.

   For my (ahem) personal reasons, I went back to Ft. Worth, Texas. My mother and younger brother, Eddie, lived there.

   I hadn’t gotten that far in college, so I got a waitress job at a Big Boy Restaurant. I wanted to decide what my major should be in Texas.

   My brother, age 17, and I had rapport back then. He worked in a grocery store so his days off and mine did not coincide. He wanted me to meet his supervisor.

   Finally, we had days off at the same day. His coworkers were considerate. To me, though, it seemed some of them weren’t sure of what to say to me. I passed it off that they didn’t speak “northern.”

   Then Mr. Murphy, the supervisor, came to meet me and speak with my brother. The man seemed nice. A little older than me and my brother, but that was all right.

   Since my brother was an assistant manager, someone got his attention.

. Then, Mr. Murphy and I were left to each other.

   “I guess you’re not new to Texas,” Mr. Murphy said.

   “No, sir. Was born in Ft. Worth,” I said nicely.

   Perhaps, he thought he needed to show me what he knew about “the north,” so he commented, “You got tired of all the craziness up north to bring you home again.”

   “Excuse me?” I asked rather surprised.

   “I’ve seen the news about all the college riots up north. You were in New York – right?”

   “There were riots in New York. Columbia University. But I wasn’t in New York. I was in Ohio, the University of Ohio,” I proudly informed. “And, yes … we had student riots.”

   “Oh … right. Where those hippie protesters were shot for attacking the National Guard Soldiers.”

   I just looked at this man who really had no idea of what he thought he knew.

   “Excuse me, Mr. Murphy. The students were not hippie instigators. The killings happened at Kent State University. In Kent, Ohio. Many miles from Ohio State. Four students were killed by gunfire from the soldiers.”

   I didn’t berate him for his lack of knowledge or his self-righteous attitude. It was usually next to impossible to correct someone who is so entrenched in their beliefs. I felt it best to tread lightly.

   Thankfully, Eddie returned to rescue me from this man. I gave a small smile and shook Mr. Murphy’s hand. I had always been as polite as possible.

   As my brother and I began to turn away from Mr. Murphy, the older man flashed hand gestures to us. And he laughed heartily, belly laughed.

   Not all that aware of what the gesture meant, I asked Eddie, “What was that about?”

   “Nothing,” Eddie said quickly.

   “Well, Mr. Murphy seemed to think it was pretty funny. Tell me,” I urged with a smile.

   “You won’t like it,” he stated.

   “Hey, brother … I’m a big girl.”

   We were now in the parking lot of the store by his car. Eddie held up four fingers with one hand and with the other hand, he made a zero.

   “It means ‘Kent State zero, the National Guard four.’” Eddie was obviously embarrassed.

   “Next time I say I’m a big girl, tell me to shut-up.” I was calm and stunned.

   That man knew exactly what he was saying when he asked me about the universities and riots. He baited me – the girl-from-Ohio. I fell for his behavior, his country lawyer treatment. No, he was not a lawyer. But that is a good analogy for his behavior. He got what he wanted – his fun.

   I never let anyone bait me again.

Remembering David Bowie

The Man with Two Different Eyes

by

B.D. Adams  ©2016

I read the news today – January 11, 2016 -- that another creative artist has gone away. Gone away. I cannot bring myself to use the word … died. A very unusual person with one blue eye and one brown/hazel eye.

David Bowie – David Robert Jones – has left from beside us. The creator of Ziggy Stardust, of Space Oddity, of Changes, of Fame, or Ashes to Ashes of many, many musical compositions has left us. As with many people of the 1970s and 1980s, music was a big part of the world. If asked, you can probably say what music you remembered for any event.

My husband, son and me went to see Bowie’s Serious Moonlight Tour 1983, when we lived in Germany. Of course, I had bought the Let’s Dance album, so my son, only 7 years old, recognized the songs from the album and was enthralled with Bowie and the concert! It was his first Rock Concert, but in no way his only. I educated him well.

I realize that Bowie was not everyone’s “cup of tea,” but he was a musician of memorable songs. His announced bisexual behavior upset many people. However, he also said that that was more part of his made-up persona, not that important in his life.

When I was an impressionable teenager, The Beatles was one music group I listened to, as well as to the Rolling Stones when they jumped in. However, David Bowie was all by himself! Those of us now in our 60s and 70s will never forget his voice, forget his musical arrangements.

When I first heard Space Oddity, it was not just a hard hitting rock and roll piece with repeated lines. It had a hint of folk music (acoustic guitar), storytelling and current events. It grabbed me. And yes, a lot of his music was hard hitting, heart ponding rock and roll in his style, but most of his works were lyrical.

David Bowie was not a religious icon, but for the music world, he was an innovative music icon. Others have copied or emulated or imitated, but never surpassed.

If you have any Bowie music – vinyl, 8-track, cassette, CD or MP3 – put a record on the changer, insert an 8-track or cassette or CD into the player or dial up David Bowie’s music to pay homage to this music maker. Like Buddy Holly, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, John Lennon, Michael Jackson and so many others … the music never goes away. 

CD Cover Graphic

Terrorists at Paris

And Paris Cries

By

B.D. Adams

©2015

     On this typical Saturday afternoon, here in the United States, my fiancé and I were watching college football. I wasn’t at my laptop, but decided to see if I had any emails. That’s when I saw the Yahoo! homepage account of what was going on in Paris!!

     As when I first heard on the radio station, in 2001, about a plane that crashed into a building in New York City, I wasn’t aware it was a Tower in New York City. Once I turned on the TV to understand what was happening in NYC, the reality bit hard. The same as when I first became aware of what I was reading about in France!

     Terrorists in Paris!! Many already dead and even more wounded!

     I said to Daniel, “Turn to CNN. Something horrible’s happening in Paris.”

     When I saw on the news station that my beautiful Paris was under siege by terrorists, “Oh, my God” went through my mind and came out of my mouth many times.

     The other word was, “Why?”

     No crying, but misty eyes at what this meant. Of course, my deduction was that ISIS was responsible … and they were, as learned later!

     The City of Light can now be described as “The City of Fear!” Now, they will not feel comfortable with whom they might see near to them. Rather like New Yorkers after the Towers were destroyed. Paris has been marred by uncouth, hateful churls that didn’t have the decency to respect a city of art and culture.

     The terrorists had absolutely no respect for beauty and history in their world!! Fine – destroy the history and beauty of your land. Why destroy, cause mayhem in a land many hundreds of miles/kilometers away that took in the refugees from the world these terrorists had destroyed?

     Granted, the terrorists hadn’t destroyed monuments or museum pieces (as far as what has been reported), but Paris is a state-of-mind, not only of tangible items.

     I had been very fortunate to visit Paris many times when my husband (at the time) and I lived in Germany (read other Blog Posts). We had been to the Louvre to see the fantastic paintings and all the ancient artifacts and all the monuments that Paris boasts.

     Many times we would sit at sidewalk cafes to enjoy wine or beer along with Parisian foods.

     My ex-husband was a marathoner and would go on his training runs in the mornings in Paris while I would enjoy coffee and a pastry and read a magazine to await his return. I am so thankful nothing like that happened when we were there.

     Even with the attack on the Towers in New York, there will never be an answer to that huge, unbelievable WHY!!!!

     These men committed murder … yes, murder … of non-military people, nowhere in their war-zone. Unbelievable!

     And that is the other question. Where IS THEIR war-zone? If they are truly trying to make the world their war-zone, are these churls really that inane, that stupid?

     I mean, even the Russians seem not on their side. Granted, Russian assault-rifles had been found in a car parked on the street and by the killed terrorists, who died mostly by their hand -- suicide. However, those weapons could have been gotten by many other sources.

     My memories of Europe, which of course include Paris, are now tainted by this horrible, nasty … no word really describes my feelings. However, my mind will remain with these people of love, art and integrity!

     Will there be other mindless acts of devastation or murder? Probably. I and others can only hope, beyond hope, that these military misfits will be found out by people in their religion – whatever religion that could be -- or families to discontinue this very unnecessary slaughter!

Pray for Paris

And all other cities and countries hurt by ISIS!

Venus de Milo -- Louvre

Birthday Article

It Is Always a Good Year

by

B.D. Adams ©2014

All my life, celebrating birthdays has been important. Not for parties – those were always great – but that I had made it for one more year! Especially, as I’ve gotten older.

This birthday will mark a very important milestone for me. On December 20^th, I will be 65! Honestly, I never thought I’d make it to that age. Why? I do not know exactly.

Those thoughts might have been implanted mentally by my maternal grandfather (my paternal one died before I was born). Pawpaw, so I had dubbed him, always brought up that he was old, might die before long. This went on especially after he retired and sold his jewelry store in Ft. Worth, Texas. I was a teenager (late teens) when he retired and felt he would be happy because then he’d be able to play golf to his heart’s content! My dear Pawpaw lived for more than twenty years after the retirement. He was 80-something when he passed.

It has amazed me about age -- the art of aging. I guess I have been lucky in the aging category. My parents were able to give me few wrinkles and decent teeth. My weight has fluctuated through the years, but presently, my weight goes with my height. Short, but not too pudgy.

My life has been diverse, but a full life! I am a Mother and a grandmother, have been a wife, a good friend to several others, have travelled and had a career. So glad for Daniel, my love! I have mourned the friends and family who have passed, especially in the last year or so. The song by Jim Carroll, the Irish author and singer, People Who Died plays in my mind from time to time. Music has been very important in my life. Many songs, melodies, speak to my memories of good times and not so good times. However, many long remembered music pieces lift me to continue my journey!

Now, Sinatra’s song of It Was a Very Good Year has begun to weave through my mind – the part about the autumn of the year. At times, I have thought of my life as a vintage wine from old kegs. However, I do believe my life is still vibrant, with more to experience.

I have experienced:

a girl’s giddy, playful life –

a young woman’s love of life –

a mature woman’s need to express herself in her photographic art and writing –

now, as a determined, vintage woman with desire to explore the things yet to come.

I do not regret what has gone by – embrace what is to happen, good or bad.

I will turn 65 on December 20^th, 2014. I welcome the new challenges!!

Photo by Tom Etter 1980

Kerouac

Jack Kerouac

     – a free spirit of the Beat Generation

 By

B.D. Adams ©2014

 

There was an article on the Yahoo! home page last week that said a letter was discovered, which was thought destroyed decades ago. According to ancient knowledge, this letter had inspired Jack Kerouac’s writing style. It was found in an attic, garage or someplace just as cryptic. With my affected brain (due to my stroke), I began to remember this long-term memory item about him and how he inspired me, as a young American girl of the mid to late 1960s.

 Jack Kerouac was born in 1922 in Lowell, MA, to French/Canadian parents. By American standards, Kerouac’s family was … standard. His mother was a devout Catholic and his father drank (especially after the death of his older son) and swore, but provided for his family. They were small farmers in Massachusetts, but that ended when they moved to Ozone Park, NY, with Jack when he went to college.

 He was a good student and entered Columbia University, where he played football until he fractured his tibia. He wrote articles for the student newspaper, Columbia Daily Spectator. Then, Kerouac tried to be a good American (WW2 was in its beginning) and entered the Navy. The military was not for him, too many rules and not enough play-time. He was deemed as a radical misfit and was honorably discharged on psychiatric grounds. However, being a good American, he did join the Merchant Marines. For personal reasons, he was forced to quit this endeavor, after several tours, because some of the more highly ranked seamen were into homosexual activity. That was not Jack’s idea of serving his country.

 Once he met other writers/seekers, his Beat Generation awakened him to experiment with drugs and sex. The search of what life really meant in the 1940s and 1950s and 1960s! This group was the forerunner of the Hippy Experience.

 When he really began to write, Kerouac wrote about his travels across the United States with his good friend, Neal Cassady, who was the author of the lost 18 page letter; The Joan Anderson Letter, 1955. Most writers, like Faulkner and Steinbeck, dealt with religion, politics and love, as did Jack. Thomas Wolfe’s writings influenced Jack. Wolfe’s trek cross-country probably inspired Jack’s jaunt in the “Magic Bus” with Neal and other travelers.

 Human nature was his genre, but he took his meanings to different levels of humanity, more mind-expanding. His early writings were deemed sellable, but his fertile mind needed to unleash his spontaneous style with his life experiences. He became the icon for the Beat Generation! Beatniks! You know, hanging in Greenwich Village or San Francisco coffee houses/bars, beret-wearing-poetry-loving groups who would applaud by finger snapping instead of loud hand-clapping.

Unfortunately, as with other renowned writers, alcohol and drugs were his stimuli, as well as his down fall. Edgar Allen Poe, so it was assumed, drank himself into an early grave (there were a few other diagnoses). Jack was known to drink to excess all of his adult life.

 Granted, Kerouac lived in many places, but when I learned that I would be living near one of Kerouac’s “watering holes” (a tavern in Grosse Pointe, MI), I felt a bit better about moving to Detroit. My husband, at the time, wanted to move from Alexandria, VA, (Poe was from Baltimore) back to his home state, Michigan. We moved from Poe to Kerouac. What a difference.

 I had read once that Jack was not that keen on the Detroit way. As it went, I had the same reaction to living in Detroit. I lived there, but he merely visited with his first wife; her home of Grosse Pointe, just east of Detroit on the shores of Lake St. Clair. That city was stylish, but was too influenced by the bigger city. Detroit was not conducive to the creative mind for men or women. In the late 1980s, when I resided there, the attitudes were still back in the 1950s (when Kerouac was there). We were not a fans of Detroit.

 There have been other people, as writers or as truth seekers, who have emulated Kerouac. However, he was unique, one of a kind. My former employer, D.R. Goff, was one of these “truth-seekers^x1,” as was I. To my thinking, D.R. was more like Hunter S. Thompson in many ways, other than like Kerouac.

Jack died in 1969 (when I was 19) when he was 47 in St. Petersburg, FL. His death was attributed to his drinking. He had married three wives and fathered only one child (of which he was aware); a daughter, Jan Kerouac, a writer in her own right. She died young like her father.

 I was a young, teenaged girl when I first heard of Jack Kerouac. In my young, inexperienced mind, I tried to understand, to believe his realities, his writings. As with other teenagers of the time, I was forbade by my parents to read Kerouac. No Kerouac!

 When I grew-up, though, I did the reading. I never pushed myself into a drug-hazed reality like Kerouac and the other Beats. I had my hippy experiences, but I was always cognizant of my life. I never lost my grip. Too bad for Jack and the others who slipped away.

 Since, I cannot hitch-hike anymore or take off spontaneously, to wherever, my writing has been of memories I have had and what my inventive mind conjures up Through reading and conver-sations with others, I continue to search for America. When I did experience the freedom of hitch-hiking, either by myself or with a companion, it was easier to breathe.

 Kerouac had many quotes, but this one has stayed with me:

                     Live, travel, adventure, bless and don’t be sorry.

 

^{x1 – D.R. Goff and I never hitch-hiked together, in any actual or biblical form.}

Dream Memories

A Dream Memory

by

B.D. Adams ©2014

 

            Like most children, I was an inquisitive child. One of my inquiries was about dreams. According to one of my parents (forget which one), a dream’s length is 52 seconds. Of course, being a young child, I believed them.
           A dream can be short or several minutes to hours, according to Google, depending on the kind of dream or the person. Therefore, there is no rhyme nor reason for the length.
           I dreamed profusely! I always felt complete when I dreamed. The mark of an artist’s mind, so to speak.
            When I was in the hospital with the stroke, I didn’t dream. Not at all! I brought this up to my doctor (physical medicine doctor, not a neurologist), who only suggested that I just didn’t remember my dreams. I wanted to differ with her, but … hey … I was the patient with a stroked brain.
           I really believed the medications prescribed to me caused the lack of dreams or their remembrance. And, after I was out of the hospital, I began to dream again and remember my dreams, until I would start a new medication.
           Oh, well … c’est la vie.
           Do I remember all my dreams? No, not all of them. However, I always knew when I had dreamed.
           One set of dreams/nightmares I have dealt with was not being able to lock a door or to turn on a light. There is someone after me, but I am unable to see the person or protect myself. It’s been a while since I’ve had that memory and it was before the stroke.
            I had had dreams that I could fly, until I was in my 40s. In those dreams, I would awake so rested, so happy. The only dilemma I’d have was that I couldn’t fly above the high-tension/ electric wires!
            In one of those dreams, I was finally able to fly above the wires! At one point, I was afraid I’d go into outer-space, which I didn’t. This one flying dream was an extremely weird dream in my early 20s. And, I had it only once.
           In the dream, I was able to go above the electric wires, I just flew over farmlands and rivers and forests. Of course, it was nighttime, but I could see. The moon might have been full. It was so cool.
            I had no idea how far I had gone, but I hovered over a big building, possibly a barn, where I heard several voices, loud voices. I landed, perched near an opened window at the roof. I went more inside to better see and hear. There were only men, young and old, seated and stood on the building’s floor. There were a few young men seated on a balcony near where I was. They had a few rifles.
            I didn’t realize I was not invisible. One of the young men looked around and saw me. He said loudly about an intruder, a woman! Many of the older men scampered up the ladder to attack me. They yelled that I shouldn’t be there!
            I was able to make it out of the window, where I had entered.
            Several men went outside and saw that I was flying above them. One man fired at me with his rifle.
           “Demon! Demon!” a few yelled.
           I immediately, flew quickly away!

            I really don’t know if I had an “out-of-body” experience, but it sure seemed real that night.

A weird dream memory.

 

Mohawk Memory

photo maker unknown

The Old Mohawk

      Restaurant

by

B.D. Adams ©2014

            Ah ... a comfortable, autumn evening. Nearly, 6:00pm. Cool, but not like the bite of winter. An eager time for a brisk walk to kick up fallen leaves on the sidewalks by my low-heeled Frye boots. My short hairstyle was tussled by the breeze, but the wrap-around cardigan I wore kept my petite frame fairly warm. The evening lights glowed to welcome, as I approached my destination.

            I was near The Old Mohawk, my favorite German Village restaurant in Columbus, Ohio. There were several restaurants in the Village, but The Mohawk was my favorite! Their fare boasted very tasteful German cuisine, specialty dishes and downhome delights! This was Thursday, so my mouth was set for home cooked meatloaf, green beans and mashed potatoes with their infamous dark brown, beef gravy. I could hardly keep my mouth from drooling.

This restaurant was a vintage establishment! It had been in existence since 1933. Originally, it was called Elk’s Tavern, owned by Myles Elk and was thought a Speakeasy during Prohibition. After Myles passed away, the restaurant had a few other long-term owners, with a few renovations, but never escaped the quaint, albeit tasteful beauty of the menu and the mood of German Village. With spirit, the restaurant continues to flourish.

Since I ventured to the restaurant fairly early, a table, the table I liked, awaited my presence. It was the one in the corner window, where I could sit to see the street on my left and see the expanse of the room inside. I liked to watch (wink). I was by myself, which was my occasional situation.

The easy eating, sixties variety music invited me to have a seat. There were no booths, only tables and food service at the antique bar. Tables could be pushed together for parties that might show up, but there were mostly the cozy table for two or the gathering of four. I felt those numbers were best for comfortable dining.

            Jack¹, a waiter (only two other wait-people), came to take my supper order. A very nice guy in his early thirties. His wife, Beth, was a research tech at the Ohio State University Hospital. Jack had had a car accident and had been injured very badly. He wasn’t able to drive now, but he was one great waiter! The tips I’d leave attested to that fact.

            “Let me guess,” Jack teased and held up his order pad. He had written ‘Meatloaf.’

            I smiled and said, “OK, smarty, what about dessert?” I laid my cardigan in the empty chair across from me.

            Jack scrutinized my eyes, and then said, “The Pie (Buckeye Millionaire Pie).” He smiled his sure smile.

            “Ah, my friend ... you’re wrong. A slice of German Chocolate Cake, please,” I corrected. “Uh, and not too thick. OK?” I grimaced slightly. I loved chocolate, but not at an overkill level.

            He nodded and noted the order. We both chuckled a bit, and then he asked, “Beer, for now?”

            I nodded. He went to do his job.

            Not crowded at present. Calm and relaxed. My long-sleeved turtle neck sweater made me feel cozy. The sun had dimmed more, the autumn leaves only fluttered in the faint breeze. The incandescent bulbs warmed up the view outside. So nice and warm inside. This was why I loved this table, to easily see what there was to see. I still marveled at the cobble/ brick streets that still exist. Rather hard on bicycles, but passable at any rate.  

Jack placed my draft beer in front of me, but had to attend some new customers ... we couldn’t casually kibitz. That was all right. I had had a busy day at the studio and just wanted some self-time.

            A commercial photographer, so I was. Not horribly busy all the time, but the days I was, I thanked the gods for The Mohawk. A familiar, uncomplicated, easy-to-smile type of place ... blessed with really great food, to boot! My stomach rumbled. It wanted its meatloaf.

            One interior treatment that I loved about the restaurant was the bared brick walls. With the tin-tiled ceiling, it whispered the history and sweet ambiance of The Mohawk! There was antique art, from the ‘20s on, without overdoing it. Like the food, all was quite tasteful.

            The types of folks who came here were as varied as the birds that hung around the telephone wires and trees, hopped on the sidewalks. For suppertime during the week, there would be the downtown types ... accountants, lawyers, etc. ... or folks who just wanted a different place to satisfy their hunger. There were those who just sat at the bar with their favorite libation. The drinking always seemed to be more in order rather than the sustaining life with solid food. That was their thing.

            I always observed the few men and women (together or separate) who seemed to be with the education vocation. They had newspapers, magazines, books or loose-leaf paper draped over their meals or drinks as they concentrated on whatever they were reading. Or they were at a four-table and began heavy debates of one subject or another! They either drank coffee, tea, wine or cognac, so I deduced. (Some day I’d ask about the cognac.) Their dress made me think they shopped for Ralph Lauren, casual with soft colors. They could be professors or high school teachers or retired scholars or none the above.

            Because of my vocation, I would write notes for myself on the paper napkins. This evening, the notes were the thoughts for our photo shoot tomorrow, for me and my boss², to remind him of certain matters.

Jack brought my meatloaf and I was so glad. The couple next to me could hear my stomach. It was being very rude! Jack used sign-language to ask if I wanted another beer. I nodded yes. I didn’t wait for the beer ... I began to devour!

photo maker unknown

            Oh, how to describe the taste of really good food? How do I love thee, meatloaf ... let me count the ways!! Never mind ... just eat!! However, must savor not just gobble. Jack brought my second beer.

The restaurant became more congested. I liked it, though. Activity and sound of happy people in a small, albeit comfortable café. Smile to the song of eating out!

A few acquaintances passed my table and made there greetings. Nice and short. A couple of single fellows noticed I dined singly, so they made gestures that I should become a couple with one of them. I smiled politely, but denied both. However, the one fellow ... uh, no. Not tonight. I’m busy tomorrow ... need a good night’s sleep.

I finished my meal very happily. Just the right amount ... not too much, not too little.

Jack brought my check and asked, “Gonna be here tomorrow?”

“Nope, not tomorrow. I have a big assignment tomorrow. I’ll be back again soon,” I answered with my relaxed smile. I so loved this place. Never wanted to wear out my welcome.

It was nighttime now. Lights beamed from The Mohawk, the street lights and the porches on the residential houses. It was a bit cooler now. Rather invigorating! The leaves were tickled by the breeze and played tag with my feet. All bundled with my cardigan, I enjoyed walking home to my vintage apartment on Frederick Street in German Village. I will come this way again soon.

If someone reads this and thinks this would be a fine restaurant to visit ... if you’re traveling to the mid-west ... please make a date to go to The Old Mohawk at 819 Mohawk St., in Columbus, OH 43206. You will not be disappointed! Cheers!!

¹Jack and Beth are fictitious names and characters for the story. Any resemblance of these characters to anyone alive or dead would be a coincidence.

               ²Reference to D.R. Goff, my employer at Quicksilver Studio.  Deceased January 2013.