Lake Geneva memoir

In my early forties I used to really try to get off work in time for an earlier train to allow for a drive up to Lake Geneva for dinner with a small group of friends.  We generally would meet at either the venerable Shore Club on the Lake for fish fry or Fazio’s downtown where a former mob captain held court in a elaborate rococo Italian steak and pasta house. Dinner usually involved catching up on gossip or a discussion of what we would do later.

If we were at Shore Club one of the options involved going across the building to the lounge where a lesbian ( back then a masculine appearing lesbian was tagged a “bull dyke” or a “butch lezzie,” terms that are politically incorrect now, but then were always  used , even by lesbians themselves, with affection) presided at a piano bar. This lady had a extensive and bawdy repertoire masterful in double entendre that grew a substantial gay crowd. Her last performance every night would end with “God Save The Queens(s)” which caused a boisterous uproar amongst our group but was clueless to the straights in the audience.

Another option was Christopher’s.   Chris Brown and his Mom owned a large opulent home near downtown Lake Geneva.  Indulgent Mom allowed Chris to turn part into a gay watering hole.  He only could get a beer license meaning beer was all that could be sold. So Chris served Miller High Life, “The Champagne of bottled beer” as it was called.  And he did it in a very attractive setting.  His former parlor he transformed into a period French salon with velvet settees, potted Areca Palms, and a parquet floor he installed himself, as a replica of the one at Versailles Palace . Outside there was an expansive deck bar with tables and beautiful plantings under old maples surrounded by a trellised fence. It was every so elegant and a sure magnet for the community gay population especially since he installed Kyle, a “find” from one of his eastern seaboard excursions.  Kyle got a bed to share, a Jaguar, and the duties of bartender every weekend. He was very personable and very good looking, making the evenings there fun to watch as Kyle got hit on and Chris fumed and fussed over his infidelities.  A guaranteed “
hoot” we used to say.

Another of our regular choices was the Abbey Resort on the lake.  It attained popularity as a high-line tryst hotel for wealthy Chicagoans and the Lake Geneva yachters clan. But they had one waterside bar where one of our own played piano. Unlike the boisterous Shore Club lounge, The Abbey bar was quiet and romantic. If we wanted a “wind-down” evening, we went there.  In the Abbey the gift shop was owned and run by a friend, Roger Morbeck.  Roger would often come over to join us after he closed his store. 

On evening Roger brought along a friend, a fellow heir to one of the many Chicago potentates of commerce having summer mansions on the lake. Families like Wrigley of chewing gum fame or Swift of meat packing fortune renown.  His name forgotten, I do remember he was a personable fellow. He had a launch on the lake and invited us to his home for  a nightcap.  His parents were away in Germany on some business so he was left stateside in this humungous home. 

Off the pier into the home what stood out to me was a baronial great room with two stone fireplaces and a vaulted beamed ceiling. But more so, in this cavernous space there was a herd of about twenty sheep, so realistic, I was taken aback.  I thought they were a whimsical slant in so traditional a place. I later found they were limited edition 1986 Francois-Xavier Lalanne-designed model sheep. One of these sheep made in the early 80’s sold recently at Sotheby’s for $341,000 and a herd of ten auctioned out at Christies’s for $7.5 million dollars.  I never knew I was looking at such a frivolous fortune.

This is just an appetizer of the adventures in Lake Geneva.

Next up. Dana Montana, her downtown restaurant, the  notorius Sugar shack and her hunky gay son.

Then, the escapades of Robert Quinn, ex fire commissioner of Chicago, and a man with a penchant for S & M and bondage coupled with elegant dinner parties at his Wisconsin getaway. Notably an account of my  attendance one of his famous “yacht races” in the swimming pool

Oh , and I can't forget the saga of Delavan pal Dewey Long who sued and won his suit to work at Milwaukee's Ambrosia Candy Factory as the first male employee on the line. The story there is about the famous , or , rather,infamous, person who was the second male hired there. That is a chilling story, but you'll just have to wait.

Hero

A legend in his service,                 

He has vanquished untold enemies
to fall flaming from the firmament.

He knows not fear,

trusts in his steady hand on the trigger,
and spews trails of Hellfire across the blue.

He never swerves away,

from straight-on stalwart races
toward oncoming, strafing doom.

He is ever valiant in his quest to uphold

honor, freedom, and liberty,
from all oppressors in life.

He will forge justice from his blazing wings

and, after a rousing day of relentless battle,
a grateful nation will reward the returning hero

with milk and cookies before bed.

-Jerry Wendt 2016

Diversion

Scents of bleach                                                                 

carried by breezes,

from bed sheets

flouncing on clotheslines

propped above

a young boy,

mesmerized by an ant

crawling through a jungle

of new mown grass.

Connections to

his growing world,

interrupted

by Mom,

calling for a stop

to this dawdle.

“There’s work

to be done,

and the mower won’t

work by itself.”

- Jerry Wendt 2016

Supermarket Surprise

Supermarket Surprise

Salad course with cold asparagus and isoelectric dressing. sliced roasted almonds and cheese twists

I was hosting a dinner party with a few good friends, and, with working long hours in the City with a lengthy commute,  I didn’t have much time to prepare.  I had managed to get the entrée, “Julia’s” Beef Stew, done and sitting in a Dutch Oven in the fridge, which was good as Stew needs a rest for flavors to infuse. But here it was, Saturday, the day of the occasion and I still needed to get a few produce items for the salad and the dinner wines.

I went to the Grocer’s early in the morning and had my selected wines, 3 bottles each of a white and a red, in my cart, and was in the produce section for some Romaine when a well dressed matron approached me.  This was not a lady seeking direction to the Dijon as I could see she was frowning.  She looked me in the eyes and said, “Decent folk don’t drink this early in the morning, don’t you know that?” 

I was so caught off guard I was not up to a witty reply.  I flummoxed, “ I’m buying wine for dinner  guests this evening.”

She “Harrumphed” me, retorting, “  No, you’re not, you’re a drunk !”

I was aghast, but “madam”  simply turned and carted away with a passing aside,

“And you are obviously not in control in other areas, like your eating habits, as well.”

I stood there, Inert, for a good five minutes, trying to shake this slight off, but it stayed with me all day.  There was simply no reckoning as to the motivation or lack of censure of this woman.  I have endured my share of insult in life but none ever startled me as much as this impromptu harangue by a stranger.

The dinner party was elegant and went well, but a large topic of conversation was what I now call my “Supermarket Surprise.”   I tell you that ‘bitch’ had no throttle at all.

-Jerry Wendt

A Call to Action

Welcome Ladies and gentlemen. Thank-you for coming to the inaugural gathering of an organization whose time is overdue.

I ask you; when you think of a fresh baked apple pie, do you envision some pretty buxom young lass bending over a hot oven? . . . well, if you do, shame on you- you’re a dirty old man. In truth, you should know the great majority of those pies are made by old women.  Think of kitchens smelling of spice and nutmeg, all swagged up with gingham and chintz, and it’s “Granny’s kitchen” that should come to mind. Ever hear of “Beyonce apples?”  Of course not, the best pie apples are “Granny” Smith.  Even Golden Delicious comes from honoring older woman. (Uh, duh, as in “golden years?”)

People, old woman are our national treasures.  They need more than recognition. They need to be revered. And that is why, today, we are forming the Society to Nurture Old Women, or, S.N.O.W.  “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.”

We come today to form this coalition to honor and promote our senior ladies,   envisioning a world made easier for those who have given so much.

We support laws requiring supermarkets to put products like Metamucil and Oragel on eye level shelves.  Do you know how hard it is to bend down and read labels with presbyopic eyesight?  Dammit, we need laws requiring larger print, too !

And speaking of supermarkets, younger fops zipping around driving carts like it’s a go-cart track should be a ticketed as a moving violation.  We will lobby for that change. As well, people with full carts in 15 or less checkout lines should be considered for justifiable homicide. Old ladies need to be home feeding cats, not waiting in line with 5 items.

Who today has even heard of a mangle, or even an iron?   Old woman have. There was a prehistoric time before permanent press, and it is the old woman of today that sat at those steaming scorching machines ironing the suits, shirts, and sheets that kept things prim and proper.  So many things come from “Grannies. “

 Clothesline props and potted tomato plants; Granny’s back yard. Anti-macassars and African violets; Granny’s parlor. Chenille spreads and lavender drawer sachets; Granny’s bedroom.  Why, it was the women of yesterday who became the old ladies of today, forming all our national traditions and folklore. 

There should be regulation making toe guards mandatory on Birkenstocks.  Tender octogeneric toe stubs on curbs are debilitating.  And, “Knee-high stockings” are a fashion statement irrespective of modern trends.

We will petition elevator and store music firms to limit the play of “Happy” to twice a day and put in more “Steve and Edie” selections.  It’s hard to concentrate on a decent bargain when a drum thunders with enough bass to wear out hearing aid batteries twice as fast as normal.

Looking at an old women’s wrinkled face should not elicit, “Oh they didn’t know from sun block back then.”  Wrong. Every one of those wrinkles was earned and each one tells entire novels of dedication as a Mom..  And if “Granny” has had a tuck or two, keep your mouth shut. What happens in the doctor’s office stays there.    That goes as well if Granny chooses to wear a bare shouldered top.  Those “Granny” channels are her sergeant stripes for having to wear a tormenting bra for five decades.  On the other hand, if Granny chooses a life of  “titular”  freedom (excuse the pun) , comments of “belted” and “boobs”  are totally unnecessary and should never be used in the same sentence.

Now, our steering committee has brought us to the recognition that no woman wants to be called “old,”  so we are now forced to rethink our banner acronym as inappropriate.

We tried hard to come up with an acceptable alternate, trying “Ladies Of a Certain Age,” until it was discovered that, in Spanish, L.O.C.A.  means “crazy woman.”  So, for now we will adjourn our meeting with our SNOW changing to SLUSH (Senior Ladies Under Severe Hardships) until next we gather under a new banner.

-2016 Jerry Wendt

Norman

Into an old farmhouse next to a barn and surrounded by fields, when the weather cools in the fall, there is a mass migration of mice.  This marks the start of “mouse season” in my home.  To date I have a body count of 30.  I have even written a series of epitaphs whimsically documenting their demise.

Earlier this week, you can imagine my surprise when, after waking up and groggily shuffling into my kitchen, there was a mouse on the center of my pedestal table.  What to do?  The only capture possibility nearby was a Tupperware lettuce saver. But, using something used for food to get a mouse?  Geez, I’d be washing in steaming water for half an hour.  I approached the creature with malice in my eyes. Maybe I could scare him off; but, NO, as I drew near, he spoke! . . .

“We have issues that need to be addressed,” this rodent said aloud.

“You can talk?” I intoned, incredulously.

“You don’t know the half of it, it’s just that we have so little to talk to you about usually- but, like I say, we need to have some dialogue now.   By way of introduction, to show you I am not some run-of-the-mill, riff-raff mouse, I go by ‘Norman,’ and I am of the venerable Field clan.”

“Well,” said I, somewhat recovering from a talking mouse, “I can’t say as though I’m glad to meet you, but I’m Jerry, and what’s on your mind?”

“You know we chose your house as our winter abode. We migrate here for warmth and shelter and food until spring season, when we return to our pastures. We have no intention of becoming permanent residents like those church mice . No, we take pride in providing for ourselves,” Norman explained with mousey demeanor.

He went on, “We come in good faith and mean no harm. We make special effort to stay out of your way and, indeed, even out of sight.  We take little in our residence but space you do not use anyway, and food you would not eat. . .“

“Truth is sometimes a subjective term,” I interjected here, surprised to find myself reasoning with a mouse, and a somewhat uppity one at that.  “As I see it, you come uninvited into my personal space, and the belief that you eat only what I would not, you know as lie. Remember that banana cake I left on the counter one night under Saran Wrap, only to find it in the morning with the whole crust gnawed off?  Oh yeah, I didn’t eat it, but I intended to. . . if your ‘chompers’ would have left well enough alone.  And ungrateful as your tribe is, you then left your little chocolate sprinkle ‘turdettes’ everywhere. Ugh!”

“No need to get huffy, here” my indignant accuser squeaked in his fieldly accented voice. ( so uncultured. )

“I’m not huffy, I’m just telling you, you are unwanted in my spaces.”

Norman went on, “O.K. , but we are here, and while I have not the intellect of deduction, I discern you are somehow involved in the demise of my extended family. We note there are some delicious morsels on the premises that, when approached however cautiously, seem to end up being complicit in a horrible accident with a mortal end. This happens often”

“It’s called a ‘mouse trap,’ and that’s the purpose. Attraction and death.”

“How cruel,” Norman cried, “however can you sink to this level of behavior?”

“I can understand your suffering and not having any other place for shelter,” I indulged, “but we just cannot co-exist. It’s nature,” I speak, with half-hearted conviction.

“No, No, No,” a fervent Norman implores, “Mine were here long before yours and we never did you harm. Never.  Why we cannot get along is why I have chosen to plead. There must be accord somehow. “

“Norman, ( I have now sunk to addressing a mouse by name )  I feel your plight. I DO. But you know cats?  Cats eat mice.  They do. That’s been life as long as we both have known. Well, think of me as a big cat. Natural foes. Those “turdettes” are unreconcileable for me. And who knows where those little pink hands have been crawling around on.  GERMS!  Oh, My God! No, Norman, it isn’t to be.”

Head down but with resolve, Norman chokes, “ I am a mouse.  Always will be. This is what we do. Have you no compassion?  No place for some adjustment? No live and let live? “

“I will try, Norman, I will. But no guarantees.  I am grateful for our little talk. Thank you for your side of this. “

With this, Norman skittered off the table leaving three turdettes as a hostess gift before he disappeared into the crawl space under the sink.

 I reset the traps. The next morning I found another ‘catch’ in the jaws of my machine . Only this time it wasn’t ‘another,’ it was Norman, his head delicately poised under the bar, just short of the peanut butter dollop he was so looking forward to.

I felt genuinely sad, I tell you, I really did.

But a mouse is a mouse and those ‘turdettes’ are just unconscionable, bastard that I am.

-Jerry Wendt  2016 890 words

Pollution In The Air

Pollution in the Air

Atlanta doyenne Gladys Patterson  remarks  to her fellow Morehouse University alumni  club members that the new escort Dr Samuel Jefferson brought to the club dance was much too dark to be considered serious wife material for a person of his standing.

Agnes Kaminski is very upset that her roommate Iris shamelessly flirts with the nursing home’s  interns, who are 40 years her junior, for God’s sake.

Thomas Peter tells his husband Walter he was disgusted to see transvestites hugging right at the bus stop on La Cienega yesterday.  They give gays a bad name.

Paddy O’Flanagan is inflamed that some of  those Syrian refugees are coming to settle in his little Boston suburb to cause terrorism.

Peter Castroanetto takes two extra Zanax with an Oxycontin kicker to calm himself hearing that his state of Illinois is considering the legalization of marijuana.

Muriel Stein allows that Idiri Gumesh doesn’t belong on the hospital board because she looks too ethnic for benefactors to take her seriously.

There is a burial today in Saudi Arabia for Sukesh Amanababa who was legally killed by her husband for telling him she didn’t want to be beaten anymore.

The Scott family on their way to Thanksgiving in Wisconsin laughed that the stupid deer lying beside the highway didn’t make it across the road in time .

The Chair and named partner of Novak, Novak, and Adams lets it known  they will never consider a  female partner  as long as he at the helm.

Kim  Jong-un, the Premier of North Korea thinks himself entitled to kill those that disagree with him.

Heather Romano is sad that she cannot accept Darryl’s prom invitation because she is afraid her girlfriends will make fun of her in a prom dress saying she looks like a “stuffed sausage.”

The EPA must be derelict in not developing laws of  protection  for cleaning this out of the air we breathe, because there is nothing I can do about it,

Right?

-Jerry Wendt