The "R" Factor

 

The “R” Factor

 

This subject is of little or no value – but I find it interesting.  It investigates the letter “R”.  Why is that interesting?  It is, in my opinion, the most illusive and confusing letter in the alphabet. Some folks add it where it doesn’t belong and others leave it out where it should go.   Let’s look at some examples.

The first that comes to mind is the change of sound exemplified by none other than the famous star of the big screen – Elmer Fudd.  He changed the R to a W – as in Wabbit.  And no less than Barbara Walters had a similar problem with that pesky letter. 

Another example might be called the “add it on”.  Let us look at a typical New Jersey native.  If one asks this guy if he knew if a bus passed by – he might say “yes, I saw-r it.”   It seems that R is unnecessarily added.  President Kennedy was famous for an add it – with his famous pronunciation of Cube-r instead of Cuba.  When a New-Yorker tells you where he is from – He says “New Yoke”--  leaving out the R.  And if we visit Indiana for a while, we will find those folks will stick it in where it doesn’t belong as they “Warsh” their dishes.

 British people add a little R sound at the end of the word “No”.  (NO-r) Otherwise, they gloss over the R – and “Horses” become “Hosses”. The French put it on the word for black –Noir – or four – quatre --  but just glance over it.  There are lots of examples like that in France. The Spanish like to double the R sometimes and roll it around on their tongues.  Scotsmen do something similar – as do the Irish.  Germans swallow the R sound like they are gagging on it.

But back home – lets go down south where the R is smoothed over as though it isn’t there.  A New Orleans "Nolens" lady might call you “Shugah”’ A Texan will cross the “Rivah”.   A Floridian will warn you of a “Spidah” crawling around.  Let us go driving up to Maine and find a place to “Pak yah Cah”. 

I am certainly not an entomologist -- or it etymologist?  I think one is for words and one for bugs.   Well, that pesky “R” does bug me a lot sometimes.

See ya Lateh – Allegateh…

From the Heart of Olaf Hart…

History Repeats

 

 

History repeats?

I heard on the news this morning – I can not believe what I heard – In some cities – New York in particular – a few restaurants are closing their doors as ordered.  BUT – only in appearance.  They break the law.  They hide from authorities. They serve food and drinks to their customers -- behind closed doors – just trying to survive.  These places of ill repute are now known as – ready for this – SPEAK- EASY’S.

I do not remember the 1920’s, but I recall my parents talking about such places during that ridiculous period in this country’s history known as “Prohibition.”

Our government allowed laws to pass – largely at the  behest of a few old ladies known as the WCTU – Women’s Christian Temperance  Union – which admonished that drinking alcohol was a sin and should not be allowed in any form in the United States of America.  Their data was flawed.  Apparently, they dismissed the fact that Jesus drank wine regularly as a part of his Jewish celebrations.  And beer has been around for thousands of years.  And virtually every other major country on the planet has no problem with alcohol consumption.

Be that as it may – just 100 years ago, during the “roaring 20’s”, that law was broken on a regular basis and the law breakers -- in mass,  went to venues that served illegal liquor.  These clandestine places of sin required a secret word -- which was not a secret at all – and entry was gained with little or no problem.  They were seldom raided.  The password was usually a spoken phrase, such as “Charley sent me.”  Since you must “speak” in order to get in, and it was quite “easy” to enter -- they were called “speak-easy’s.”

Often, cheap homemade booze was served and just as often customers got sick and some died.  Not to mention the bootleggers and gangsters who took advantage of a ready buck.  Illegal booze was sold to these popular entertainment clubs.  Millions of dollars were made. There were gang murders over territories.  Federal agents sought out illegal stills and wine-makers and arrested and fined them.  And all of this because of a law that purported to make folks stop drinking beer, wine and whiskey like people do today without guilt, fear or shame.  This lasted for 12 long years, because a handful of pseudo-religious folks were attempting to foist their beliefs on us all.  This intention of the little-old-lady’s group never came close to their hoped-for result of temperance for all – quite the opposite. It really backfired – big time.  This ridiculous, unenforceable law was doomed to failure from its inception.

Fortunately, the powers-that-be came to their senses in 1933 and the 18^th amendment was repealed and we could now shop at our local liquor store and have our little cocktail or pop a beer or a glass of good wine at home at the end of a day.  Or we could go out and have a drink or two during our meal at our favorite eatery -- all of this sinful pleasure, without fear of being arrested. 

Now we have the modern day, 20’s version of prohibition in some parts of our country, don’t we?  Someone thinks we don’t have the good sense or intelligence to make up our own minds about what is safe and how to deal with it.  We can’t think for ourselves.  We must be looked after.

And so – we do what our grandparents did – we break the law – we become criminals – we dare to go out to dinner at a SPEAK-EASY.  It is the “roaring 20’s once again.  Don’t tell me history doesn’t repeat itself….

From the heart of Olaf Hart….

CATHARSIS

 

Catharsis?  Well -- something is prompting me to write about my most embarrassing moments.  Maybe I just need to talk about it. So here are a couple:

Don’t Judge a Book By It’s Cover

I don’t fly a lot.  But I did fly several times while I was in the Air Force Band.  We usually flew from base to base in those old “Goony Birds.”  The Air Force called them C 47’s.  They were drafty and tinny and maybe that educated me on the physics of an object in flight.  I knew that when some rough weather came our way, those old planes would toss and turn like a cork in the ocean – but  we never fell out of the sky or even were in jeopardy.  That is just how they bounced around.  One just got used to it.

Which leads me to my first most embarrassing moment.

I was flying to Florida.  I had the window seat.  Belted down in the center seat was a short little man, who seemed to be alarmed at the rough weather we were encountering over the Florida coast.  Now, I don’t often converse with fellow passengers  –  it is just not my nature.  But this guy, as he crouched down into his seat, trying to read his book,  seemed to be concerned with the bouncing around we were experiencing.  So, I drew upon my great expertise – having flown years  ago on those old Air Force airplanes – and proceeded to calm down his apparent fears of flying in rough weather.  I carefully explained  that airplanes are much like boats.  “They bounce around when the water has some rough waves.  This aircraft is hitting some rough waves of air.  But it will be just fine.  It is made to bounce around like this,  just like the boat,” I explained in great detail to this obviously nervous traveler.

 

The air eventually smoothed out and I thought I needed to continue with our new found friendship and make dure he survived.  So, I turned to him and, after going through the preliminaries of names etc.  I said, “Where are you from?”

“Miami,” he answered.

“What do you do?”

“I am a meteorologist.”

“Oh my God,” I said, “I feel really stupid giving you all that stuff about why airplanes bounce around.  Wy didn’t’ you tell me?”

“You were doing such a good job,” He chuckled.

As though my foot wasn’t already completely into my mouth, I just had to continue.  “I feel pretty stupid right now.  But what do you do?  Are you a weatherman on TV?” 

“No,” He said as he laid his book on his lap, “I fly into hurricanes.”

Never judge a book by it’s cover….

 

One to Nothing – Indians

I have lived a great deal of my life in the Southwest.  I pride myself on having great knowledge of the Indian culture.  At least that is how I felt.  This was, of course, an exaggeration.  But, when my daughters came visiting, I wanted to show off a bit. We made a trip into the Arizona mountains and stopped by a tent beside the road where Indian jewelry was being sold.  As we perused the various pieces, I decided to check on a pair of earrings for my wife, who was not with us.  It was to be a surprise.  I decided on a pair of Kokopelli earrings.  “This old symbol  represents  reproduction,”  I pedantically explained to my daughters  --  showing them my great knowledge of these Native American things.

 It is typical for customers of these roadside venues to try and barter for a better price.  Since I was such an authority on the Indian culture, I smugly slipped this valuable information to my daughters, and proceeded to show them by example.  I picked over the Kokopelli’s and finally selected a nice pair. 

Since I was so sure of myself and my knowledge of the various tribes in the area, I was anxious to show off this vast knowledge.  I, therefore, stepped up and was about to show my knowledge of Indian lore and my great bargaining abilities. 

Behind the table were three Indian women.  One of the three was quite cute, rather young and had on jeans,  a designer jeans jacket  and a concho belt.  She wore small rimless glasses.  Her black hair was neatly, professionally done.   Before I began my bargaining spiel, I asked, with great authority and stupidity, “Which tribe are you?”

“Navaho,”  She answered, rather curtly as though it was a dumb tourist question.  Which it was.

Then came my most embarrassing moment.   I should have quit while I was ahead.  I didn’t. “You don’t look like a Navaho,” I spoke before I got my mouth coordinated with my brain

Without missing a heartbeat this gorgeous Indian girl instantly retorted back to me, peering over her rimless glasses and in perfect American English,  “And just what does a Navaho look like?”   She paused, as though waiting for an answer that would not come.  It didn’t.

I suddently needed to look at my feet .  I asked the price of the Kokopelli earrings, she said “Twenty dollars.” Without allowing any more time to pass than necessary, I gave her a twenty dollar bill.  I would have paid whatever she said.  I grabbed my Kokopelli’s and slinked away from  the tent as fast as I could.  My daughters were giggling in the background.

Indian girl wins -- one to zero…..

What hath Alexander Graham Bell wrought?

I remember so  well  -- about 80 years ago, sitting in a room in a house in Darlington, Indiana visiting with my grandmother, Nellie Weliever.  She was "Central" --  the telephone operator.  The little switchboard was in someone’s house.  There was a bathroom and bed there so the operator could rest at night – she was often on call all night – but things closed down after 10 or so unless there was an emergency.  My Grandmother could talk to me, sitting beside her,  with interrupted sentences as she answered the incoming calls and pulled cords and plugged them into holes and routed them -- usually by name instead of number. It went something like this --  “Tomorrow is Sunday and --   “Yes Mary.  Here’s the drugstore,”  and we are having fried chicken” – “ Charley, that line is busy.  Try again later.  – How does that sound to you?” She could talk to two people at once and never miss a beat with either of us.

Those old crank phones were the first general popular use of the new telephone.  Then, in larger towns, we had the operator system with a girl – no guys back then – sitting with a row of other girls in a big room.  They were much less personal as they efficiently routed calls around towns all over the country.  One would lift the receiver and wait for the word “operator”.  You gave the number and your call was quickly sent to the proper place.  This gave rise to the “party line”, with W’s and J’s to delineate the difference.  The limited number of  private lines were reserved for special folks – like policemen and firemen and politicians.

Next were the “dial” phones, which was a miraculous achievement.  Now one could do one’s own connecting to whomever they choose to call.  No operator needed.  That is, all except long distance.  That required an operator. And that required an extra charge – sometimes a fairly large amount.  The charge was usually per minute after the first three minutes.

I distinctly recall the first “direct dial” call I made in the early 60's.  I could not believe I could pick up my phone in south Texas and call folks in Indiana by just dialing an “area code.” No operator.  Automatic charge. What  progress!  It still works, today!

Yes,  I have seen the survival of the fittest in the evolution from those crank phones all the way to the cell phones of today.  So what? So, what has it come to today?  Robo Calls – that’s what.  It’s Those pesky calls we all get several times every day – at all hours and from who knows from where. And the number duly recorded on our phone screen is from where?  Maybe next door?  -- certainly in our local area – right?  Wrong.  It is called "spoofing". I have had a call from my own phone number.  Now how does that work?  Sometimes I call back the number to see where it came from.  It is either a non working number or someone who did not call me and thinks I am stupid for asking if they did.  And sometimes I miss or hang up on a legitimate or important call, thinking it is a robo call.  That is not good.

In the unlikely event that I do press 1 as directed to get a zero rate on my credit card – or a swinging deal on health insurance – I get “This is John Smith”, which comes out like “Yon Smeet” in an East Indian or Hispanic  dialect.  And if I question his motives or ask silly questions, sometimes  I get a “F*** you”, over and over until he gets it out of his system and hangs up on me. In the past, I loved to play with these folks, but I am tired of playing with them and I no longer play their game.  It is no longer fun and is getting serious now.

So why am I concerned about these calls?  First of all,  they are a scam. They are from a foreign country. And, they take up my time and use up my phone minutes and usually come at a bad time and try to sell me something I do not want or need.  But more important, they seem to have the computer program to grab anyone’s phone number at random with no consequences.  If they can do that, maybe they get to our private information or bank accounts?  The “do not call” list is useless and does no good at all.  They sometimes admonish us to press 2 and they will not call again – That is BS! They are making us all grouchy when the phone rings.  I find myself barking at everyone who calls – even friends or the drug store or the Doctor’s office and having to apologize.  I have become unfriendly on the phone.  It really has gotten to a ridiculous level and needs to be addressed.

The Federal Communications Commission (FCC) is in charge of phone companies and radio/TV station licenses.  In the years I was a broadcaster, the FCC was GOD!  They would ride herd on us like an old mother hen.  We all had to study, take a test and get an FCC license.  We must never fail to read our transmitters every half hour, or give our station call letters and location on the hour.  Our broadcast logs were kept in perfect order.  Why?  Because the FCC folks might come to town and rent a motel and listen to the radio station for a day or two, then come to the station unannounced and look over your shoulder and check on all these entries – and they better be up-to-date and your logs match up with what they heard or there was hell to pay and one might lose one’s job pretty quickly. A serious infraction could lose the station's license.

So that begs the question – why does this fussy, demanding FCC not crack down on these robo calls that use telephones illegally?  I actually wrote to the FCC and asked that question.  I have received no response.  I cannot believe that there is no way to stop these calls.  I have heard they are "working on it". As we are wont to say “If we can fly to the moon, why can’t we stop robo calls?

From the heart of Olaf Hart

Cousin Bernie

My cousin Bernie died a couple of days ago.  It brings up some funny memories of the movie in which "Bernie" had died and was hauled around by friends, as though he was alive.  I think Bernie would have laughed at that – because Bernie laughed at many things.  When he laughed, he laughed all over his body.  He loved to laugh. His laughter was contagious.

I have known Bernie – or Bud , as he was called – since he was born – and that was probably more than 80 years ago.  Bud was not one to stick strictly to the facts sometimes.  (That trait was given to him by his father – most of us agree – who spent his entire adult life as a sailor; serving all during WW II in the heat of battle sailing around the world aboard a ship).  But it matters not which genes this trait might have come from – we all agreed that Bernie liked to expand the truth just a bit in order to make a good story even better. He loved a good a good story.  Nothing wrong with that – we all do that, a bit, don’t we?  I do.

But Bud had a serious side.  He was deeply religious.  I know not which brand to which he subscribed, but which ever it was, he believed in it faithfully and completely.  He wrote religious books for children and religious books for adults. He conducted an on line bible study for many years and had quite a following, I am told.

In the face of a not so happy life some years ago, he happily shared his positive  beliefs with others.  His first wife and a child had died young.  His sister died young. But he moved on and married Donna and had a son, both of whom he adored.  But his faith carried him on in his life until a couple of days ago.

Those who know me know that I am not a religious person. I have my own thoughts and beliefs which did not match Bernie’s.  We talked about this some years ago and agreed to leave that to ourselves.  But I did not criticize him nor he me.  Here are my thoughts about one’s beliefs.  What ever one may believe about religion is what they mandate will take place.  Bernard Albertson devoutly believed he needed to teach others about his beliefs and did so.  He believed he would go to heaven after death – And so it matters not what I think -- he will.  Have a safe and swift journey to heaven, cousin Bernie….  from the heart of Olaf Hart

Lest We Forget

I wonder if those who recalled Lincoln’s assassination remembered exactly where they were when they heard about it?  Or what about the surrender of the Alamo to Santa Anna?  I would wager they did recall.  “Remember the Alamo.”  That battle call still exists. Those world-shattering events seem to burn their memories into our brains and into posterity, don’t they?

Where were you when Kennedy’s assassination happened in Dallas?  I remember precisely.  I was shopping in a super market in Bloomington, Indiana.  I was a post grad student at IU and had a family to feed, so I was shopping for some groceries.  The PA system was playing music from an FM radio station for some background music.  The announcer broke into the music and said, “here is a bulletin.  President Kennedy has been shot in Dallas.  More details as we get them.” I ran home as quickly as I could, turned on the TV and watched it for two days non-stop.  The University was closed and I and the rest of the world watched in disbelief.  I will never forget.

Now the obvious question – where were you and what were you doing on September 11, 2001 at about 9 AM?  I was living in West Palm Beach with Jeri at her town house.  I typically watched the business news on CNBC  -- which was before Fox Business Channel came into being.  I was standing in the bedroom, having just returned from walking Jeri to her job a short distance away and doing my morning jog as I came back home.  The reporter was relating the latest financial news when his attention was diverted by a colleague.  He was momentarily frustrated by the diversion, but quickly got his news face back on and told his audience, “A small airplane has apparently hit the twin towers here in lower Manhattan.  We will have more details shortly.”  Then within a very few seconds, he returned to the air and corrected himself – telling me and his vast audience that it was not a small plane but an airliner.   I knew this was really important, so  I immediately called the doctor’s office where Jeri worked and where the break-room had a small TV.  I gave her the quick version of the story and told her to turn on the TV. That was the beginning of hours of coverage that we all watched non-stop.  The second air liner into the towers – then a third at the Pentagon and forth headed to the White House but heroically diverted and taken over and brought down by its passengers  in open country in PA.  That was a frightening time, embedded into our memories forever.  And today is the anniversary of that terrible day in our history.

I wonder if those back in Lincoln’s day mocked and tried to under play the seriousness of his death?  Probably.  That was nearly 150 years ago.  Maybe enough time has passed that we can joke about weather Mrs. Lincoln enjoyed the play.  But our tragedy, the death of the twin towers by Muslim extremists, is only 18 years old.  There is no justification for minimizing its importance and seriousness.  Those who would fluff it away are either totally misinformed or some sort of young radical bigot with an agenda,  who has no business living in this country and enjoying its fruits and great opportunities.  That terrible morning in 2001, 18 years ago will never leave my memory.  And its cowardly perpetrators will go down as the worst mankind has to offer.  To forget is to drop our defense.  To forget is to stop thinking about all the hundreds of innocent folks who burned like a roasted chicken left on the grill too long – and all the firefighters and cops and citizens who gave their lives trying to rescue people.

I am not a flag waver.  Although I am very patriotic, I do not normally write about such stuff.  But – like General Eisenhower commanded after rescuing the Jews and others from the concentration camps after WW II – He told the world that he ordered pictures and films made for posterity so this would never happen again and no one would ever forget and say it didn’t happen.  I would say the same about 9/11.  It did happen and it was awful.  Let us never forget.

From the heart of Olaf Hart………

Marble marbles

It all started with an e mail from my old Air Force buddy – Paul Crawford -- who lives in Colorado.  He is retired, just like me.  We sometimes have time on our hands and began to dream up things to occupy our minds.  Well, somehow the story of a little town in the Colorado mountains got to be the subject of our electronic conversation.  The town is called “Marble.”  It has that name because in its heyday it quarried marble stone slabs from its hills and made a nice profit.  The Lincoln Memorial is made from Marble quarried marble.  But, it seems, the marble business was not able to keep the little town going and it was headed for ghosthood . 

And so, more recently, the town was revitalized with the purchase of the marble quarry.  So, there is now an influx of funds and the modernization of the machinery and the resurgence of its industry – the sale of marble.   Marble even boasts workshops in sculpting, nowadays.  Things are really moving in this little Colorado mountain town.

This little factoid prompted all sorts of inquiries – the looking up of web sites – the reading of articles -- all in the quest of more information about marble.  This often happens when  -- in the face of boredom – one has an active and intelligent mind and one has too much time in a given day on one’s hands.

Well – one of us – I don’t remember just which one – happened to ask the obvious question – “Are marbles made of marble?”  And that opened the flood gates.  We had to know more about marble and marbles.

We concluded that marbles are a fraud.  They are not made of marble at all – but are probably glass – poured into a mold with some colors added and – bingo – marbles that look like marble.    

Now Paul and I could not leave that factoid alone.  We needed to know more about those little critters.  Back to the computer.  Websites were sought – articles were read and memories were dug into.  As I recall from my life in rural Indiana – growing up in a small town – at some age, all little boys had in their possession, their bag of marbles, probably hooked to his belt and guarded with his life.  This collection consisted of quite a number of small “playing” marbles.  Some, I recall, were called “aggies” and were more valuable. These were used to play the game – they were expendable.  But also in the bag was at least one or more “shooters.”  These were prized possessions and were sometimes traded with friends like gold coins.  They were much larger and used to shoot at the other guy’s marbles during the game.  The play commenced after a circle was drawn in the dirt with a stick and marbles were put in the circle.  The shooter was flipped with the knuckles down on the ground – the object being to knock the opponent’s marbles out of the ring with one shot. Once that was done – the marbles were yours.  The rules were mostly made up on the spot but that is the gist.

I don’t actually recall my age when this game was played – but certainly elementary school.  I don’t remember any girls playing, so this was, doubtless,  during the “pre girl” stage in a young boy’s life.  Boys played marbles. Girls played “Jacks.”

Paul and I learned, through our research, that a version of this game was played many centuries ago in biblical times.  Marbles were made of clay, or alabaster and even fine jewels.  The question is – do boys play marbles these days?  I doubt it.  This is actually a gambling game.  There are losers in this game and we can’t have that can we?  I don’t know what happened to my marble bag.  I guess I just lost my marbles…

From the heart of Olaf Hart ….