“Going postal” entered our lexicon via violence in and about the Post Office.  A more benign use of the phrase would be the actual mailing of a letter. However, rates go up and the public must affix proper postage to insure the missiles get through. Rates went up again last May and we were instructed that .44 cents for the first ounce and .17 cents for each additional ounce would see our mailings reach the proper destination. However, some of us did not read the fine print. “Flat mail” would suffer an additional charge. Although conventional envelopes are “flat” and approx. 3.5 x 6.5, or 4 x 9 for legal, the P.O. is talking about the large manila envelopes of 9 x 12 as “flat”…and they want an additional .44 cents from those who send them! I did not know this. We have always sent out leases and other documents in the 9 x 12 envelopes by affixing .44 cents and then .17 cents for each additional ounce. And none have come back until now! I took one such return mail to the P.O. counter and demanded to know why it was returned with .44 cents additional postage required. The clerk showed me a diagram which outlined the various envelopes…and said my envelope was “flat mail” and therefore deserving of additional revenue for the beleaguered Post Office. Hence we offer, as a public service, the above information in hopes of speedy mail service until, as it is inevitable, there will be no more “flat mail” nor any kind of physical mail service, for the internet will have solved the problem of the transport of same…and Post Office buildings will perhaps be converted to homes for retired postal workers

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            I note, in the 90 years ago today section of the Daily News, that Gronloff Gardiner and Miss Elsie Scott were recently married. I assume they had a long and happy marriage, but I bemoan the fact that we don’t see the first name Gronloff in print much anymore. It has a certain noble ring to it. It is a name befitting an editor, for example. Would you prefer to send a letter to the DN addressed to “Chip Thompson” as opposed to “Gronloff Thompson, Esq.”? Or, say, writing to a retired teacher for a transcript, would his reply have more clout if signed “Gronloff Gallagher”? I rest my case.

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            The internet is so prevalent and accessible that one is hesitant to forward same. However, a couple of classified ads submitted by those unclear on the concept: “For Rent: 6 room hated apartment.” “3-Year-old teacher needed for pre-school. Experience preferred.” “Girl wanted to assist magician in cutting-off-head illusion. Blue Cross and salary.”

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            Last week’s quiz was answered promptly by S. Orner who knew that the Reform Club figured in the plot of the Jules Verne novel “Around the World in 80 Days”, the opening and closing theme songs in “All in The Family” TV series were “Those were the days” and “Remembering You”… and Tex Ritter sang the theme song in “High Noon”

            This week’s quiz: What was the first name of “The Great Gildersleeve”, Steve Allen’s theme song and (a tough one) Kay Kyser’s theme song?

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            Did you know that Ibuprofen, Advil for example, can cause constipation in adults? I thought not. Some people gobble it by the handful. Wonder what they are doing to while away the hours? Reminds me of one of our favorite jokes. Woman tells the doctor she is suffering from constipation. Doctor says “What are you taking for it?” And she answers, “Just my knitting.”

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            A guy was driving to a show when stopped by a traffic cop. The cop peered in the back seat and said, “What are matches and lighter fluid doing in your car?” The guy said he was a juggler and the cop said, “Oh yeah” Prove it!”The driver collected his props, and began juggling 3 blazing torches when an elderly couple drove by and the driver , said, “I’m glad I quit drinking…look at the test they’re giving now!”

(To respond to this website: rminchandmurray@hotmail.com)

            Although “Hope springs eternal”,  one famous poet thought otherwise.

                                    HOPE

“Hope was but a timid friend…

She sat without my grated den

Watching how my fate would tend

 Even as selfish-hearted men.

She was cruel in her fear,

Through the bars one dreary day,

I looked out to see her there

And she turned her face away!

Like a false guard false watch keeping

She in strife she whispered peace;

She would sing while I was weeping,

If I listened, she would cease.

False she was, and unrelenting.

When my last joys stewed the ground

Even sorrow saw repenting

Those sad relics scattered round;

Hope…whose whisper would have given

Balm to all that frenzied pain…

Stretched her wings and soared to heaven;

Went…and ne’er returned again!                   Emily Bronte

            Although this section is usually devoted to those who have crossed the great divide, a couple of local fellows are retiring and deserve mentioning.

            Rich Henley has been CEO of the Coldwell Banker real estate office in Red Bluff for umpteen years, and has announced, at 65, he is packing it in. He has managed, year after year, the largest staff in our business. At one time, I suggested to my mentor, Dick Dopkins, that we, at Western Real Estate, should consider hooking up with a franchise such as Coldwell. He said no, it was best to be independent…keep all the commissions for your own company and operate with less restrictions. When the economy slowed down over the years…it runs in cycles, you know, it was tempting to join a nationwide organization, but we resisted and have not regretted remaining independent.  The internet may change all that, but we shall see. Anyhow, Rich has been an amiable force in our local real estate activity, and we shall miss him. He has been the anchor tenant in Peter Lassen Square, a position formerly held by RyDel’s Shoes, and we hope his successor will continue to run a tight and profitable ship as he has . One could say “Poor Richard” as in almanac fame, but “Rich Richard” would be more appropriate.

            John Yingling is also cashing in his chips, metaphorically, and retiring as manager of the local Chamber of Commerce after 30 years in the saddle. He has done well in the role of an ambassador for our fair city and we will miss his jolly countenance…although some say he is more jolly in the afternoon than in the morning.  Well, aren’t we all?

            The Chamber has a titular head, a President, but whereas they rotate on a regular basis, John has had to be on deck keeping the organization afloat financially and perhaps psychologically because when the economy is down, the Chamber must be up! The show must go on in bad times as well as good and a certain amount of optimism should prevail at all times.  John has been good in exuding this feeling and we are all the better for it.

            So, bon voyage Rich and John. Hope you have a retirement to your liking.

            Isn’t it strange how you can see a disaster before it happens? Like the time I dropped a mason jar of assorted screws into the kitty litter box.

            Now, I know better than to be working over the cat’s bathroom, but I couldn’t help myself. The light was good, it was quiet there in a corner of the back porch…and besides, it was the only place in the house that the wife would let me keep my tools.

            So, I was carefully pouring out the contents of the jar in my hand when suddenly the Saint Bernard came up behind me unannounced and stuck his cold nose between my legs, and it was just my luck to be wearing shorts at the time. I dropped the screws of course, admonished Barney for inappropriate behavior, and then got down on all fours to salvage what I could when the wife walked in.

            “Did you lose something, or are you checking to see if the cat needs worming?” she inquired.

            “Aw, no…just a little accident…pay no attention.”

            “You didn’t drop your jar of screws in that mess did you?”

            “As a matter of fact, I did…it could have happened to anyone.”

            “I doubt it. It could only happen to you or your daughter, and you know where she got it”

            Knowing further conversation would only produce more critical evaluations, I became silent and busied myself with the difficult task of separating the …ah…wheat from the chaff, so to speak. Seeing she was getting no further response, she turned on her heel and left the room with a cheery “Happy hunting”.

            There are probably some of you who would not take the trouble to collect a handful of screws, but economic necessity has prompted me to all manner of cost saving ploys over the last year or two. Why start so late in life? Well, for one, two years ago I was a captain of industry and had that precious of all commodities, the expense account.

            In the good old days, together with union benefits, I really had a good number of goods delivered free. Such as a car or two complete with credit cards. Whenever the car malfunctioned, I merely parked it in the company garage…and when it was time to go home, the car was ready to roll again. These days I have to make an appointment to have the car repaired, wait for same, pay an exorbitant amount, get mad, take it to another shop… and get the same treatment.

            And the other little amenities of corporate life such as free dental, vision and drug care saved us a few bucks as well. I should not forget the discounts when strolling into a local store for a personal item only to receive a “professional courtesy” discount because our company regularly ran up a sizeable tab. Oh well; it was good while it lasted.

            I’m not certain how I got from kitty litter to the perks of office…corporate office, that is…but it all seems relevant. Perhaps there is an appropriate axiom: When one is part of the corporate power structure, there are plenty of ways to be compensated. When you are off on your own, you might find yourself pawing around in kitty litter just to make ends meet. But, I guess that’s one saying that won’t go down in history.

Robert Minch

            I have a long standing dislike of the boorish Richard Williams, father of the very talented Williams sisters of tennis fame. And apparently, with Serena’s meltdown in this year’s U.S. Open Women’s Singles Final, the apple does not fall far from the tree. Her tirade against a very meek (and stoic) Asian woman, who had called Serena for foot faulting, brought out something quite ugly in Serena that will be difficult to forget and forgive. We have witnessed Connors, McEnroe and others lose their temper and berate linesmen and referees in the past, and somehow chalked it up to their merely being high strung and emotional players who knew how to psyche themselves up…and their opponents out. But, now over time, their fires have been banked and they have assumed the roles of elder statesmen of tennis. It will be interesting to see how this recent incident plays out for Serena. The irritating screaming every time the sisters (and others) hit the ball, has been under ever increasing scrutiny and will probably result in fines and sanctions in future grand slam events. This action suggests that even super stars can be held accountable for their conduct when it is unbecoming to the game of tennis. Whereas Serena’s tirade was anything but serene…and may be written off as a tempest in a teapot, the video, replayed over and over, may cause a mind set in the most liberal of fans.

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            Now I get it.  John Elson was a writer and editor for TIME, and here is his quote on the subject of editors: “The process of editing is the opposite of the American jurisprudence system, in that every writer is guilty until proven innocent. They should never let the search for the perfect get in the way of the perfectly good.” Perhaps that’s why I’ve had problems with my editors over the years. It is just not an ego trip for them after all. Hmmm. Such an enlightment.

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“Familiarity breeds contempt…and children.” Mark Twain

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            A fellow calls our office saying he is from NBC…and looking for “Minch”. Hot damn, I thought! My breakthrough moment! However, he added, “That would be…uh…Ann Minch, I believe.” I told him he probably wanted to speak to the missus, JoAnn Minch.  “Well,” he said, “it would be the one who is in a video on U Tube… about her credit cards problems”

            ” No,” I replied, “wrong number. My wife would never do that without discussing her intent with me…as her mentor, so to speak. ”

            The caller persisted. “My sources say it is definitely an Ann Minch.”

            “In Red Bluff California…the bankrupt state?” I asked.

            “The very same. Would you kindly put her on the line? This is a legitimate inquiry.”

            Thinking there might be money involved, stimulus or real money, I pondered and finally replied, “Well, my Late Uncle Stanley had a son named Clifford Arthur…and he in turn had a son named Troy…and his wife’s name is Ann. She might be the one you are looking for, but that seems unlikely. All of the Minch’s are very private people…and rather shallow to boot. I still think you have the wrong number.”

            The caller thanked me for my time and hung up. Then I went to the U Tube website, and lo and behold, there was Ann Minch giving B of A an ultimatum! Wow! Nice work. Check it out.

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            Last week’s quiz was first answered by J. Angelo who knew that Manfred von Richthofen was known as the Red Baron, that John Reid was the name of the Lone Ranger…and the sign behind the judge’s bench in the famous Scopes Trial read, “READ YOUR BIBLE”. Apparently too easy for a number of responders.

            This week’s quiz: What was the Reform Club in what work of fiction? Name the opening and closing theme songs in “All in the Family” TV series, and who sang the theme song in the film “High Noon”?

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            Some jokes are worth repeating.

            Three guys went for an interview. The personnel officer conducting the interview had no ears. He said, “This job calls for observation. What do you observe about me?”

             1^st guy answered, “You’ve got no ears.” The officer was furious and threw him out.

            The second guy also replied, “You’ve got no ears” and was likewise dismissed.

The third guy said, “You wear contact lenses.”

The officer replied, “Yes, you are right! How did you know?”

The third guy answered, “You’ve got no ears to hold up glasses.”

(To respond to this website: rminchandmurray@hotmail.com)

            The Owl and the Pussy -Cat (continued)

Pussy said to the Owl, “You elegant fowl,

How charmingly sweet you sing!

Oh! Let us be married; too long we have tarried:

But what shall we do for a ring?”

They sailed away, for a year and a day,

To the land where the bong-tree grows;

And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood,

With a ring at the end of his nose,

His nose, his nose, with a ring at the end of his nose.

“Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling

Your ring?” Said the Piggy, “I will.”

So they took it away, and were married next day

By the turkey who lives on the hill.

They dined on mince and slices of quince,

Which they ate with a runcible* spoon;

And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,

They danced by the light of the moon,

The moon, the moon, they danced by the light of the moon.

Edward Lear (1812-1888)

*A runcible spoon is a utensil used in nonsense poetry

            Tom Finnigan was a writer for Johnny Carson back in the 1980’s until Carson’s retirement in 1992 after 30 years as host of the Tonight Show. When I heard of the fabled late night TV host’s demise in 2005, I contacted Tom and asked if I might interview him for the Daily News. I knew Tom had retired and was living in Red Bluff because I managed a house Tom had leased.  I came across a tape I had made of our interview, and have extracted the following excerpts.

            There were 8 writers on the show,  and they gathered at Johnny’s house every Monday morning to go over the various bits for the show. Each writer submitted his own material and then it was up to Carson to pick and choose what he wanted for the coming week. Once the shows were set, they were taped at 5Pm for showing later that night. 

            For the monologues, Carson employed two guys, formerly from Canada, to do this special material. All the writers had their own private offices in the NBC building in El Aye, but would gather daily in a conference room to bounce topical material off one another.

            Carson was often described as being warm but detached, and yet Tom did not see him that way, and added he was a very generous employee. He reminded me that Carson was a comedy writer before becoming a performer and was writing for Red Skelton when the latter became ill and Johnny substituted for him…and a star was born. As had been said many times, like Jack Benny, Carson was a master of timing… and a throw pillow in Johnny’s house had the inscription “TIMING IS EVERYTHING”.

            In this abstract from the tape, I see that I have contributed very little new information about the years of Tom Finnigan’s association with the star. I guess, although a fascinating experience, it was just another job for a journeyman comedy writer like Tom.

            Unlike early day writer/ performers  such as Mark Twain, Carson’s work, through the magic of television reruns, will be with us forever. He has therefore achieved a form of eternal life. Quite an achievement when you think about it.

            This is the time of the year when I start thinking of my father. It must be because he died in mid September 1964. He was a man of strong convictions, yet possessed a good sense of humor and humanity. Needless to say he was a very successful businessman. And so, when I think of him, it is as though he is still looking over my shoulder and asking, “How are things going, financially?”

            After he passed away, we had some dandy years at the meat plant. Every move was the right move. We plunged ahead in our cattle feeding program that, at one time, totaled over 11,000 head at various lots around the country! And they made money! We also updated the plant by putting in a hide stripper on the kill floor and going “on the rail”, built a new 400,000 pound capacity freezer, bought out a boning company in S.F. and installed a 60 ft moving top boning table. We saw our gross sales jump from 10 million to over 20 million a year. And in one year, netted over a half million bucks. For an industry that operated on margins of less than 1 percent, that was some doing.

            So, there were times, after father died, when I wished he was still around, enjoying his grandchildren, riding around his orchard and chuckling with pleasure while looking over our profit and loss statement. And yet, there were times when I was damn glad he was not around to be subjected to the problems we faced.

            The thing about a closely held family corporation is that it becomes very personal. And every reversal is a personal tragedy. Take, for example, the time in the early 50’s when the market went to hell and father lost about $250,000. This resulted in his developing chest pains and the onset of heart trouble that finally laid him to rest.

            Therefore, despite my early wishes that he could have stayed around to enjoy the fruits of his labors, I am now thankful he did not survive to witness the demise of the business he had struggled so hard for so many years to build.

            But this wistful looking back is not particularly productive. I suppose we can all learn from the past, and try to correct our mistakes, but for the most part, it is merely an exercise of nostalgia. And what is nostalgia? It is “Homesickness. A longing for something long ago or far away.”

            Exactly. I think we all suffer from it from time to time.

Robert Minch

            The New Yorker runs narrow ads on the side of pages containing their feature articles. One such ad Is for The McLean Center at Fernside, which describes itself as “A world class alcohol and drug residential treatment program in a peaceful, rural setting with exceptional accommodations.” The description is so alluring one might wish to become an addict just for the chance to clean up in such a setting.

            Another ad, same page, reads “ADDICTED” in bold, which touts “Dawn Farm offering long term treatment for drug and alcohol addiction on a working farm.” At the end of the ad is a picture of a pig. As I am partial to pigs, I once again regret not being a candidate for treatment.  Although we are addicted to writing, no one is offering a cure for same…on or off the farm. So we shall continue our habit, without profit, and make the best of it.

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            Memo to those who leave messages on answering machines: If you desire a response, identify yourself…and speak slowly…and, if possible, leave your phone number twice, once at the beginning of the message, and once at the end. The elderly thank you.

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            There are benches in front of the U.S. Post Office on Walnut. They are positioned on raised areas above the street level steps and are convenient for those of all walks of life. I have not yet availed myself of them, but do not rule out the prospect of occupying same if and when retirement comes.

            The benches are situated on the north side of the two story structure and therefore shaded from the harsh rays of summer sun, and are friendly to nursing mothers, young people with pit bulls on leash…and some unidentified but apparently retired workers just taking a load off while watching the passing parade. What I don’t see is anyone feeding pigeons. In the big cities, people sit on park benches and feed pigeons. Famous statesmen, and financial advisors, such as Bernard Baruch were known to have held court on park benches from which they disseminated their wisdom to the masses. But I don’t see anyone of that caliber on our Post Office benches. Say…maybe City Councilmen or County Supervisors could stake out a spot on certain days…and become a little more accessible. You might mention it if you spot one of your public servants on the street some bright morning. Take him or her by the elbow and usher the notable to  a bench seat some distance from the pit bull people but still visible to all P.O. customers itching to give their elected representatives a piece of their mind. And speaking of our elected, Wally Herger might not have got his tit in the ringer if he had not attracted the media and limited his “American Terrorist” affirmations to the assorted bench people at our local post office. You think?

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What’s made of plastic and hangs around French cathedrals?  The lunchpack of Notre Dame.

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            Regarding world peace, a topic dear to most of us, and the role of the U.S. therein, Peter Beinart, Senior fellow at the Council on Foreign Relations writes, regarding FDR’s response to negotiations with the Soviets at the Yalta conference in 1943, “I didn’t say the results were good,” commented Roosevelt to a State Department Official after Yalta, “I said it was the best I could do.” And Beinart theorizes, “Therein lies perhaps FDR’s greatest lesson for the foreign policy makers of today. He understood in a way that President Wilson never did, that we lack the power to make the world conform to our abstract principles and rational schemes. Since American taxpayers will only sacrifice so many daughters and sons, we have to prioritize, making the world a little bit less ugly where we can and accommodating it where we must.”

            If Beinart had stopped there, I was with him. However, he concluded, “Often we will have to enlist the help of nasty characters…like Stalin in the fight against Hitler, or Iran in the struggle against al-Qaeda and the Taliban…to confront the gravest threats. Trying to remain morally pure will only permit even greater evil.” He should have added, “…and yet, like poker, we sometimes need to know when to fold…Afghanistan, for example.”

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            Last week’s quiz produced no complete answers. Prince Charming woke up Snow White. Prince Philip, in the Disney movie version, woke up Sleeping Beauty. (As an aside, I awaken my sleeping beauty each morning of our lives).  Noah sent out two birds, a raven and a dove in search of dry land…and, in Monopoly, the railroads are the Reading, Pennsylvania, B & O and Short Line.

            This week’s quiz: What did the ironic sign read on the wall behind Judge John T. Raulston’s bench in the Scopes trial of 1925, what was the nickname of Manfred von Richthofen, and the name of the Texas Ranger known as the Lone Ranger?

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“I went to a fight the other night…and an ice hockey game broke out”. Rodney Dangerfield.

            (To respond to this website: rminchandmurray @hot mail.com)

            Soon after WWII, Cedric “Rick” Pihl came to town. He was just out of the service, and could play piano like no one around.  To be more specific, Rick was a “lounge” pianist. He played in bars. Bars had dance floors and offered live music.

            I was in high school when I met Rick one day in Floyd’s Fountain. I was intrigued by his musicianship and all around knowledge of the music game. One thing led to another and we arranged a little concert in the high school auditorium. It was to be an “educational concert”, to hear Rick tell it to the Principal, but it turned out to be just a jam session which few understood.            

            He was a large, powerful man with huge hands that could span 12 keys on the piano. He said he had been a good baseball player in his youth, and briefly considered a career in the game.

            Rick and I played many dance jobs later on. I played drums, but he was the star of the show with a prodigious memory enabling him to play the favorite song of repeat patrons as they entered the bar. Then, one day, he announced, “I want to get out of this rut! I want to go back to school and become a music teacher!”

            Rick enrolled at Chico State College and fairly swept through the place in 2.5 years. He landed a teaching job and settled in for the long haul. During this period he wrote his most ambitious work which he titled, “From this Land”. It won the Valley Forge Foundation Award, but no money. In those days he insisted on being called “Cedric”…but finally resigned himself to “Rick” once again.  Eventually, he returned to playing piano in watering holes such as Doc Cleary’s in Redding. I hadn’t seen him for several years when I walked in the door one evening to renew our friendship, and he immediately broke into “Just One of Those Things”, my favorite jazz tune at the time.

            He  died a few years later, in his fifties, after suffering several heart attacks. I wonder if his aspiring to “greater heights” was worth the effort…or is a teacher a more exalted position than a lounge piano player.  In any case, Rick is gone, and we are left with just memories…musical memories, for sure.