Life As We Know It: (Some Assembly Required)

By Thomas Walton

Seriously, this guy is funny. Thomas Walton's new book, Life As We Know I

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas W. Walton
• Release date: Jan 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781953120489

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Life As We Know It

(Some Assembly Required)

THOMAS WALTON

In order to write about life, first you must live it.

-- Ernest Hemingway

Copyright © Thomas Walton, 2022

Copyrighted material

of Block Communications, Inc.

reprinted with permission

ISBN PRINT 978-1-953120-45-8

ISBN EBOOK 978-1-953120-48-9

Printed in the United States of America

Book Design: April Spangler

Published by Park Place Publications

Pacific Grove, California 93950

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

First I must express my gratitude to the Block family, who gave me a job and never asked me to give it back. Paul Block, Jr. and his brother William Block Sr. were strong role models. Paul was a newspaperman, a scientist, and a man with a stunning intellect. Bill, one of the kindest people I’ve ever known, chose me to become Editor of the Toledo Blade. No greater honor could have enriched my professional life.

Paul’s sons, John Robinson Block and Allan Block, have been resolute in continuing the company’s commitment to quality journalism and community service, and I thank them for keeping me on board for the ride.

The people I love the most have felt more urgency about this project than I, not out of any morbid fears regarding my ultimate demise (although I hope there was at least an element of that), but because they recognize I tend to procrastinate. I’m a newspaperman. I need a deadline.

Their persistence wore me down, and I could not be more grateful. My wonderful soulmate, my wife Dianne, lost her battle with cancer before I could honor her insistence regarding this book, but she is the person most responsible for it. I hope Amazon delivers in heaven.

My children, Sheila and Justin, make me proud every day, not just for the joy they’ve given me but for the people they’ve become. They have encouraged and sustained me. They have laughed at what I write, perhaps more than warranted at times, and I appreciate it. They have groaned at my dad jokes, reminding me of the value of humility. For that I am thankful as well.

My son-in-law Kevin and my daughter-in-law Liberty continue to bless my life with their love of family. My six grandchildren are my shining stars, each an achiever of grand things, present and future. This is for them. My hope is that one day they share it with their own children.

My association with Block Communications, Inc., is now in its 57th year. I am humbled to have had the support of The Blade in this project, specifically Kurt Franck, Luann Sharp, designer April Spangler, Mike Merem (whose last name is that rarest of surnames, a palindrome), and Patricia Hamilton, Publisher, Pacific Grove Books and Park Place Publications in Pacific Grove, California, who guided this project safely to the finish line.

Finally, the new love in my life, my wife Judie, has provided the push to see this through. Like me, she lost her soulmate after decades of marriage, but we found each other, and she showed me that I could somehow express humor again even though the fog of despair and the loneliness of loss had thrown my life off the rails.

I cannot thank my family enough. I can only love them enough.

– Thomas Walton

PREFACE

It was a dark and stormy night.

No, wait. I don’t know that for a fact, although it was New Year’s Eve and therefore quite possibly stormy. I can tell you this: as I prepared to make my grand entrance, it certainly was dark. I am told that the big hand was on the 12 and the little hand was on the 6 when I ended the suspense and reluctantly left my comfort zone, messing up everybody’s dinner hour.

What a tough trip. Cramped quarters. All hell’s breaking loose. Then, just when you think it’s over, they hit you with the bright lights and a sharp smack on the bottom. They’re all wearing masks. This can’t be good. At this point I’m thinking I want to go back.

That’s how the gift of life’s adventure begins, and it keeps coming at you, hopefully for a really long time. We all get knocked around now and then. That’s what life does. But if we’re lucky, the good times smack the bad times on the bottom and it all works out.

I’m one of the lucky ones. Thomas Wade Walton, born Dec. 31, 1943. You could say that had I been born a day later, I’d be a year younger, at least in a fiduciary sense. I used to joke about that when I was young. Now that I’m not, I feel a little cheated. I was barely six hours old, and a world weary of war was already saying good riddance to my birth year. I’d rather claim 1944, but it doesn’t work that way.

I’m not complaining. It’s been a remarkable run, full of laughs and loss. I am defined by both. Along the way, life required adjustments. It still does. No matter our age, we are never a finished product. Some assembly is still required.

INTRODUCTION

Back in the spring of 2007, I was forced to confront a reality that was both exciting and a little frightening. After 42 years in newspaper journalism, all of it with one publishing family, it was time to step back and explore a new chapter in my life called retirement.

My publisher and boss, John Robinson Block, and I had discussed my retirement for two years, and I delayed the actual date twice. Neither one of us, it turned out, wanted me to leave. We had a comfortable working relationship and it was easier to maintain it than disrupt it.

However, my wife Dianne’s battle with cancer made me refocus. Her fight had stretched all the way back to 1998, when she was first diagnosed with ovarian cancer, a deadly enemy. Though she was eventually declared disease-free, we both knew that we would always have to look over our shoulders for cancer’s return. We wanted to maximize our retirement years. She certainly deserved it. She once stood up in front of hundreds of people at a convention of the American Society of Newspaper Editors and read a poem she had written called I Married the Newspaper. It was a big hit with all the other spouses in attendance.

On the last Friday in June, 2007, I became a cliché, the guy who gathers up all his office belongings in a cardboard box, heads down the elevator to the parking lot, and drives away for the last time. Everything seemed normal until Monday morning, when it hit me that there was no job to return to. For the first time in 42 years, there were no more deadlines.

It was time to step away from the Daily Miracle, travel when and where we wished, and spoil our grandchildren. As a grandfather, I was ready for la vida loca. I was living the dream.

But I needed something else to do. The publisher and I agreed I would launch a column on The Blade’s Pages of Opinion on Labor Day, 2007, where I presumably would think deep thoughts, write them down, and make the world a better place for all mankind. Or something like that.

That meant identifying a controversial issue of the day and offering my two cents worth. My first column was my take on national politics and old pol Tip O’Neil’s belief that all politics is local. But I had a problem. I was tired of being so serious all the time. I had been writing about the Tip O’Neills and Mitch McConnells of the world for my entire newspaper career. I wanted to have fun with my new challenge. I no longer wanted to write what everybody else was writing. I wanted to write what nobody else was writing, so you will find no other reference to Tip O’Neill in this book. I can’t pinpoint exactly when I had this epiphany. Perhaps as I peruse my own book, I’ll figure it out.

Retirement took another turn in 2013 when I reached out to another communications medium. I approached Marlon Kiser, general manager of Toledo’s National Public Radio affiliate, WGTE FM, to gauge his interest in adding my humor commentary to his station’s lineup. He gave me a regular Monday afternoon time slot during NPR’s All Things Considered, and Life As We Know It was born. I used the name for the title of this book.

The Blade column and the radio show even provided motivation and solace after I lost Dianne in 2017. The loneliness was crushing and my heart was broken, but I still had deadlines to meet. Writing about my loss was cathartic.

Perhaps you wonder how I chose the columns that appear in this book. It’s simple. Most made the cut because I liked them best. Others are here because readers of The Blade and the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette liked them best.

Through my years in retirement, those readers have stayed in touch, laughing when appropriate, scolding when deserved. I have responded to every email they have sent me. Disarming a critic with a kind response is a neat little trick I learned years ago. Don’t tell anybody.

What follows is a collection of my Blade columns, and a sampling of the wisdom and humor of the readers and listeners. While humor is the central theme of what I do, I occasionally found it necessary to strike a somber tone.

I know what you’re thinking: Surely you can’t be serious!

Well, I am serious. And don’t call me Shirley.

Part One—If You Can’t Be Funny, Be Brief

CHAPTER 1—A NEW WRINKLE ON AN OLD IDEA

MAYBE it’s true that an idle mind is the devil’s playground. My brain is idle quite frequently in retirement, and seldom does anything good come from it.

Take my latest flight of fancy. Please.

I’m contemplating opening a gentlemen’s club for senior citizens who enjoy a good time. I even have a name picked out: Wrinkles.

Go ahead and laugh but this has gold mine written all over it. Maybe I should say silver mine, but the idea itself is definitely golden. I’ve drafted a business plan. The key points:

Nobody gets in who is not age-appropriate. Customers will not only have to prove they are over 21, they will have to prove they are over 65. Those born less than 65 years ago will not be admitted. Staff will be professionally trained to spot fake IDs, although I don’t know who would fake such a thing. If you’re 50 and look 70, do you want to call attention?

Already lined up and ready to go are five talented musicians who will serve as the house band. They call themselves Regularity. Perfect.

Wrinkles will offer an all-access package that is sure to be a revenue producer because it will allow a customer to bypass the line at the restrooms.

The place will have the trappings of a sports bar, with televisions on the walls. Instead of boring soccer matches, the TVs will show re-runs of Mayberry RFD and The Dick Van Dyke Show on a constant loop.

Speaking of the bar, it will offer a full line of concoctions sure to please the guests.

Here is a partial cocktail list:

You’re So Vein. Prune juice will give this drink its distinctive color.

Forget Me Not. Two of these and you won’t even remember your own name.

Bandaid on My Knee.

Loose as a Goose.

Senior Discount. Not much liquor, but it’s BOGO – buy one, get one free. A big seller, for sure.

Impossible Dream.

Lucky Me. Same as the Impossible Dream but with a double shot of Old Granddad.

Tipping Point. Not sure yet what will go into the Tipping Point, but cow’s milk will be involved. A watered-down version will be available for the lactose-intolerant.

Four on the Floor. There’s just no way to sugar-coat it: it’s a strawberry daquiri on steroids. Served in an 80-ounce souvenir tub, with four straws.

Midnight at the Urinal. This one should be a big hit at last-call.

We will hire a bouncer. His job will not be to throw rowdy customers out but to keep them from wandering off.

Monday night will be Bingo Night. Five cards for five dollars. Last game of the night – a coverall. The prize? Depends.

Every Wednesday night will be Amateur Night. Everything’s half off. Yes, that’s a bell that can’t be unrung, but the winners should be quite popular back at the home.

Every Saturday night will be Open Mic Night. Instead of paying big bucks to bring in a comedian, we’ll just ask our customers to take turns sharing a senior moment. Should be a hoot.

Which reminds me: A young man once admired how his grandfather always called Grandma Sweetie, Honey, Darling, and so forth.

That’s wonderful, Grandpa, the grandson asked, but why do you do it?

Because I forgot her name, Grandpa replied, and I don’t want to make her mad by asking.

But I digress. The real entertainment at Wrinkles will be the dancers. They will also be age-appropriate. Hand them a dollar and the clothes stay on. Definitely a crowd-pleaser. Para-medics will be standing by just in case.

One could raise the issue of age discrimination, since younger folks in their 40s and 50s would be denied entry. But I’m betting this is a demographic that won’t be banging down the doors to see the show anyway.

Besides, I promise Police Chief George Kral that Wrinkles will not become a neighborhood nuisance. We will not give the cops any trouble. We might want to, but we can’t.

Selling memberships in Wrinkles would probably be illegal, so I’ll just give them away. What could it hurt? Prove on your first visit that you’re old and never be carded again.

We will also put a souvenir shop near the exit which will offer the obligatory array of T-shirts in crazy colors guaranteed to clash with any pair of pants in a senior’s closet. The shirts will bear the Wrinkles name and the Wrinkles motto: We never close. We just nod off.

Doesn’t this sound like a whole lot more fun that another boring bus trip to Frankenmuth or the Indian casinos?

Perhaps you are dismayed that I’m poking fun at the elderly. I don’t think they’ll mind. They are my favorite people. Nobody laughs harder at themselves than senior citizens. I walk among them now, so I know whereof I speak.

I’m looking for startup money. I’ll probably need to take out a loan – a short-term loan, of course. If you’re interested in investing, I can get you in on the ground floor, mainly because there will be no second floor. I don’t do stairs any more – unless that’s where the bathrooms are.

CHAPTER 2­—AMATEUR NIGHT AT THE SYMPHONY

MY BUCKET list just got a little shorter. I’ve played the Peristyle.

And it’s all because I had to open my big mouth about the harmonica.

I was surprised by reader reaction to my recent column about trying to take up the harmonica in retirement. One guy offered to teach me himself, using his own method. Others were frivolous, in the tongue-in-cheek spirit of the piece.

But the biggest shock came from Kathleen Carroll, chief executive officer of the Toledo Symphony Orchestra and an old friend.

Would I like to make my musical debut, she asked, by joining the TSO on stage at the Peristyle? The symphony, she explained, was putting together its first-ever TSO Pro-Am concert. Scores of local amateur musicians were being recruited to perform under the baton of the maestro himself, Stefan Sanderling.

You might as well ask me to celebrate Mass while the Pope critiques my performance. And I’m not even Catholic.

I’m thinking somebody missed the point. I didn’t say in the column that I could play the harmonica; I said I’d like to learn how. No way was I going to get up there on stage, in a venue as revered as the Peristyle, and botch Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star in front of a thousand strangers.

But Kathy kept asking. I thought back to two years ago when my daughter and I climbed to Half Dome in Yosemite National Park. Now, here was a new challenge, another mountain to climb, one that would bring its own form of terror.

No risk, no reward. I caved. I’ll do it, I said.

So there I was on the Peristyle stage, bearing no discernible musical instrument and no discernible musical ability. Just me and my Hohner, surrounded by talent but devoid of any myself – a dent in the door of a Lexus, a burr on a cashmere sweater.

I was a bit of a curiosity to the other amateurs. Where’s your music? one of the flute ladies asked me during warmups. In my head, I said. Sometimes I hear music. Sometimes I hear voices. She backed away.

Adagio. Arpeggio. Andante. Allegro. And probably some other Italian guys I’m forgetting. Their names were all over the sheet music. It was a fantasy camp for musicians. So what was I doing there with 100 other amateurs and 50 professionals?

I was reminded of George Gobel’s great line years ago: Did you ever get the feeling the world’s a tuxedo and you’re a pair of brown shoes? Maybe that’s why TSO General Manager Keith McWatters, a superb percussionist, parked me in the percussion section, where he could whack me with a drumstick if I got out of control.

I would not have been the only casualty. Five of the amateurs had to miss the concert after injuring themselves while practicing for it. Seriously.

Keith warned me about the noise. It gets pretty loud back here, he said, like being in a crowded subway. He offered me ear plugs. They’ve only been used once or twice, he added thoughtfully. I think he was kidding.

While everybody else was making Johann Strauss proud – or would have if he weren’t dead – I was softly puffing away on My Old Kentucky Home. Nobody but me could hear it. I nailed it. My hand wah-wah was spot on. So was