Saturday, April 27, 2013
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Complaint of an Invisible Man
By Charles M. Guthrieof the editorial page staff
Published by the StarTribune
October 18, 1958
I VOLUNTEERED to return a garment to the store for my wife the other day. I should have known better. A mission that would have taken 15 minutes of anyone else's time consumed most of my noon hour.
Nobody notices me in stores. Clerks brush past me as if I were a potted palm or a hat rack. I apparently wear a mantle of invisibility. And rather than grab a clerk by the throat and inquire acidly if he or she thinks I am there waiting for a bus or to get out of the rain, I stand mute, fearful of creating a scene.
IT ISN'T that I don't know what you have to be to win the attention of clerks, waiters and people manning information booths and gas pumps. You have to be an imposing presence. For the man of stature there is no wearisome waiting for a restaurant table, no languishing at counters, no futile waving for taxis.
Service for such a person is practically automatic. Around him is an aura of authority. Head waiters recognize him at a glance and become immediately obsequious and attentive. But try as I will I cannot bring it off. I am not now and never shall be an imposing presence.
AND RIGHT NOW I want to salute all those in the service trades for their unerring ability to appraise customers--for knowing which one counts attention as his due and which one will go unnoticed without blowing his cork.
They have me sized up as a patient and long-suffering sucker, grateful for whatever crumbs of attention they deign to provide.
The day finally will come, I fear, when I'll go unnoticed until it's time to close up shop and I'll have to step aside to avoid being covered up along with the yard goods. If I had a dollar for every minute I've leaned on necktie counters or starved in restaurants while V.I.P.s were feasting I'd be quite comfortably fixed.
IT DOES ME no good to put on my best pants and jacket and assume the pose of a railroad magnate, political boss or chairman of the board of Consolidated Spaghetti. It does no good to glare and beckon. On the rare occasions when I'm detected doing this the detector is some churl who is ignorant of the elementary fact that the customer is always right and I am told to keep my shirt on. My timing also is off. When I throw my weight around the clerk is looking the other way or the waiter is lavishing charm on the couple at the next table.
I have no quarrel with those who can command attention, give orders and have them obeyed. I have only envy. And when my gorge does rise to the point where I explode I then go into shock, feel like a boor and suffer acute remorse.
Thus it is that I have retreated into my blanket of obscurity and found, if not satisfaction, at least repose.
WHEN A CLERK finally does notice me I'm pliant as putty. I have bought shoes that were a size too small--and felt like it--on the paternalistic assurance that they were my size and that any discomfort was in my head rather than my feet. I have bought overcoats that would look nice if draped over a Kentucky derby winner and neckties I would not wear to a dogfight, all because some clerk gave me the impression that if I didn't buy them I wasn't quite bright--and also I would be doing him a distinct disservice.
Also I cannot bear to demand replacement of defective merchandise and seldom squawk even when a squawk is in order.
THIS SUMMER an associate and I ordered identical 75-cent lunches, which included a beverage. We asked if the beverage could be iced tea and the waiter said yes. We later got 85-cent checks and were told that the iced tea was extra.
We meekly paid and walked out, both of us burning. But to have complained over a measly dime would have been rather small. We were above such picayune bickering.
Ever since then I have felt closer to this associate of mine. He is one of my kind.
Copyright 2013 StarTribune. Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune. No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.
Saturday, April 13, 2013
Advice to Dads: Know Carpentry
By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE
of the editorial page staff
published by the StarTribune
October 7, 1961
AS THE Father of a 12-year-old I confess some shortcomings. I'm more than 40 years my son's senior, for one thing. This can't be helped but it rules me out as his competitor in anything more taxing than pool or ping pong.
But an even worse shortcoming is my ignorance of carpentry. This liability hurts little when a child is too small to notice your bungling. But in the march of time he gets interested in construction jobs and starts giving you odd looks when you try to help him. From then on until girls get his mind off hammer, nails and hobby shows you are an expanding cipher.
MY LACK of manual skill tried me sorely a fortnight ago. To attain Star rank in the Boy Scouts, my son had but one attainment to go-- to build a bird feeder. He broke the glad tidings to his mother and me on a Saturday morning. The feeder should be finished, he said, by the next Monday evening prior to the court of honor.
He ruined my breakfast eggs by exhibiting the plans for the thing. As a matter of principle I am hostile to plans and directions. They are either wrong or incomplete and their primary purpose is to befuddle.
BUT I WAS smart enough to see that the boy needed some lumber we didn't have. And about 1 p.m., after the lumber yards were closed, he agreed with me. We cased the nearby stores for boxes and crates they were out of and then, as is our custom in crisis, threw ourselves on the mercy of friends.
By mid-afternoon on Sunday the junior builder declared he was ready and inquired about the saw. It happened that this article was 100 miles away at the lake. So was the hammer. We did have a keyhole saw, though, that was a tool of sorts but qualified more as an heirloom. It had gathered dust for decades and must have been handed down by a remote ancestor. My son sighed and shook his head, but seized it and went to work.
I HADN'T the heart to watch the struggle and went upstairs, telling him the responsibility was his and that if I made the bird feeder for him it wouldn't be right. "You're not kidding," he said.
My pique at this crack wore off as my pity grew. About nightfall, after listening for hours to his labored sawing and cursing my uselessness, I returned to the basement to check up. I found him attacking a board with my bucksaw--taken from the garage--and using our luxurious ping pong table, which also is an integral part of my study, as a sawhorse.
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. But I did know he needed help, even mine. So, by this time , did he. With an assist from Neighbor Tatam, who loaned us some tools, and following loud wrangling over the accursed plans, we came up with a bird feeder. Just for the record, we didn't have to borrow nails. I found some in a jelly glass on a shelf between the dictionary and World Almanac.
MY PROGENY was triumphant and appreciative. I was pleased but gnawed by remorse. I wondered why I couldn't be one of those fathers who has a work bench, power tools, lumber and know-how.
My wife said it would be a good idea if I enrolled in an adult education class in woodworking. No doubt it would, but I could only shake my head and plead weariness. Here was the age factor again.
But next time there's something to build I may be a little more help. I may remember to bring the hammer and saw home from the lake.
Copyright 2013 StarTribune. Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune. No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.
of the editorial page staff
published by the StarTribune
October 7, 1961
AS THE Father of a 12-year-old I confess some shortcomings. I'm more than 40 years my son's senior, for one thing. This can't be helped but it rules me out as his competitor in anything more taxing than pool or ping pong.
But an even worse shortcoming is my ignorance of carpentry. This liability hurts little when a child is too small to notice your bungling. But in the march of time he gets interested in construction jobs and starts giving you odd looks when you try to help him. From then on until girls get his mind off hammer, nails and hobby shows you are an expanding cipher.
MY LACK of manual skill tried me sorely a fortnight ago. To attain Star rank in the Boy Scouts, my son had but one attainment to go-- to build a bird feeder. He broke the glad tidings to his mother and me on a Saturday morning. The feeder should be finished, he said, by the next Monday evening prior to the court of honor.He ruined my breakfast eggs by exhibiting the plans for the thing. As a matter of principle I am hostile to plans and directions. They are either wrong or incomplete and their primary purpose is to befuddle.
BUT I WAS smart enough to see that the boy needed some lumber we didn't have. And about 1 p.m., after the lumber yards were closed, he agreed with me. We cased the nearby stores for boxes and crates they were out of and then, as is our custom in crisis, threw ourselves on the mercy of friends.
By mid-afternoon on Sunday the junior builder declared he was ready and inquired about the saw. It happened that this article was 100 miles away at the lake. So was the hammer. We did have a keyhole saw, though, that was a tool of sorts but qualified more as an heirloom. It had gathered dust for decades and must have been handed down by a remote ancestor. My son sighed and shook his head, but seized it and went to work.
I HADN'T the heart to watch the struggle and went upstairs, telling him the responsibility was his and that if I made the bird feeder for him it wouldn't be right. "You're not kidding," he said.
My pique at this crack wore off as my pity grew. About nightfall, after listening for hours to his labored sawing and cursing my uselessness, I returned to the basement to check up. I found him attacking a board with my bucksaw--taken from the garage--and using our luxurious ping pong table, which also is an integral part of my study, as a sawhorse.
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. But I did know he needed help, even mine. So, by this time , did he. With an assist from Neighbor Tatam, who loaned us some tools, and following loud wrangling over the accursed plans, we came up with a bird feeder. Just for the record, we didn't have to borrow nails. I found some in a jelly glass on a shelf between the dictionary and World Almanac.
MY PROGENY was triumphant and appreciative. I was pleased but gnawed by remorse. I wondered why I couldn't be one of those fathers who has a work bench, power tools, lumber and know-how.
My wife said it would be a good idea if I enrolled in an adult education class in woodworking. No doubt it would, but I could only shake my head and plead weariness. Here was the age factor again.
But next time there's something to build I may be a little more help. I may remember to bring the hammer and saw home from the lake.
Copyright 2013 StarTribune. Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune. No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.
Saturday, April 6, 2013
Oldster's Vision Not Good But His Head Is
By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE
of the editorial page staff
published by the StarTribune
June 7, 1970
HOW DOES a man who's within three weeks of being 83 years old make out alone in a six room house?
John E. Tatam does very well, thank you. Even though he has no love for cooking and housework, he takes these chores philosophically. His only complaints are that his hearing isn't what it used to be and he has no sight in his right eye.
His left eye isn't so good, either, and with blindness to dust and disarray being common even among males with normal vision, it might be assumed that the Tatam menage was a mess.
BUT NOT SO. John Tatam is a man with a sense of order. When I dropped in the other evening unexpectedly there wasn't a newspaper on the floor, a magazine out of the rack, or a chair out of place.
Tatam and his wife, Helen, moved into the house on York Av.S. 50 years ago. After their two sons and three daughters grew up and departed, they stayed on. And when Mrs. Tatam died two years ago John Tatam gave no thought to moving elsewhere.
"This is home and it's where I belong," he said. "I won't move until I have to-- until I lose what sight I have or am otherwise disabled."
That may not be soon. This particular oldster has remarkable stamina and certainly is not disabled in the head. He's alert to what's going on, he's articulate, interested and interesting.
NOT MANY years ago you'd see him on a ladder painting or repairing an eaves trough or doing a bit of carpentry. He was a demon do-it-yourselfer. "But those days are over," he smiles ruefully. "Eyes won't permit it."
He still does more than most men in the neighborhood, though. He consistently has one of the best lawns in the block and fights weeds and crabgrass on hands and knees with unflagging resolve. He plants grass seed the same way. "I have to work on all fours to see what I'm doing," he explains.
WHAT'S the secret of his successful management?
"Self-discipline. I get up every day at 7 a.m. winter, summer and Sundays. I shave every morning, have certain jobs to do and do them on schedule, even to checking the thermometer. If I didn't discipline myself I'd sleep too much and be only half awake even when on my feet."
Tatam's eyes aren't up to watching much television but he turns on the set anyway. "When you're alone a lot it's nice to hear another voice. Sometimes I sing to break the silence, not softly but loud. It's surprising how singing can cheer a man up."
He has to use a reading glass for books and newspapers so does less reading than formerly. A glass makes reading awfully slow, he complains. Still he reads enough to keep abreast of the news.
TATAM finally retired in 1965 after half a century "of doing a little of everything." Everything from banking to promoting, from being a purchasing agent to a manufacturer's representative, from a staff man with the Minneapolis Civic and Commerce Association to an insurance salesman specializing in annuities. He was chief of the contract section of the state procurement office of the Treasury Department for a time and also with the Committee for Economic Development for Hennepin County.
"I was too much a jack-of-all-trades, I guess," he reflects. "It seems I was always filling in for somebody else and moving from one department to another."
But he looks down the years with satisfaction. His children and 15 grandchildren are "mighty considerate." A son and a daughter live in the area and he's usually with one family or the other on Sunday.
ONCE a month he has lunch with a few old friends, including Perry Williams, former executive secretary of the Civic and Commerce Association.
When he gets lonely he gets busy. There always are weeds to pull, a hinge to oil or a window to putty.
And there are old days to recapture, rapturous memories of the Metropolitan Theater which he loved--and those old songs to sing.
Copyright 2013 StarTribune. Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune. No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.
of the editorial page staff
published by the StarTribune
June 7, 1970
HOW DOES a man who's within three weeks of being 83 years old make out alone in a six room house?
John E. Tatam does very well, thank you. Even though he has no love for cooking and housework, he takes these chores philosophically. His only complaints are that his hearing isn't what it used to be and he has no sight in his right eye.
His left eye isn't so good, either, and with blindness to dust and disarray being common even among males with normal vision, it might be assumed that the Tatam menage was a mess.
BUT NOT SO. John Tatam is a man with a sense of order. When I dropped in the other evening unexpectedly there wasn't a newspaper on the floor, a magazine out of the rack, or a chair out of place.
Tatam and his wife, Helen, moved into the house on York Av.S. 50 years ago. After their two sons and three daughters grew up and departed, they stayed on. And when Mrs. Tatam died two years ago John Tatam gave no thought to moving elsewhere.
"This is home and it's where I belong," he said. "I won't move until I have to-- until I lose what sight I have or am otherwise disabled."
That may not be soon. This particular oldster has remarkable stamina and certainly is not disabled in the head. He's alert to what's going on, he's articulate, interested and interesting.
NOT MANY years ago you'd see him on a ladder painting or repairing an eaves trough or doing a bit of carpentry. He was a demon do-it-yourselfer. "But those days are over," he smiles ruefully. "Eyes won't permit it."
He still does more than most men in the neighborhood, though. He consistently has one of the best lawns in the block and fights weeds and crabgrass on hands and knees with unflagging resolve. He plants grass seed the same way. "I have to work on all fours to see what I'm doing," he explains.
WHAT'S the secret of his successful management?
"Self-discipline. I get up every day at 7 a.m. winter, summer and Sundays. I shave every morning, have certain jobs to do and do them on schedule, even to checking the thermometer. If I didn't discipline myself I'd sleep too much and be only half awake even when on my feet."
Tatam's eyes aren't up to watching much television but he turns on the set anyway. "When you're alone a lot it's nice to hear another voice. Sometimes I sing to break the silence, not softly but loud. It's surprising how singing can cheer a man up."
He has to use a reading glass for books and newspapers so does less reading than formerly. A glass makes reading awfully slow, he complains. Still he reads enough to keep abreast of the news.
TATAM finally retired in 1965 after half a century "of doing a little of everything." Everything from banking to promoting, from being a purchasing agent to a manufacturer's representative, from a staff man with the Minneapolis Civic and Commerce Association to an insurance salesman specializing in annuities. He was chief of the contract section of the state procurement office of the Treasury Department for a time and also with the Committee for Economic Development for Hennepin County.
"I was too much a jack-of-all-trades, I guess," he reflects. "It seems I was always filling in for somebody else and moving from one department to another."
But he looks down the years with satisfaction. His children and 15 grandchildren are "mighty considerate." A son and a daughter live in the area and he's usually with one family or the other on Sunday.
ONCE a month he has lunch with a few old friends, including Perry Williams, former executive secretary of the Civic and Commerce Association.
When he gets lonely he gets busy. There always are weeds to pull, a hinge to oil or a window to putty.
And there are old days to recapture, rapturous memories of the Metropolitan Theater which he loved--and those old songs to sing.
Copyright 2013 StarTribune. Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune. No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.
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