* * *

ONE FINE DAY in Reno in 1975 as I sat in my German immigrant grandmother’s kitchen looking through the paper, I noted that the jazz–rock band Blood Sweat & Tears (BS&T) was to perform at a dinner show at a Lake Tahoe casino–resort. Before I could think better of it, I overheard myself say, “David Clayton–Thomas is back with them. I always said I’d go see them if they came to town. Oh well.”

“Well,” my grandmother said, “let’s go. I will pay.”

​Uh oh.

Here’s the thing. Everyone in our family knew not to go out to dinner with Gram. She  was wonderful and generous with her grandchildren, but in restaurants she was a snob and a complainer. Her family had servants when she was a child in Germany. Decades in America hadn’t broken her of treating servers like servants, which in her mind meant treating them with outright disdain. She was especially unkind to female servers. To her, respectable women didn’t work outside the home.

No restaurant could please her. If you made the mistake of saying your meal was good, she would spit out so other diners and the help could hear, “My dinner tastes like shoe leather.”

Moreover, a lot of people about my age would be at the show. Call me small, but this 21–year–old wasn’t eager to walk in with a 72–year–old woman clutching his arm.

But I had wished aloud, and Gram had heard. If I declined, she would know why, and it would hurt.

A split second was all I needed to decide. “Gee,” I managed, “that would be great.”

On the appointed night, we drove up the mountain to Lake Tahoe. As the host showed us to our seats, did everyone stare and assume I was a gigolo*, or did I only imagine it? No matter. It felt the same.

To my relief, Gram was not discourteous to the help. Nor was she impatient with being seated at a crowded table with other couples. Nor did she complain about the food. The night was young, but so far so good.

The meal was served and the show began. BS&T and David Clayton–Thomas delivered a stunning performance. I still thrill at the memory of the tuba solo Dave Bargeron belted out. 

Toward the end of the song “Hi De Ho,” Clayton–Thomas called out for the audience to sing along. Only one audience member did. It happened to be an audience member with a German accent, and she didn’t hold back on the volume. I sank a bit lower in my seat.

I loved the show. Unfortunately, the lights came back up after it was over. Once again I felt everyone staring at me. They most likely weren’t, but it was what I imagined. I slinked out of the place with Gram on my arm, loaded her into the car, and we headed down the mountain.

Once in the car, she began not to complain, but to exult. It was the first time in years she had forgotten all of her troubles. It was the first time in years anyone had taken her anywhere. (True enough.) It was the most fun she could recall having ever had. She’d had a wonderful time. All the way down the mountain, she brimmed with happiness. And gratitude. To me. Me. You know, the guy who—thank goodness she hadn’t been able tell—had been embarrassed to be seen with her.

I found myself thinking, That wasn’t so bad. I could do it again.

Three months later, it came time for me to leave Reno. Gram died about six months later.

I was 17, and Dad had given me 16 hours to move out. Suffice it to say that I was a good kid, and that Dad had his demons. My grandmother, his mother, sheltered me in her home for a few weeks while I looked for long-term digs. Dad refused ever to speak to Gram again.
​
Among the many life skills this then–17–year–old lacked were laundering and ironing. Gram willingly assumed those tasks for me, offering to continue once I found a new place to stay.

In time, the family of my best–friend–since–age–11 offered to take me in. My friend’s mom, Beverly, even offered to do my laundry with the rest of the family’s. She would hardly notice the extra, she assured me.

At the news, Gram went ballistic, conjuring up accusation after accusation directed at Beverly. That horrible woman was sure to ruin my clothes! Gram ranted on, refusing to let it rest. 

I am and have always been slow to anger, but after a half–hour the harangue was getting to me. A strong rebuke welled up. But suddenly, some remote corner of my brain spoke calm. It said, Gram needs to be needed. She’s afraid of being replaced. You’re the youngest, the only one left who relies on her. Instead of defending Beverly, how about you address the real issue?

I drew a breath and looked at my seething grandmother. “Anyone can do my laundry,” I said, “but nobody else can be my grandmother.”

She was instantly calmed. 

My mouth often blurts without bothering to consult the Inner Executive Committee. Here I am, better than 50 years later, ever grateful to said Committee for butting in and turning what could have been a regrettable memory into a tender one. 

I stayed with my friend’s family for 18 months—but I continued bringing my laundry to Gram. To be sure, she did me a big service. But, I had come to realize, I did her one by letting her do it for me.

J.D. VANCE’S SHAMELESS, childish display during last week’s meeting with President Zelenskyy brought to mind an incident from some years ago. After doing my daughter a trivial favor, a woman I was dating was angry because my daughter, she claimed, hadn’t thanked her. I doubted that—my kids are pretty good about please and thank–you—but then, I hadn’t witnessed the transaction, so I didn’t try to argue.

She continued, “You know how it makes you mad when you do something for my son and he doesn’t thank you?”

I was honestly baffled. I couldn’t recall any instance of expecting thanks from him, much less resenting not having received it. “Actually, no,” I said, “I do things for him because I want to do things for him, not because I want thanks.”

“Your relationship with him is totally different, so don’t use that as an example,” she snapped back, apparently forgetting that it was she who had invoked the example.

Don’t get me wrong. Thanking is good manners. But if you’re stomping about in a rage over not being thanked, you weren’t doing a favor. You were trying to buy a bit of praise.

​This was borne out the next evening.

At a large gathering, my daughter showed up and poured out effusive thanks in front of everyone. My friend beamed, did the aw–shucks–it–was–nothing thing, and all was forgiven. She remained in great spirits for the rest of the evening. 

Taking my daughter aside later, I said, “Well done. She was angry because you hadn’t thanked her.”

My daughter’s reply was insightful. “I did thank her,” she said, “but I decided to do it again in front of everyone, because she likes to look wonderful in front of other people.”

That dating relationship didn’t last long.

I HAD NOT fathomed that holocaust deniers existed until L sat me down for a history lesson. I was 23. L was in his early 50s.

“Hitler was a great man,” he lectured. “He never sent any Jews to their death. That was all propaganda to create sympathy for Jews.” But there are films and photos, I protested. “Hollywood fakery and special effects. The Jews control Hollywood, you know.” There are eyewitness accounts! “All liars or paid off by the Jews.” The Diary of Anne Frank! “A forgery.”

Incredulous, I kept rebutting until L abruptly ended the conversation. “Just shut up!” he exploded,  storming from the room.

Over time, I noted the many “newsletters” that L took. Some claimed to reveal what really went on in government. Others offered sure-fire ways not to pay taxes. There were whackadoodle cures. There was an endless parade of get–rich–quick schemes. He fell for them all.

Mind you, he was a good guy. Loving, generous. Just a bit lacking in the critical thinking department. At least, I reassured myself more than once, people who believe this kind of crap are scattered, relatively few, and relatively harmless. 

Little did I know that, only a few years hence, we would have social media, which in turn would allow nutty thinkers to find one another, grow their numbers, and spread their influence.

And here we are.

We can blame the social media to an extent. More so, the blame lies with how people think. Or, rather, fail to think.

One day I wisecracked about baldness to my then–biggest client. He was a chrome–dome, but then, permit me to direct your attention to the above photo of my own chrome dome, snapped but minutes ago. I figured if anyone had a right to wisecrack about baldness, I did.

But then, not all chrome–domes appreciate the use of their pates for comic material, and from the manner of his prompt frown I immediately gathered that he numbered among said not all chrome–domes.

That night I couldn’t sleep. Not for fear of losing his business—he wasn’t petty—but for fear that I had been thoughtless. The moment I arrived at work the next morning, I phoned him. “I feel terrible,” I said. “I shouldn’t have made that baldness wisecrack. I was out of line.”

He replied, “Sorry to disappoint you, Cuno old boy, but I’ve been desensitized for decades. Once I asked my barber why he charges me the same amount he charges customers with a full head of hair. He said he gives me a discount, and the rest is a finder’s fee.”

I slept better that night.

YOU PROBABLY know that about half of house fires start in the kitchen. Well, I recently held up my end by setting ablaze the countertop of my kitchen island.

​How, you ask, how? I’ll tell you. Sheer stupidity.

I wish to take this opportunity to disabuse you of mistaking me for someone smart enough to have kept an extinguisher on hand. This, despite having made a mental note to obtain one after listening to Episode 228 of the delightful Built to Go podcast, wherein host Jeff Wagg addresses the topic.

Before continuing with my present-day kitchen saga, permit me to back up a little over 60 years to a time when I, a friend, and my older brother Pete were walking through the pine forests of Lake Luzerne, a quaint, upstate New York resort town where my grandparents had a summer cabin. My friend and I were eight-ish years old, so Pete would have been 11-ish. Finding ajar the front door of a nearby, long unoccupied summer home, we decided to enter and explore. The home had no power, so Pete rummaged about the kitchen, where he found a candle and matches, and, unfortunately, a small can of lighter fluid. Having difficulty lighting the candle, he deployed the lighter fluid upon it and, in the process, upon the kitchen counter. Then he struck a match, and the counter went up in flames.

My friend and I grabbed brooms and hurried outside. Pete hurled burning objects out to us, which we beat with the brooms. This tactic was not the smartest. It was, after all, a pine forest. Its floor was a carpet of dry pine needles. As we toiled away, visions of racing for our lives through a forest engulfed in flames—and knowing we were the cause of it—terrorized me.

Then inspiration struck. Pete grabbed a mat from the kitchen floor and used it to smother the flames. Disaster had been averted. Eight-year-old I stood—and present-day I remain—amazed at the young lad’s resourcefulness. 

(I wish I could tell you we tucked our tails between our legs and left. Nope. Pete relit the candle and we explored the house. I never said we were smart kids.)

Now, back to the present day and my kitchen.

“Thanks” to that childhood experience, I had an idea. I happened to be wearing a bathrobe over sweats. I whipped off the robe and used it to smother the flames. 

The realization that some six decades ago we could have been responsible for burning down that vast, lovely forest haunts me to this day. Now I add to that the harrowing realization that, had I not happened to have been wearing a bathrobe and happened to have had that childhood experience, I could have burned down my home, quite possibly my neighbors’ homes, and a good many magnificent Oregon trees.

Later that day, I bought fire extinguishers.

* * *

I BEG The Oregonian to cease carrying the People’s Pharmacy column. This, based on my understanding that newspapers have an obligation to bring reliable information to readers.​

In today’s column, “Bathroom staple may help ease redness of rosacea,” a reader claims that a homeopathic product was effective for her husband. 

Homeopathy is the notion that diluting a harmful substance to an average of less than one molecule per dose produces the opposite of its usual harmful effect. It’s like saying you can turn the entirety of Crater Lake into a sleeping potion by stirring in a drop of coffee.

Yet rather than respond with medically responsible information—namely, that homeopathy has been repeatedly demonstrated to have no effect—People’s Pharmacy replied, “Others may find that your husband’s regimen is also helpful for them.”  Not to be overlooked was the headline, referenced above, suggesting the same.

This is not the first time People’s Pharmacy has misled. Not long ago, the column argued that testimonials constitute sound medical evidence. Nonsense. Humans routinely fool themselves. It's called the placebo response, and it’s the reason that quality medical research incorporates controlled, triple-blind studies.

(But it worked for me! some readers will surely protest. No, it didn't. Re-read the preceding paragraph.)

Misinformation is not harmless. Encouraging people to opt for quackery over real medicine puts health, sometimes lives, at risk.

In the interest of not helping spread quackery, please dump People’s Pharmacy post-haste.

One fine, very rare day, my CPA dropped the ball. When I pointed out the error, he said, “I am so sorry. The reason this happened is that I’m an idiot.” He then set about bending over backward making it right.

Thirty years and my move to another state later, he is still my CPA. I refer him every chance I get. (Call Shane at Grant Strickland CPAs.)

I’m well aware that anyone can screw up. Hell, it’s entirely possible that even I have done so once or twice. It is the manner in which one takes responsibility that speaks worlds. 

“We deeply regret any offense anyone may have taken …” is no apology. It’s a “we are sooo misjudged.”

“We always strive to blah blah blah … our very best blah blah blah … highest standard of excellence blah blah blah …” is no apology, either. It’s boasting and an attempted defense.

How refreshing — and rare — it is to hear, “We blew it, we’re sorry, no excuses. Here’s what we’re doing to make amends and ensure it never happens again.”

The best PR practice isn’t deflection, obfuscation, or minimization. The best PR practice is owning responsibility.