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June 05, 2014

"They called him 'Mr. Don'."

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“They called him ‘Mr. Don’.”

 

by jim richmond

 

The building on the northwest corner of Angell and Hamblin streets is boarded up now, with windows broken out by vandals.  In its last days, the store was Cady’s Superette.

But there is more than one unusual twist to the property on this corner.

In 1945, it was the Battle Creek Beer Store, which Don Taft purchased and expanded into sale of freshly cut beef and grocery items.

It was then – as today – a poor neighborhood, and customers called Taft “Mr. Don,” according to son George Taft, who I interviewed in 2005.

 So Don Taft named the store Mr. Don’s Superette.

In 1956, Taft opened his first fast food restaurant across the street from the grocery store, and originally named it Frosty Drive In, changing the name to Mr. Don’s in 1960.  

photo 2.JPGUntil this past year, the small fast food restaurant still operated, open irregular hours and days, as Figgs Fast Foods, serving -- many local aficionados claim -- the best hamburgers to be found in Battle Creek.

Eventually, George Taft opened three Mr. Don’s Restaurants, both successful and popular for their “cook-to-order” menus, featuring chili dogs, homemade onion rings, soup, the Big Don Burger, and biscuit with sausage gravy.

 

Restaurant locations were on East Columbia Avenue (closed), southwest Capital Avenue (now Nina’s Tacqueria) and North 20th Street near Dickman Road.  The last location is still in the Taft family.photo 1.JPG

May 25, 2014

HOTS Strip Club to expand: Come one, Come all!

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HOTS strip club to expand:

                                     COME ONE! COME ALL!

The HOTS strip club, up the street from me here in Battle Creek, Michigan, on Raymond Road,  is under construction to more than double its size and offerings.

It must be something like going from a 29C to a 42DD. 

Not being a particular connoisseur of strip clubs, I'm not sure what a "doubling" would represent: multiple stages, multiple women, new options on lap dances, after hours tickets for the parking lot?"


I don't think Emmett Township has its own TIFA and business development districts, like downtown Battle Creek or our  Ft. Custer Industrial Park.

Too bad, Emmett Township.

Think of all the johns....ups I mean jobs ... that will come to the Township because of this worthwhile project!

Today, I noted a sign saying "OPEN WHILE UNDER CONSTRUCTION!!

Now that's a relief!

May 23, 2014

"They're killing me! They're killing me!"

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"They're killing me!  They're killing me!"

 

I was in the hospital (again),  on the critical care floor, about 10 days ago.

 
Early morning, and I hear the very old lady in the room next to me, scream over and over: "SOMEBODY HELP ME! HELP ME! HELP ME! THEY'RE KILLING ME. THEY'RE KILLING ME!"


Then a voice, a hospital attendant, who is rolling an empty wheelchair into the lady's room.

I hear the attendant say: "HI!!! ARE YOU READY FOR YOUR STRESS TEST?"

A visitor in the woman's room yells
"STRESS TEST!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SHE'S ALMOST DEAD!"

"Uuuuup, this isn't (Room) 301 (my room), now is it?," the attendant says.

Wheeling ME down for the stress test, I ask the attendant how she likes things after the recent hospital merger.

 

 "I've been working here 40 years," she replies. 

I thought: "That's exactly what 
I was afraid of."

May 12, 2014

Errole Sookhai: Running Man

Errole Sookhai, 63, :

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BATTLE CREEK'S RUNNING MAN

by jim richmond

 

Errole Sookhai, 63, is Battle Creek, Michigan’s own RUNNING MAN. 

You see him every day, as far south as Athens and north to Bellevue. 

Sookhai, in his familiar Marine Corps' cap, has run daily since 1979.

Weekdays, he gets in 18 to 20 miles, after "I drop off my special needs son at school," he told me, when I stopped him for a chat in Leila Arboretum.

Weekends, "I usually do 22 to 28 miles.  Both days," he added. 

Locals remember the many years Sookhai would push his special needs son in a stroller, in front of him, on the long daily runs.

He retired from the Federal Center three years ago, having served in both the U.S. Navy and Marine Corps. 

So give our RUNNING MAN a hand and a honk next time you see him.

May 03, 2014

Make mine French Roast, please.

frenchcartoon.jpgFaites à les miens rôti français, s'il vous plait

Make mine French Roast, please

By jim richmond

French is the official language of Quebec, Canada.  And they do not take their language lightly.

The Quebec government has a 1-800 snitch line, where Quebecois can call and inform on violators. 

The line is connected to something known as  “La Commission De Protection De La Langue Francais.”

It doesn’t take much to get turned out. 

It’s a crime in Quebec to print a YARD SALE sign with the English appearing larger and before the French VENTE DE GARAGE.

Or for a clerk in the 7-11 Store to say “hello” instead of “bonjour” first.

Penalties include fines and the revocation of business licenses.

Seems to me our Quebec French friends and neighbors are bucking a worldwide trend to make it easier for people to communicate comfortably and effectively across languages.

Some here in the U.S think everyone should speak English or be put in chains and on a boat back home to Tajikistan. But that's a definite minority viewpoint.

            The fact is if you want to get ahead in this world, you need to read, write and speak English.

Spanish, Chinese, Russian and German also help a lot. Most of the world is bilingual, and being so has cognitive benefits.

For that matter, as an immigrant people, we Americans have never been much for snitching out our friends and neighbors. 

As they say in the hood, “snitches get stitches.” 

Take that Quebec!

“Pifs obtiennent des points.”

 

 

April 23, 2014

'I Ain't No Rolling Stone'

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‘I Ain’t No Rolling Stone’

Various studies have hypothesized that most people are creative, do their best work, are at their peak – for only a few short years.  And that the older we get, the less creative we are; battered down creatively by adulthood; bombarded by society’s conflicting norms; distracted by the mundane.

Bob Dylan would probably agree with that assessment.  Last night, I watched an hour-long documentary interview with Dylan – fairly recent.

“I wasn’t no poet, no prophet.  All I wanted to do was be Elvis Presley,” he commented.

Dylan seemed genuinely perplexed about his early, best songwriting – Like A Rolling Stone (voted the best rock song of all time), All Along the Watchtower, Forever Young, Blowin In The Wind and others.

 

“I look back and read those lyrics now. Did I write those? Where the hell did I get those ideas, those words?  The stuff is seamless, you know.  It’s really good.  Beats the hell out of me,” he said.

April 19, 2014

With Every Beat Of My Heart

 

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With Every Beat Of My Heart

By Jim Richmond

A friend and I were walking across downtown Kalamazoo late last night, after enjoying dinner and a live performance of the Civic Theatre 60s spoof titled BOING, BOING.

Still laughing at the high jinks plot line of a Paris bachelor who tries to juggle simultaneous engagement to three “airline hostesses,” we agreed the play was a much needed relief after a week in which both of us experienced the death and dying of family members and close friends.

“You should write a blog about your own near-death experience,” my friend said.  “It was kinda funny how it all happened.”

Like the plot line in a bad drama, I thought to myself, the actual experience didn’t seem funny that sunny workday afternoon last October.

I ate a chicken salad sandwich from Horrock’s Farmer Market and just completed a leisurely 20 minute, lunch break stroll around the Leila Arboretum on Battle Creek, Michigan’s near Westside, where I still worked part-time as a fundraiser.

A meeting started with colleague Katy A. in my upstairs office of Leila’s old admin building on W. Michigan Avenue.  Katy went to get some background material from her office.  When she returned in just several minutes, she found me.  I had passed out, faced down, into the screen of my computer laptop.

               Katy recalled that I suddenly opened my eyes.  Not knowing what really happened, I asked her to follow me home in her car. 

“Think I’ll just go in, lay down for awhile and relax,” I suggested to her, then stopped myself in mid sentence and said:  “No.  I’d better go to the (hospital) ER.  Will you take me there?”

Thus began a strange 48-hour journey that would take me up to, and half way through death’s door to the other side at least six times, saved from the final trip only by medical technology, luck and several “right choices” that I and others somehow made.

When all the usual heart tests proved negative, the attending Physician’s Assistant in the ER said she was going to recommend my discharge.  Told me to put my street clothes on and she’d return in a few minutes.

Instead, about an hour later, a young ER doctor walked into the room. “Mr. Richmond.  I don’t know what caused you to faint.  But you aren’t going anywhere til I find out.”

So I was admitted to the Cardiac Care Unit, hooked up with monitors, and the next morning was wheeled into an adjoining building for every type of Cat Scan, X-Ray, MRI, ERI known to mankind and described in The Physician’s Reference Manual.

Somehow, I was still connected by telemetry to the heart monitors in my hospital room, when the brain scan technician started removing all the wires he’d put on my head.   I remember he walked into another room. 

The next thing I knew, I opened my eyes to find 8 to 10 physicians, nurses and specialists performing CPR.

My heart had stopped for about two minutes and it had set off telemetric alarms back in my hospital room, bringing a phalanx of Code Blue responders rushing down the hallways to me in the brain scan room.

And they revived me.

I was wheeled to the Intensive Care Unit.  And in several hours, my sons from Lansing and Detroit walked into the Battle Creek hospital room, apparently alerted to my critical condition by the hospital staff.

This time, in addition to other monitors, they also taped what looked like modified car jumper cables to my chest.  And over the next five hours, my heart stopped  six times.

Each time, I could feel and sense losing consciousness, and the jumper cables would automatically jump-start my heart. I felt the shock and pain as the jolt lifted my body a couple inches off the top of the bed.

In the middle of the experience, I could hear someone tell one of doctors and my sons:  “No signed DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) on file for Mr. Richmond.”

I kept my eyes closed not wanting to frighten my sons – or perhaps myself – but was thinking, ‘Jim, this may not have a positive outcome.”

I was wrong, of course. 

I’m alive and writing this blog, looking out on the near blinding spring beauty of Leila Arboretum this early Saturday morning before Easter.

This afternoon, I'll delight in watching my 11-year old granddaughter play soccer in Williamston, Michigan.

All made possible by good medical care, luck, and the little electronic pacemaker that now monitors and regulates every beat of this old, very thankful heart of mine.

April 03, 2014

Trash Day Blues

TRASH DAY BLUES

 

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Life changes are full of adjustments, right? It's like your new girl friend only wants that special backrub after the SECOND glass of pinot noir. 

Among the changes moving back to Kansas City from Battle Creek, Michigan has been the proper protocol for weekly trash putout and pickup.

As in the photo -- from this morning -- everyone can, does and is LIMITED to putting out two bags of trash and a blue container of recyclables.  Lined up looking down the street curb like a crowd waiting for FDR and Eleanor do a drive by.

In Battle Creek, I was used to going out to the curb on Trash Day each week, and the street looked like the day after the fall of Saigon: discarded refrigerators, cardboard casket with someone's mother-in-law inside, the engine from a 1984 Pinto, boxes filled with used tampons and wine bottles, plus eight or nine bags of trash -- all in front of one house.

I truly miss the disorder. I could drive down Broadway Blvd on Trash Morning and write a short story about every house.

I don’t know a damn thing about my new neighbors. Where do people hide their dirty linen, drinking habits and trash here in Kansas City? 

It aint curbside on Trash Day.

March 06, 2014

"Thank You, Father Kloster."

 

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“Thank You, Father Kloster”

In 1961, on a Friday afternoon in the late spring of our junior year in Kansas City’s prestigious Jesuit-run, all-male Rockhurst (Catholic) High School, my twin brother and I got kicked out.

At Rockhurst, we weren’t academic stars, or very bottom barrel students, either. 

Our greatest offense, as I recalled not long ago in conversation with my brother, was filling up those little red “jug” after school demerit detention cards with violations like smoking behind Sedgwick Hall, or sneaking off campus at lunch hour with several classmates for a cheese sandwich at the drug store up Troost Avenue.  (For some reason, considered a particularly onerous student crime to School authorities at the time.)

Father Kloster, the School’s principal, had marshaled about 20 or so of us junior class low achievers and bottom feeders, in the School’s theatre that afternoon, with instructions to sit in the first three rows.

 And to shut up.   

We expected a rather routine litany of our offenses and dressing down by The Principal, unaware of the danger that faced us that afternoon.

The Rev. Kloster, a tall thin man, fair skinned and white haired, with pencil-like, twitching fingers, stood on the stage, in long, flowing black cassock, nervously tapping the stage floor with black-tipped wood pointer in tight right hand.

Never to miss an opportunity, my brother and I along with about 5 others in the 2nd row, were laughing and cutting up a bit.  No spitballs, no profanity, but less than appropriately attentive.

Kloster glared down at our little group, his complexion turning fire engine red, from bottom of neck to top of head.

Suddenly, with a sweep of pointer, he gestured to all 7 of us cutting up in the second row:

“That’s it! All of you in the 2nd row!,” he yelled.   “You’re out! You aren’t coming back next year!”

And we weren’t and we didn’t – give Father Kloster his due.  No parental pleadings would do.

And he was democratic about it:  Those in the second row included several of us from comparatively modest Irish middle class families on Kansas City’s lower west side, and guys from wealthy south end families, including the son of one of Kansas City’s oldest and most prestigious real estate families.

My parents were furious – at us – but also asked themselves, if not Rockhurst, “Why? And why now? At the end of our boys’ junior year?”

My brother and I went on our senior year to attend De La Salle Academy, where we were welcomed by both classmates and the Christian Brothers who taught there, and where we made the Honor Roll.

In fall of that year (1961), we returned to Rockhurst one Friday night to watch our De La Salle high school basketball team play Rockhurst.

We went over to the Rockhurst-side student stands to say “hi” to Jesuit Father Maguire, who was Rockhurst’s assistant principal, school disciplinarian and who’d particularly liked both of us for some reason. Perhaps because of our Irish roots.

“Jimmy.   Johnny,” Father Maguire said to us that evening. “The decision was wrong. But there was nothing I could do about it.”

My twin brother and I finished high school at DeLaSalle, then college and have since earned Master’s degrees.

We’ve had successful careers – he as president of a regional hospital, and I as president of large charitable foundations across the United States.

And I’ve never spent much time, thought or hand wringing, trying to answer those “why” questions.

Looking back on it, maybe Father Kloster was just having a bad hair day.

The incident and experience came to mind, after a recent Kansas City party chat with, as it happened, several Rockhurst alums and school boosters, who were praising content and comparative ROI value of a Rockhurst High School Jesuit education.

I suspect my brother and I, now approaching age 70, have probably done about as well as anyone in the actual 1962 Rockhurst High School graduating class.

And I probably learned a lot from those three years at Rockhurst and that spring afternoon in the school theatre.

But I like to think I learned a lot more, and owe a lot more, to the Christian Brothers, other teachers and senior high classmates at De La Salle Academy in 1962.

 

Thank you, Father Kloster.

March 02, 2014

'A Passionate, Effective' Advocate for Abused Animals

All Species Kinship A ‘Passionate, Effective’ Advocate for Abused Animals

by jim richmond

 

If neglected, abused, injured and abandoned animals – of all species – have a real guardian angel and advocate in West Michigan it has to be Sophia DiPietro, and the five other all-volunteer, all unpaid staff of the organization known as All Species Kinship (A.S.K.).

And while the bit stuffy sounding organizational name might conjure up the title of a Master’s degree thesis in grad-

sophia transporting dog.jpguate school, All Species Kinship, DiPietro and fellow travelers are all about practical, neighborhood based, feet on the ground, knock-on-the-door, eyes on the prize, animal advocacy and education in some of the toughest, most challenging areas of Battle Creek and west Michigan.

They travel neighborhoods – in fall and winter three times each week --  the back roads  and backyards in their well used white van; looking for dogs who often have been left out in subfreezing weather, chained to the ground or a car tire, without water, food, or adequate protection from wind, rain, cold and snow.  They are on the lookout to make sure animals have adequate shade and water on the “dog days” of summer as well as providing pet food to those residents who are down on their luck or have hit a rough patch in life.

They knock on doors, and talk to the animal owners – sometimes individuals who couldn’t care less about caring for their pet, but more often than not, DiPietro said, people who are consumed with concerns and challenges of daily living, “who don’t have phones, regular transportation, and sometimes enough food to eat, themselves.”

kathe with post dogs (1).jpg“We’re positive.  We treat people like we’d want to be treated and we don’t want to close down the conversation: ‘We’d like to help you out with your dog – can we spend a few minutes talking?  We’ve got some straw (free relief supplies) and can show you how to pack straw in that doghouse to keep your pet warm.’”

“We are not animal control officers.  We are not an animal shelter or humane society. Instead, our work is about proactive mobile outreach; reaching people, and animals, that would otherwise not reached. We are not out there to get people in trouble,” DiPietro emphasized.

A.S.K. reaches and makes a difference for animals that often have negatively associated stereotypes, or special needs as a result of the way in which they have been isolated outside – “the bully breeds” (pit bulls, Rottweiler’s and others) used for backyard breeding, owner status or lawn ornaments, the “worst of the worst,” with lots of health problems, years of physical or mental abuse, DiPietro noted.

A.S.K. volunteers are, bottom line, advocates for the animals.  They will and do refer pet abusers to law enforcement when it’s too late for educational attempts to reform poor caretaking.  But A.S.K is about changing owner behavior as well as providing emergency supplies, shelter or other quality of life improvements.

For an all-volunteer organization that pays no salaries to anyone, and relies exclusively on contributions, A.S.K. makes a little go a long way in making a difference for animals. outreach van.jpg

Last year, on average, between 25 and 50 neglected 24/7 chained/kenneled/outside dogs were found and assisted by A.S.K. volunteers each week.  A.S.K. distributed – free -- 600 straw bales used for doghouse installation, 50 secure plastic dog houses, and more than 4,000 pounds of free pet food for domestic dogs, cats, birds and rabbits,  whose owners were experiencing temporary financial hardships.

A.S.K. operates a 24-hour helpline (877-596-777) and responds to calls about injured/orphaned wildlifeas well as dogs, throughout Calhoun County and beyond.

 DiPietro and volunteers know where to find specialized medical treatment for animals, and willingly travel throughout the state to take animals to where they can be given the best chances for re-release back to the wild.  On average, A.S.K responds to 500 wildlife emergency calls a year.

All of these services are expensive. And A.S.K. also operates  a 100-acre no-kill sanctuary, near Jackson, Michigan,  that DiPietro described as “a true sanctuary --- a facility that rescues and provides shelter and care for special-needs animals,  emphasizing former chained dogs and abandoned domestic fowl, that have been abused, injured, abandoned or otherwise in need.”

A.S.K. was founded in 2001 by DiPietro and her mother Kathe.  Today the organization is an IRS approved 501c3 nonprofit charitable organization with a five-member board of directors.

DiPietro, a Harper Creek High School graduate, holds a degree in wildlife biology from Michigan State University.  She spends up to 60 hours a week on A.S.K. animal outreach, along with the other volunteers, for no pay.

“If you want to hang out with me, with us, as an A.S.K. volunteer, you have to be willing ‘to step in the road and in life’s traffic’ to reach and serve animals. It’s a lifestyle,” she said.

A.S.K. pays for 100 percent cost of supplies and other expenses through craft sales, a limited number of food donation bins located throughout Calhoun County, and “other small scale fundraising activities.”  Nothing is spent on direct fundraising.

DiPietro noted that “without our donors, we wouldn’t exist and couldn’t do our work for animals.  We’re thankful for and use every dollar wisely.”

Send your donation to:  All Species Kinship (A.S.K.), P. O. Box 4055, Battle Creek, Michigan 49016.  Visit the ASK website for more information at: www.allspecieskinship.org or on Facebook: www.facebook.com/allspecieskinship.  Amazon Wish List: http://www.CLICK-HERE-To-Help.org/AllSpeciesKinship.htm

January 04, 2014

Road Trip Musings: The Final Ride Down The Kiddie Slide Has Begun

Road Trip Musings:

The Final Ride Down The Kiddie Slide Has Begun

I left Kansas City at midnight and as I drove north through the darkness on I-35 toward Des Moines, the temperature plummeted....to minus 13 degrees.

Making the turn east around DeMoines, and on to I-80 for the long trek across Iowa, Illinois and Indiana, 18-wheelers littered the sides of the Interstate, like road kill, and by the dozens...knocked out by the bitter, bitter cold.

At the risk of generalities and banalities, I made the following mental notes during the 13-hour, 725-mile drive from Kansas City, Missouri to Battle Creek, Michigan:

Missouri and Iowa drivers:  If the speed limit is 65, they drive 70.  If it's 70, they drive 75.

Illinois and Michigan drivers: If the speed limit is 65 they drive 75 or 80.  If it's 70, they drive 80 to 90.

"No passing on the right."  This law/rule of the road is as dead as Ulysses S. Grant.

If you're in the left lane, and passing, your life is in danger. Many drivers will get, literally within 2 feet of your rear, while driving 75 miles an hour.Tailgating.jpg

Many young people under age 45 today have no regard for anyone else on the road, stop signs or speed limits.

18-wheelers get a bum rap about causing accidents.  Compared to car drivers, over-the-road truckers are thoughtful, anticipatory, safe drivers.Unsafe-18-Wheeler.jpg

In the "Don't fool yourself, Jimmy Boy" category:  a drop off in spatial recognition, situational awareness and reaction time are the first signs of getting too old to drive. 

I ain't there yet. 

But the final ride down the kiddie slide has begun.presidentgrant1.jpg

October 25, 2013

Growing Number of Shoplifters Reflects Tough Economic Times

 

'No money at Christmas time, or anytime, when they need shoes'

Thanksgiving is not yet here. But the signs of Christmas shopping are showing up everywhere.  Even when it comes to increased shoplifting.


The three teenage girls stuffed stolen blouses, slacks, caps and other items down their pants – on the sales floor of a large, suburban, retail store,  and then casually headed for the door.


They didn’t get far.


shoplifting photo.jpgMy friend, a seasoned “loss prevention” specialist, was waiting at the door.


Most retail stores make half their annual profits now through Xmas time. 


They also suffer huge losses from theft by employees and shoplifters.


This store loses up to $300,000 from theft each Xmas shopping season.


(Research shows approximately ninety percent of the US population will commit the crime of shoplifting at some point in their lives

Adolescents account for one-half of all shoplifting cases, though- value wise- this population steals one-third of what adults steal.

Perhaps surprisingly, the second most frequent shoplifters are senior citizens.

Each family in the United States pays an extra three hundred dollars for goods and services to subsidize losses from shoplifting.)


We sat in my loss prevention friend's small office near the checkouts, as she watched a large bank of video screens scanning locations throughout the store.


"Oh, you learn to spot them.  They take new shoes into the dressing rooms. Put them on. And leave the old ones behind. Same thing with jeans, blouses.They wear heavy coats on warm days, carry large purses.  Spend too much time glancing around for store personnel or at monitors."


Shoplifting isn't just for poor folks. 


"You might think this job (loss prevention) hardened me toward  teenagers, seniors, poor people. But it ain't'so," she continued.


“I’ve seen it all. And seen them all. Pinched the powerful – retired chair of a county government, another downtown Pooh-Bah with plenty of cash in his pocket, two sons of a police officer."


Three cop cars were parked next to the store. The girls cuffed in the back of one.


Don’t jump at criticizing those kids or seniors,” my friend said. “Some are from homes with drugs, domestic violence ... others very limited fixed incomes .. no money at Christmas time....or anytime, when they need clothes or shoes. So they end up here on a busy Saturday afternoon....”


Right along with the Winona Ryders.

 

October 23, 2013

KANSAS CITY MOVES: Welcome Back To Bimmerville

 

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Note:  The author recently returned to hometown Kansas City to live, after 35 years in Michigan, California, Washington, DC, Hong Kong and other locations.

KANSAS CITY MOVES:

Welcome Back To Bimmerville


    A Kansas City colleague and I drove out to a Sunday brunch with education consultants, at a restaurant across the state line in suburban, ubber upscale Johnson County, Kansas.

     I had not been in that part of metro K.C. in 35 years.

     What caught my eye was not so much the explosive growth of affluent homes, shopping areas, and restaurants -- although impressive.

     But the cars.

     More BMW 700s, Audi A-7s, Lexus LX 570s, and Infiniti M56s than you'd find on Germany's Autobahn or Beijing's 6th Ring Road.

    If you drove those cars anywhere in little Battle Creek, Michigan – where I lived much of the past 3 decades -  you'd be considered, by some, a bit uppity, get stared at, robbed at gunpoint, or asked for a charitable contribution.

     At a minimum, you’d park that car where you could watch it out the bedroom window, or at the vacant end of the Meijer supermarket lot.

     Not cheek by jowl in a Johnson County restaurant parking lot.

     One of many little personal adjustments.

     All good.

     Welcome Back To Bimmerville.

 

September 11, 2013

Guaranteed to put a smile...

on your face... and a reminder that ...in spite of all the world's chaos...we are bound together by our humanity....our similarities ...  more than our differences.

 

Enjoy.

 

-- Jim R.

 

Go to: https://www.youtube.com/embed/Pwe-pA6TaZk?rel=0

"What's My Line, Dorothy Kilgallen?"

WHAT'S MY LINE, DOROTHY KILGALLEN?


Last night, President Obama told us he's reserving the right to attack Syria because 'it's still on the table' and that 'Bashar Al Assad crossed the line.'


ObamaSpeaking.jpgOn the table


Off the table


Over the line


On the line


Cross the line


What line


Moving on down the line


It ain't my line, officer


Who stole my line


Roses are red, violets are blue, cross my red line and I'll do you.


bashar-al-assad.jpgWhat's my line, Dorothy Kilgallen?




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September 02, 2013

When 'Free' Ain't So Free At Your McDonald's

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When “Free” Ain’t So Free

At Your Local McDonald's


Here in Michigan, the local McDonald’s promotes this “Buy Five, Get One Free” coffee program.

The only problem is that you may be paying nearly TRIPLE for that “free” Large Hot McCafe or Premium Roast.

In Kansas City recently, I went through the McDonald’s Drive In and was surprised to find the same cup of coffee 60 cents cheaper than here.

 “Is that coffee on some special discount,” I asked the Kansas City McDonald’s window clerk.  “Regular price,” she replied.

I noticed they weren’t offering the “buy five, get one free” program.

So redeeming that “free” McDonald’s cup of jo, after you paste in the five stickers on that promotion card, may actually be costing you, in aggregate, about $3 more – compared to other McDonalds.

 

Where is Ronald McDonald when you need him?

August 23, 2013

"Isn't it nice to be remembered for something in your lifetime, Jim?"

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“Isn’t it nice to be remembered

 For something in your lifetime, Jim?”

 

Last night, I’m leaning against the meeting room wall, relying on it to prop my body and spirit a bit… to offset back pain, a bit eager that the “corn roast” recognizing a nonprofit organization’s volunteers draw to a close after nearly 3 hours. 

My job duties and role had been largely “in the background” -- as preferred these days –- but instead of an attitude-with-gratitude, tonight I feel a bit like grumpy old man  with bad back and  sore feet.

I’d spent the day buying groceries at Sam’s Club for the event, assisting with food preparation, and greeting the evening’s guests and volunteers.

I’m chatting with my boss, when a late-60s age man suddenly appears before us.

          “Hi Bill,’ my boss says to the man, “great to have you here.”

Bill turns to me and quietly, almost intently says: “My wife and I have hoped to meet you for years.  You wrote that wonderful history and people column every Monday in the (news)paper.  We read every one. Every Monday.”

I replied: “You know, Bill, I’ve done many things, had many jobs.  But people still remember me for that little newspaper column.”

“Well, we loved your writing, your stories about local history and everyday people,” he says. “Isn’t it nice to be remembered for something in your lifetime, Jim?”

August 22, 2013

Thank you, Mom. Thank you, Dad.

  

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   Parental Love


     
A steamy, humid night here in Battle Creek, Michigan USofA and the window a/c is on the blink.

     I lay in bed, with crazy cat Dinky spooned up against me like a newlywed, and recall other hot nights in Kansas City, Missouri during the early 1950s.

     We had no air conditioning -- barely a fan in our family home. Only rich people did back then.

     In spite of the cloying,  late August Midwest heat, our Mom would still iron Dad's dress shirts many mornings.

     And as a 9-year old, I'd sometimes stretch out on the inviting,  cool wood floor in the upstairs bedroom where, while ironing, she'd casually pummel me with questions -- like the good cop in a criminal investigation --  'what were the other neighborhood kids up to?' 'did I have that reading assignment finished?' and then she'd slowly digress into simple stories from her own childhood of long ago in Atchison, Kansas.

     Approaching age 69, how thankful I am tonight, and all nights, for my parents and those memories.

     How sad too many young people today seem to lack the engaged and loving role models that helped shape our values, corrected our mistakes, and provided unconditional, self sacrificing love.

July 26, 2013

Growing Old With (A Little) Dignity

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GROWING OLD WITH (A Little) DIGNITY

by jim richmond

 

I've noticed a gradual collection of small physical humiliations, slights as well as changes of attitude and emphasis as I approach age 70.  (I KNOW, CHERYL,  ATTITUDE OF GRATITUDE! BE HAPPY!!!!!) 

A few collected from recent self reflection:

1.  Because you could ride a 3-speed bike in grade school in 1954 does NOT mean you can ride a racing bike in 2013  with pencil thin tires, 14 gears, and requiring a posture only acquired in old age after a  6-month course of yoga stretching.

2.  Those press-and-turn "child protection lids" on the pickle jars and aspirin bottles are anti-senior people plots by Justin Beiber and Lady Ga Ga.

3.  You feel socially alienated by mores and a lack of public civility -- almost walking out of the Columbia Ave. Meijer self-serve line at 4 a.m.,  after staring at the two EMO Boy/Girl Toys in the next line feeling-each-other-up, and doing an open mouth, tongue-down-your-throat version of the Lee Strasberg Method of stand up sexual intercourse.

4. You put an empty Masonjar on the bedroom floor to cut down on carpet wear from bathroom pee visits.

5.  You call the neighbor kid to pull your lawn mower start cord.

6. You quit cutting the grass at all because of the mower start cord.

7.  You look in the mirror and see the profile of the Walmartian you joked about with friends on FB just five years ago.

8.  The McDonald's clerk stops asking if you qualify for the Senior Citizen Coffee Discount.

9.  You feel comfortable hitting from The Ladies Tee.

10.  You play 'Winter Rules' in the summer time, generous to a fault in bestowing Mulligans, and give yourself every putt under 8 feet.

11.  The kid clerk at the Marathon station calls you "gramps."

12.  Your son asks for a copy of your burial insurance policy.

13.  You are no longer eligible for a burial insurance policy.

14.  You quit hyperventilating when there are Fools On The Hill or one in The White House.

15.  You are pleasantly surprised and thankful every morning when you wake up, can get out of bed, feed the cat, and kiss the misses.

16.  You feel lucky to have a misses to kiss.

17.  You think "phone sex" is a reference to a call from the doctor about your enlarged prostrate.

18.  You no longer worry about the Social Security Trust Fund going broke.

Well, naptime.

July 20, 2013

80 Percent of Life Success Is Not Just Showing Up

80 Percent of Life's Success is Not Just Showing Up

 

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I want to give the lie to comedian Woody Allen’s often quoted observation that: '80 percent of life success is just showing up.'

Or at least, I hope not. 

Showing up can’t be worth more than, say, 40 or 50 percent. 

Although I know some people who have made a career of showing up.

Showing up everywhere.  Always on time.

Of course, that doesn’t always translate into positive, productive action or engagement on their part.

 You may be able to fry eggs or do open heart surgery by their ontime clock. 

But they disappear right before the shovels are handed out, the plate passed, or there’s a call for raised hands to dig out snow from  the Church steps after Sunday Mass.

I much prefer people who keep their word about showing up and can be counted on when times are tough, needs apparent, the cause just and important.

Most of us have a few lifetime role models like them. 

And you know who you are.

Runnin Shoes

RUNNIN SHOES

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For over 10 years, northside buddy Mike Dougherty and I would meet at the corner of Elizabeth and Sherman at 5:30 ever weekday morning for a 4 to 8 mile run.

No excuses: Rain. Snow. 80 degrees or -23 below (actual one morning).

Because we knew that if one didn't show, the other ran in the dark, in the weather, alone.

Those days are long gone.

But like going to college, serving in the military or just getting up and making your bed each morning, life experiences offer good lessons and stay with you.

SO, I'm puttin on my walkin shoes, at near age 69, and heading out the door.

Even tho I don't really want to....

 

And wherever my ol friend Mike has landed these days, I hope he's doing well.

June 16, 2013

Phil Mickelson Deserves A Special Father's Day

PHIL MICKELSON DESERVES A SPECIAL FATHER'S DAY


Today is Phil Mickelson's 43rd birthday, as he leads the final round (by 1 stroke) of  the U.S. Golf Open.

Many golf "experts" put Mickelson in only the top 15 or so of all time golfer greats.

He may not quite be a Tiger Woods or Jack Nicklaus to most people, but he's #1 on my list --- not just for his golf scoring, which is remarkable for this leftee.

But how he reflects the values of golf.

-- He's stood by and supported his wife through her breast cancer.
-- He's a family man who flies home, just for the overnight, and in the middle of golf tournaments to attend his kids' school events.
-- He loves and respects his golf fans, smiling, shaking their hands, giving them time and "hi 5s," signing autographs.
-- He never complains about his arthritis or has excuses for poor play.

And he's hit some of the most exciting golf shots ever.

So Happy Birthday, Phil. Hope you take it all at the Open today.

And, 

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I can't think of another golfer who deserves it more on Father's Day than you do.

June 07, 2013

'Are you laughing yet?' CBS Sunday Observations by Ben Stein

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The following was written by Ben Stein and recited by him on CBS
Sunday Morning Commentary.

My confession:

I don't like getting pushed around for being a Jew, and I don't think
Christians like getting pushed around for being Christians. I think
People who believe in God are sick and tired of getting pushed around,
Period. I have no idea where the concept came from, that America is an
Explicitly atheist country. I can't find it in the Constitution and I
Don't like it being shoved down my throat...

Or maybe I can put it another way: where did the idea come from that
We should worship celebrities and we aren't allowed to worship God as
We understand Him? I guess that's a sign that I'm getting old, too.
But there are a lot of us who are wondering where these celebrities
Came from and where the America we knew went to.

In light of the many jokes we send to one another for a laugh, this is
A little different: This is not intended to be a joke; it's not funny,
it's intended to get you thinking.
In light of recent events... Terrorists attack, school shootings,
Etc.. I think it started when Madeleine Murray O'Hare (she was
Murdered, her body found a few years ago) complained she didn't want
Prayer in our schools, and we said OK. Then someone said you better
Not read the Bible in school... The Bible says thou shalt not kill;
Thou shalt not steal, and love your neighbor as yourself. And we said
OK.

Then Dr. Benjamin Spock said we shouldn't spank our children when they
Misbehave, because their little personalities would be warped and we
Might damage their self-esteem (Dr. Spock's son committed suicide). We
Said an expert should know what he's talking about.. And we said
Okay..

Now we're asking ourselves why our children have no conscience, why
They don't know right from wrong, and why it doesn't bother them to
Kill strangers, their classmates, and themselves.

Probably, if we think about it long and hard enough, we can figure it
Out. I think it has a great deal to do with 'WE REAP WHAT WE SOW.'

Funny how simple it is for people to trash God and then wonder why the
world's going to @#!*% . Funny how we believe what the newspapers say,
But question what the Bible says. Funny how you can send 'jokes'
Through e-mail and they spread like wildfire, but when you start
Sending messages regarding the Lord, people think twice about sharing.
Funny how lewd, crude, vulgar and obscene articles pass freely through
Cyberspace, but public discussion of God is suppressed in the school
And workplace.

Are you laughing yet?

Funny how when you forward this message, you will not send it to many
On your address list because you're not sure what they believe, or
What they will think of you for sending it.

Funny how we can be more worried about what other people think of us
Than what God thinks of us.

Pass it on if you think it has merit.

If not, then just discard it... No one will know you did. But, if you
Discard this thought process, don't sit back and complain about what
Bad shape the world is in.

My Best Regards, Honestly and respectfully,

Ben Stein

June 04, 2013

"Nah, wouldn't look good in that red bandana"

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"I DONT LET NOBODY, NOTHING BOTHER ME"


Fifth in check out line early this morning at the Family Fair super on W. Michigan. Everyone is paying with their orange bridge/food stamp card. 'What are the odds on that?,' I think to myself. 

Old, dirty, gray grizzled wanna be biker is in front of me. 'You have a nice day!,' the clerk says to him. 'Oh, I always have a nice day. Don't let nobody or nothin bother ME!,' he replies. 

Walks out in steel-tipped boots, to his beat up old H-D, parkied illegally on the sidewalk outside the store 
door, jumps starts, and roars across the parking lot at about 60. 

'Maybe I should go down to the Toeller Human Services Building and get me one of those bridge cards today, instead of to my little 3-day a week, part-time job?,' I think. 'Nah, I'd kill myself on that bike. And I wouldn't look good in that red bandana.'

May 26, 2013

Have An Hour? Take A Walk in Battle Creek History.

Have an hour this weekend?

Talk a walk in Memorial Park Cemetery (on Territorial Rd near Helmer.  The walk around its outer pathway is almost exactly 1.5 miles.).

Kiwanis have all the flowers and flags out and placed there.

Many families adding their own flowers and visiting graves.

Lots of friends and memories to recall and appreciate during the walk.

The Cemetery has an interesting history, as well.... a later timeline to that of near downtown Oak Hill Cemetery,  with its plethora of Posts, Kelloggs and other earliernotables.  

For more about Memorial Park Cemetery, its uniqueness and role in local history, go to my blog:

 

http://ragstorichmond.blogspirit.com/archive/2012/0

May 23, 2013

The Luck of Life's Draw

The Luck of Life's Draw

 

If lucky, at some point in life you stop, look around, and realize that 9 out of 10 of your best grade school friends, G.I. buddies and many family and friends are gone.  

Dead.  Buried.  

And you ask: "WHY ME?  Why am I the lucky one to STILL be here?"

And from that point, you have a little better appreciation of each day, of the luck that has been your life draw, greater patience in the face of pettiness, walk a bit more gently across life's pathway of egg shell existence. 

And your eyes are better at noticing the goodness in other people...and less...much less willing to criticize or complain. 

May 13, 2013

DO I HEAR AN 'AMEN!' ?

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SIGN IN NYC DELI:

"Cell phone talk or text while ordering? Go to the back of the line!"

Friends had children and grandchildren over yesterday for Mother's Day, and made EVERYONE check their cell phones and I-Pads at the door.

 

OMG, what next, check handguns at the door?  Where's the NRA's phone number when you need it?

Do I hear an AMEN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ?

May 11, 2013

Pay Telephone Scuffle Early Tripwire To Eventual Closing of Eaton Plant?

 

Pay Telephone Scuffle Early Tripwire

To Eventual Closing of Eaton Plant?

 

By Jim Richmond

 


The huge, tightly fenced, long vacant and unused land on the west side of 20th Street in Battle Creek has been a puzzle as I frequently drive by the location -- until the other morning.

eaton's. empty.jpgTurns out, the land may be a silent, sad witness to the all too familiar refrain in Michigan history – corporations and unions blindly fighting each other, and then killing working people’s golden goose of good jobs with high pay and benefits, as well as the law of unintended consequences.

“Let me tell you about what happened with Eaton’s,” my 81-year old friend and self described “retired Eaton’s factory rat” said to me over breakfast in Ritzee’s restaurant recently.

He described “pork chopper” union plant reps at Eaton’s  in the 1930s to 1980s, who the company paid regular hourly wages, but  “pretty much didn’t do anything but union business in the plant.”

“They were the real power, not the company people or the shift supervisors,” my friend claimed.

EatonPlant.BC.jpgOne day in the 1970s,  -- when he along with hundreds of others worked in Eaton’s 20th Street plant making car valves -- a management person from AT&T telephone, whose local union employees were on strike at the time – came into the Eaton’s plant just to empty the coins from the plant’s AT&T-owned pay telephones.

The Eaton’s union shop steward raised hell, physically barred the AT&T management person from the telephones, and then filed a union grievance with Eaton’s management over the pay telephone incident, my friend alleged.

“And before long, we (Eaton plant union employees) were on strike in ‘sympathy’ to our AT&T union brothers and sisters,” he said.

The U.S. automakers relied on the Battle Creek Eaton’s Plant for many if not most of their auto valves at the time. 

And, my friend claimed, he and other long time union employees watched as Eaton’s management quietly began a slow, steady process of dispersing its auto valve manufacturing out of Battle Creek, to other, new U.S. locations and throughout the world.

In 1983, Eaton’s closed the 20th Street plant facility in Battle Creek, after what the corporation described in news stories as “fruitless discussion with union officials to save the plant.”

Industrial pollution and contamination have kept the property from being used or sold for other purposes.

“You never know how something small -- like that scuffle over the pay phone incident -- can have unintended consequences,” my friend concluded.

Finishing coffee, getting up to leave, my friend’s wife touched the sleeve of my shirt and laughed: “Don’t let his libertarian comments, today, about the union fool you, Jim.  He (her husband) was right in the middle of all that stuff and as big a (union) supporter as any of those other people.”

Ironically,  nearby Ft. Custer Industrial Park is today home for a huge, seemingly ever expanding regional DENSO plant, which makes auto parts for Toyota and others.  Its non-union – like most plants in Ft. Custer Park – and pays a fraction in wages and benefits, relatively, to what Eaton’s union employees made on 20th Street during more than 5 decades of that plant’s existence.

Within the past year, Michigan has become a Right To Work state, over state capitol protests and demonstrations by union employees from auto plants, schools, hospitals.

May 09, 2013

STUDY BLAMES WOMEN DRIVERS, CELL PHONES

 

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STUDY SHOWS WOMEN DRIVERS -- ON CELL

PHONES -- CAUSE 40% OF RELATED 

ACCIDENTS


A new national study released this morning reveals that women drivers (by 8 to 1 margin) are much more likely to cell phone and text while driving, and are responsible for 40 percent of all related accidents.

The study, appearing in the latest issue of The Onion, noted: "Women, by their very nature, put on lipstick, smoke cigarettes, comb their hair, drink coffee, text and cell phone while driving. It is a problem of epidemic proportions and second only to the National Debt in seriousness."

Men, on the other hand, refrain from texting and concentrate on driving and the work at hand, the study reports. "Men has much to put up with. Not just from women drivers, but from women in general," the study concludes.

May 08, 2013

"And Make It Look Like An Accident..."

 

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".... Richmond Struck Dead by Lightening at Local Prayer Breakfast"

At a friend's invitation, I'm attending the 31st Annual Battle Creek Prayer Breakfast this morning, before going on to work. I tell myself, it won't HURT  to stretch a bit, like attending funeral wakes, bar and bat mitzvahs, or a friend's retirement party at Eaton's.

But, if breakfast organizers and prayer leaders knew my life background, and some of my views on organized religion, they'd bar me at the doors. 

If the Enquirer page 1 headline reads tomorrow: "ATTENDEE STRUCK DEAD BY LIGHTENING AT PRAYER BREAKFAST" you won't have to read below the fold or the jump page to figure out the victim's name.

AND, blogsphere friends, I WILL expect you at my wake Friday morning. "Contributions may be made to the JIM RICHMOND GOOD TIMES FUND, c/o The Las Vegas Community Foundation. All donations will NOT be tax deductible.

--- 

Author's Postscript.  Turned out to TRULY be an inspirational morning, and talk! And no lightening inside or outside the location. :-)