EVERYBODY ON THE BUS

EVERYBODY ON THE BUS

Do you ever have the opportunity to ride on a public bus? I suspect not, judging from the pictures we see of bumper-to-bumper auto traffic on the nation's freeways.

For most of us, bus-riding began with the school bus. I previously wrote that I started doing so at age 5. I carried on that tradition for many years, through school and into the workworld, until the day that I got a job as an outside salesman, which meant switching to a car. Then, with a change in job status, I once more found myself choosing to ride a bus to work and enjoying the many pleasurable acquaintances along the way.

I think the phrase "what goes around comes around," is appropriate, because I am once again riding a bus, but for a different reason. For a number of years I have been traveling to the University to engage international students in English conversation. What a wonderful experience! However, my riding has taken a somewhat different turn. There is no longer the openness of conversation that I once enjoyed. It is, in fact, quite the opposite, with fellow riders desiring to stay aloof.

I have taken the fun to categorize my fellow passengers in this manner : (1) students with noses stuck in their books; (2) readers enjoying novels; (3) music lovers with speakers stuck in one or both ears (thank goodness); (4) the "space-starers," looking straight ahead and without expression.

Ride a bus and invent your own categories. You might even be startled by getting into a conversation. It's a fun thing to do.

More, later.

P.S. Have I mentioned the environmental benefits that accrue when car drivers become bus riders?

ON FATHER'S DAY

ON FATHER'S DAY

His name was Jack. He was a quiet, unassuming man, hard-working and devoted to his family. He was my dad.

Dad and his six siblings were born of an American father and an Irish mother into a blue-collar family. Poorly educated (he left school after the sixth grade to help support his family). He struggled to support his own family until his appointment to the city fire department gained him the financial security he had long desired.

With financial stability always in mind, Dad ambitiously added to the family finances in various ways. Because we were renters he always offered to paint or wallpaper rooms in lieu of rent. He developed some expertise in wallpapering and thus was able to find work in the family and the neighborhood.

Dad's lighter side included a love for baseball and for fishing, along with family seashore trips.

My lovable father had his gullible side. A fast-talking salesman once convinced the firemen that he was selling no-run women's silk stockings, and to prove it, he ran a table fork up a stocking to prove it; they all bought. When Dad tried to convince my dubious mother, Dad gave it the fork test...RIP!! Enough said.

So, dear readers, now you know my Dad; loving and lovable, generous and guillable, devoted and determined. I miss him very much.

More later.

SOUP'S ON

SOUP'S ON


The subject of today's blog is soup, very mundane but it brings up a “memory thing'.

Recently Dear Wife and I decided on a light lunch of Campbell's tomato soup with saltine crackers, tomato being my favorite among canned soups. While eating I wondered aloud if today's soup can carried the company's identifying mark of “O1. Dear Wife retrieved that can, and sure enough there it was, the “O1” that I knew more than sixty years ago and thereby hangs a tale.

The tale begins with my honorable discharge from World War II service on December 26, 1945. Oh, happy day! My happiness turned to gloom when I discovered that I was in the army of the unemployed for the first, and only time, in my employment career. My pre-war employer, the New York Shipbuilding Corporation, was not into building ships at that time even though there was some need for shipping. Fortunately my joblessness was short-lived as I was hired by the Campbell Soup Company for the summer tomato season. Long lines of farmer's trucks were already forming at the plant, loaded with tomatoes.

In spite of my inexperience I was sent to the labeling department as an assistant machine operator. My job? Clearing the machine when the cans jammed on the belts, and do so without losing a finger in the process. I must have done a good job because I still have my ten fingers.


With the job was a company “perk” of free soup for lunch and I always chose an “O1” can, so you can see why that choice is still with me.

So, dear readers, when shopping for canned soup you can't go wrong if you look for the brand with the mark “O1.”

More, later.