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Remembering Eleven & Mrs. Camp

When I was eleven, I had a paper route. Where I grew up on the outskirts of Akron, Ohio, a paper route was a license to slave for money. I inherited the route from my best friend and next door neighbor, Marc Ciriello. Seven days a week, I walked a paper route that stretched a quarter mile in one direction, plus empty return, equaling a half mile walk. An additional, fifty houses throughout the only subdivision built on my parent’s partitioned-off farmland were included in my route to bring a total customer count of approximately seventy-five deliveries.

There stood at the end of Revere Rd, at the corner of West Market St, a mansion from a by-gone era. Built sometime in the early 1900’s it was the epitome of the exquisite Tudor facade found at the edge of a gentleman’s only, ladies forbidden course. The driveway, composed of perfectly laid interlocking brick, led to a multi-car garage at the rear base of the four-story lavishment. The white, windowed garage doors opened by hand, one to right, one to left, allowing the 1956 solid black Cadillac to emerge. It was the first heated garage I had ever experienced.

Mrs. Camp owned the home, and her driver, Mr. Clean, would be described as the inspiration for the movie, “Driving Ms. Daisy”. They were both so kind to a young lad. Because it was the last house on my route, I often spent time enjoying the time with older, wiser folk.

Mrs. Camp had an outdoor pond with live goldfish in it. I spent many, wonderful times mesmerized, just watching them swim. The pond was so deep that the fish would over-winter outside – amazing.

There were no sidewalks; I simply walked from one yard to the next, no fences or gates to separate neighbors. I would reach a slight decline toward the edge of the Camp property, just above the fish pond, which in spring would be ripe with water lily flowers. At that level, I could see the kitchen window at the back of the house facing large wooded grounds where the tree canopy shaded and cooled the entire area. The house was cloaked in ivy which shook so rhythmically when rain drip, drip, dripped from one leaf to another. It was so peaceful there.

From that vantage point, Mrs. Camp could see me as I began my decline. Because there were no steps, she habitually worried about me falling. Every day, like clockwork, I would see her face in the kitchen window, and as she would wave to me and I returned the shake of a childhood hand, I would feel the existence of commonality to the human spirit. Two observers of life, and seventy years apart spending moments together, for no other sake that to experience the now in each other’s company.

If she was in the window, I would take the paper to the side door to the kitchen pantry, which she would open slightly so I could let myself in. From there she would always invite me into the living room for milk and cookies. Cookies, which were savagely consumed by an eleven-year-old, especially after having walked an hour and a half, with a half hour walk yet to go to get back home. Yes, and it was uphill both ways because there were several large gullies that had to be travailed!

Mrs. Camp also had an enormous parrot that she would let me feed, to my great enjoyment. Please imagine this wonderful home with what seemed like twenty-foot ceilings, paneled walls, dark curtains stretched from ceiling to floor to accent the tall windows. Imagine large opulent chandeliers and over-sized furniture. And in the middle of a huge living room space, was a large circular pedestal with a large green and multi-colored parrot wobbling back and forth in anticipation of my treat. I want to believe that it knew me and spoke to me.

I can say I felt great joy when Mrs. Camp was available to invite me in. I guess in return, I provided the listening ear of wonderment, complete with questions that a grandmotherly type would enjoy answering. She told stories and I would listen. I always felt close to wisdom.

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Eternal Romantic

July 26, 2013

I am wondering if, by nature, somehow, I am an eternal romantic.  Is it desperation for love, or a draw toward the understanding of universal acceptance?  Are we cognizant that we are ”all one” at the most primal level?  When you see a picture taken from a man-made satellite from past the rings of Saturn, looking back with a wide angle lens, do we not see the infinitesimally small importance of ourselves?

What else makes more sense than love?  Do we really exist in a glass, half full, or half empty?  Is there a yin and yang that must both be fulfilled?  Nay, I, the optimist, am totally swayed in the direction that there is a victor in the endo/exothermic, order vs disorder conundrum.  The first of all is love.

If not love, then what becomes the meaning of hope?

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Treasure Box

My Treasure Box

I remember as a child, having special treasures that belonged only to me, like memories that came with my creation, never to be totally understood by anyone but myself.

When I immigrated to Canada in 1973, I met a great couple, Andrew Smith and Penney Kome.  They took me into their home and help me tremendously in my acclimation into Canadian culture, as it were.

Although I have many stories about our experiences in the Ossington area and Pape & Gerrard, one stands out with regard to My Treasure Box.

Andrew was and is, extremely talented, nay gifted, in ways that are unique and require intellectual, and always refreshing understanding of our environment.  He taught me many things, one being the magical creations that can be made from Leather.

There has to be a love of the material that can be so artistically maneuvered and sculptured into so many designs and functions.  Andrew has that love.  And with that love, he handcrafted from creative mental design the most beautiful Treasure Box that anyone could possibly imagine.  The hours of personal pride, workmanship, and dedication to bringing pleasure to another human being, come together to be seen here. Notice the suede lining and handcrafted hinges with lacing – incredibly ingenious.

Treasure Box 2Cufflink Box

I have kept that Treasure Box for over 40 years, and thus it requires special remembrance to my past and future.

Today, I record the current contents, just because…

    • Sterling Silver Buttons for a leather vest that I once made, but didn’t use,
    • Military patch from Berlin, when I served in the US Military in 1967-1970
    • A piece of crystal that gave me rainbows that led to starting 17 years of manufacturing and wholesaling crystal giftware.  A heart-shaped crystal from Istanbul where I purchased crystal in addition to other places in the world.
    • Two gold plated cufflinks with the crystal that were one of a kind sample made for me as president of Lambda Crystal.
    • A CF bracelet that I made a donation to CF for and gave away for CF awareness
    •  A piece of carved stone I purchased in Northern Ontario to make into a piece of jewelry.
    • A piece of cubic zirconium that I purchased in Iri, Korea to make figurines from.
    • An “Attitude” pin that I gave away while developing businesses
    • Two collars-stays that I never use?
    • Two guitar picks, just for safe keeping
    • A 1997 D US penny, just because it was minted in Denver which might give it value?
    • A Canada/US pin that I wore in business
    • Two wedding rings, not sure why
    • A Harry Rosen cufflink box with a friendship pin my daughter gave to me in grade 3, a piece of pentagon-shaped crystal that was given to me in Egypt, a lock of my beard that Mary and Molly cut off in 1990, two blue cufflinks and a collar thingy.

It’s only memories!

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And The Times, They Are A’Changin’

After weeks of trying to get a handle on reaching the senior level, not without many hours of soul searching, I have concluded that I feel no older than forty.  In many ways, I feel even younger.

On my fortieth birthday, I was in Seoul, Korea on a buying trip for Lambda Crystal.  Molly had organized the staff to sign a birthday greeting piece of paper and faxed it to me.

That night, the owner of a gold chain manufacturing company insisted on taking me out to dinner for my birthday.  It went something like this.

Mr. Park would like to buy you a drink for your birthday.  Because he does not speak English very well, I will be his interpreter.

As we arrived at the picturesque Korean restaurant with private, floor-seated, dining rooms, I was more than a little surprised when the waiter placed a 40-ounce bottle of Chivas Regal 18-year-old scotch on the table with one glass.  Now the tradition is that the host pours the guest a drink, and then the guest pours the host a drink.  As Mr. Park was enjoying his custom, I was chagrined by the lack of a shot glass for him.  As I picked up the bottle, the interpreter, shook his head and said, oh no, Mr. Frank, his drink is being delivered, that bottle is for you alone!

Well, needless to say, the night became much more animated as both of us attempted each other’s language, which kept the interpreter in hysterics, and my host and I were having the best time of our lives.

The point is that a large part of me is still wanting those adventures, not knowing how it will turn out, but just loving the journey.  I add this video as a reminder of the everyday stuff that we let harm our being.

It is always now!