SNOOZE DOG

Something curious is happening to me.  I hope it’s not anything to be too concerned about. I’m not napping as much as I used to.  For most of my life, if I was on the couch watching a TV show, I’d nod off within five minutes. But a couple of weeks back, I made it through the entire Super Bowl wide awake.  Not even Peyton Manning can say that.

This past month I did not take a single nap. Even the dog wondered what happened to our siesta. He kept following me around the house as if to say, “Hey, I’m 80 in dog years. It’s almost 2 p.m. Let’s stretch out and do this.”

Napping has never been a problem. When I was a high school teacher, I actually fell asleep in class while proctoring a statewide exam. The kids were very polite. “I hope we didn’t disturb you yesterday, Mr. Wolfsie,” said one of my students. “We tried to cheat as quietly as we could.”

Up until recently, I could take a quick snooze while having dinner with friends, at red lights, while waiting for my wife to put on makeup, as the dog was relieving himself, at fast food drive-up windows, in check-out lines. Anywhere.

 

As a result of grabbing the occasional 40 winks, I have missed a few events that in retrospect I probably should have stayed awake for. Here are the top three:

1. My sixty-fifth birthday party (I wish they had screamed “surprise!” louder)

2. Paris

3. The end of my interview with Governor Evan Bayh

Mary Ellen never quite understood the value of a nap. Personally, I think women are afraid they’re going to miss something. Like a sale, or a beautiful sunset, or the plot of a movie. Men don’t care about stuff like this.  On the rare occasion that Mary Ellen has fallen asleep during the day, she would awaken with an apology and an explanation of her behavior. “I don’t know what happened. I must be coming down with something!” I always had a different attitude when awakening from a short slumber: “Man, that was a great. I’m getting better and better at this all the time.”

 

My inability to nap recently came up during my last annual physical, but there was some confusion in the conversation. “How are you sleeping?” asked Dr. Coss, a pretty standard inquiry by a primary care provider.

 

“It’s been rough,” I told him. “Sometimes I’m awake for 8-10 hours in a row.”

 

“TEN HOURS?” he gasped. “We need to do some testing. How long has this been going on?”

 

“Several months.”

 

“Do you just toss and turn in bed?”

 

“Well, I’m not in bed. That’s the problem. I’m out driving the car, watching the news, cooking.  Sometimes I’m in the garage operating heavy machinery.”

 

“This is very troubling, Dick. So you don’t sleep all night?

 

“No, I sleep great at night. It’s all day that I can’t sleep”

 

Dr. Coss was very helpful once I straightened out the misunderstanding. He said that I had to accept that men experience changes in their bodily rhythms as they mature. “I want you to go home this afternoon and really think about that,” he said. I told him I’d have to sleep on it.  Which meant, of course, it would have to wait until that night.

 

The problem is that there are now three more hours each day where I need to find something to keep me busy. I think I have found the perfect online service to do just that. It must really work, or they couldn’t call it Napster.

 

 

 

 

SPACE AGE PROBLEMS

SPACE AGE PROBLEMS

The other day at the supermarket the periodical display was chock-full of all these splashy publications—so many, in fact, that one bundle had remained unopened due to a shortage of space on the rack. Curious, I tore back the brown wrapping of the package and there it was: Storage Solutions. Yes, that’s right: there was not enough room on the shelves to include this magazine.

Storage Solutions is dedicated to assisting the busy housewife (or househusband, of course) in finding efficient ways to put away stuff, most of which, I think we all know, should probably have been thrown away in the first place. By the way, I always thought the word “storage” had the letter “e” in the middle of it. Dan Quayle agrees with me. Where did it go? Maybe there was no room for it.

I glanced more closely and saw this was a “Special Double Issue.” Interesting that the editors couldn’t fit everything into one edition.  Also on the cover was the tease: FIND SPACE YOU DIDN’T KNOW YOU HAD.  My guess is that at one time you knew you had it, but you put it somewhere and now you can’t find it. I know that makes no sense, but when I make myself laugh, that pretty much means it’s going in the column.

On the back page was a huge ad for fifthroom.com. Later, I logged onto the site and realized that this was for people who didn’t want to install shelves, hooks and cabinets and instead just wanted to buy a prefab shed, gazebo or pool house, or maybe a giant cedar chest, and just cram all their crapola into one place.  You can also purchase something called a pergola but I had no idea what that was and I didn’t want to make any room in my brain for more useless information.

The editor’s name is Debra and her editorial this month is titled: “Help, I Need More Space!”  Last month it was: “Do You Need More Space?”  And in March, get ready for:  “Space, I Think That’s What We All Need!” The pages are filled with colorful photographs of homes that don’t have much furniture, but just a lot of adjustable nooks and crannies. With every picture, the first thing you think of is not how people have effectively used their limited space, but what possessed them to buy so much junk to begin with.

These are actual tips from the magazine. You can thank me later for bringing them to your attention

Store books on a shelf vertically so you can read the titles. (I know, I know…how cool an idea is that?) 

Use large hooks for coats, backpacks and gym bags, but use smaller ones for keys and dog leashes. (Seriously, why didn’t I think of this?)

Use a basket in your hall closet for gloves. (…because you’d never find those mittens in your coat pockets?)

Use empty jars to store paper clips and loose screws. (Was this magazine the best ten bucks I ever spent?)

When Mary Ellen saw me reading Storage Solutions, she asked if she could see it when I was finished. I told her I’d roll it up and stick it in the wine rack.  No, that idea was not in the magazine. Proud to say, that one was all mine.

SECRET SHOPPER

 

It’s so exciting these final days before Christmas. You never know who is going to be at the door ringing your bell. Will it be UPS dropping off a package?  Maybe Federal Express with a holiday gift? Possibly the U.S. Mail with something for this past Mother’s or Father’s Day?  Sometimes it’s a grumpy neighbor telling you he’s tired of getting all your stuff by mistake. ‘Tis the season.

This story begins about 2:00 p.m. last Tuesday. The UPS truck pulled up to the curb and we wondered what Brown was going to do for us. We saw the driver struggle with a huge carton the size of a big screen TV. He maneuvered it to the front porch and left it leaning against the door. I went outside to look at it.

“Who’s it for?” asked Mary Ellen.

I checked the label and it was addressed to me, but sometimes that sticker is misleading. Some of our credit cards are in my name, some are in Mary Ellen’s; so when a delivery is made, we are not sure who ordered it and who the gift is ultimately for. If the wrong person opens it, well, there goes the surprise on Christmas morning.

“It says it’s for me,” I told her, “but I have absolutely no recollection of ordering anything so big. Maybe you ordered it, Mary Ellen.”

My wife thought for a moment and so began the weirdest conversation in our 34-year marriage. “Dick, I know what it is. It’s that special item I mentioned two months ago that I wanted for Christmas. You said you found it in a catalog. Don’t you remember? I am so excited! Thank you.”

“I have absolutely no idea what it is. Can you give me a hint?”

“No, I can’t give you a hint. That would ruin the surprise.”

“Ruin the surprise? Ruin the surprise? The gift is for you! It’s supposed to be your surprise. But you already know what it is. I’m the one who doesn’t have a clue.”

“It doesn’t seem right to tell you. That’s not in keeping with the spirit of giving, Dick.”

“Okay, how about if you whisper softly in my ear and I promise I won’t tell you what you said.” It scared me a little that for a brief moment this actually made sense. It was driving me crazy that I had no memory of what I bought her. “Is it a high tech item?” I asked.

“Not really,” said Mary Ellen.

“Do you plug it in?”

“No.”

“Is it artwork?”

“No, not even close. But I don’t want to play anymore. If you guess it, I’ll have nothing to look forward to on Christmas morning. I want to see the expression on your face when I open it.”

Later that morning when Mary Ellen went out grocery shopping, I secretly opened the box. Let me tell you, it was a really neat present.  I don’t think I have ever been happier with something I bought my wife. Before Mary Ellen got home, I resealed it, then gift-wrapped it and placed it under the tree.  Of course, now we both knew what was in the package. It will still be a surprise on Christmas morning, as long as we can both keep a secret.

 

 

MACHO MAN

 

It’s hard to start writing a column about my chainsaw. But not as difficult as it is to start my chainsaw—considering I was born and raised in New York City and never saw such a device until I was old enough to get into an R-rated movie.

When I moved to Indy, I bought my first chainsaw and found it to be a very inefficient tool.  I took it back to the dealer and I told him it took me hours to cut down one little limb. “Let me give it a try,” said the clerk, and then he pulled the cord.

VAROOM!

“Geez, what’s that loud noise?” I asked him.

“Look, Mr. Wolfsie, I once saw you walk into a plate glass window on your morning TV segment. You are not the kind of person who should mess with power tools.”

I’m actually very good with power tools. I have never once had a problem starting my lawn mower. I did have one accident, though. I almost broke my nose when I tripped over the extension cord.

The chainsaw had been untouched in my garage for about 25 years, but that’s also true of Step 4 of my Scott’s lawn fertilizer because by the end of fall, I really don’t care what my lawn looks like. I also have two leaf blowers—one to blow the leaves and one to suck up the leaves. Both tools can perform either of those tasks with a minor mechanical adjustment, but that involves reading an entire page of the owner’s manual. Like I would understand any of that.

During the Midwest’s most recent storms, we were sitting in the living room and heard a crash. A fairly good-sized tree had blown down and grazed the side of the house. My wife heard the noise and immediately panicked.  “Relax,” I told her. “We’re okay.”

“No, we’re all in danger!  This means you’re going to use that chainsaw.”

The next day, I dug through the huge storage box in the garage filled with barbeque and gardening equipment, sprinkler heads, and rusty tools.  I found the implement and cradled it gingerly in my arms. How am I supposed to start this thing? I wondered. There was one doo-dad labeled “choke,” and I did. There was also a little plastic bubble that I vaguely remembered you have to push several times. Not sure why. I pulled the cord once…twice…30 times. Suddenly, the motor began to hum. But the chain didn’t turn. I needed help.

I didn’t want to look stupid, so I checked online and armed myself with just enough information to be as dangerous as the chainsaw. I found a small nearby motor repair shop and drove over. An elderly gentleman asked if he could assist me.

“Yes, I think the clutch isn’t engaging and there’s a sprocket misalignment that’s making the chain stick,”   I said, but I didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. He picked up the saw, pushed a button and said: “The safety was on.”

I didn’t bat an eye. “Thanks! What do I owe you?” I asked the man, who now looked vaguely familiar to me.

“Forget it,” he graciously offered. Then, as I started to leave , he added:  “Be careful, Mr. Wolfsie.  You’re about to walk into another plate glass window.”

 

ROUND FIGURES

 

 

The call was from Sara at the bank. She sounded concerned…

 

“Mr. Wolfsie, I wanted to let you know as quickly as I could. It’s about your checking account.”

 

 “I think I know why you’re calling,” I said, dreading the worst. “How much are we talking about here?

 

“$3.32,” she said. “You added your mail deposit incorrectly and we had to issue you a credit. I am sorry to bring you the bad news.”

 

I hung up and accessed my account online. Sara was correct. I looked in disbelief, but there it was: my correct balance was now $1,003.32. How could this happen? I quickly hit the “Pay Bills” button and sent $3.32 to my Shell Oil credit card. It barely paid for a gallon of gas, but that was not the point of the transaction. My account now had an even one thousand dollars. I could feel my blood pressure returning to normal.

 

This preoccupation with round numbers is really the only compulsion I suffer from as long as you don’t count making sure that all my hangers in the closet point in the same direction and that the shirts themselves are completely buttoned while awaiting their turn to be worn. But who doesn’t do that?

 

When I get an electric bill for $87.45, I send them $100. Why? First, because I require even numbers in my checkbook, and second, because the next month my bill will be about $13.00 less. If I keep doing this for about nine months, all of a sudden I get a month free from IPL. I bet they have no idea I’m pulling something over on them.

 

This fixation goes way back. When I first started driving in the ’60s, I always put exactly five dollars' worth of gas in the tank. In the ’70s it was ten dollars. Then 20, 30, 40…now 50. Never  $40.92 or $50.13.  Even if getting to $50.00 results in some spillage, I think that’s worth a good night’s sleep, don’t you?

 

Okay, I know what’s happening now. Half of the people reading this are saying things like: “Hey, Gladys, you have to hear this: Dick Wolfsie does exactly what I do. I wonder if he also re-ties his shoes before he puts them away in his closet. (Note to those readers: I do.)

 

Others are saying:  “Herb, Dick Wolfsie is nuttier than a pecan pie. He gives the electric company extra money. He must have an IQ of about 85.”

 

(Note to readers: I like to round that up to 100.)

 

Mary Ellen hates this trait in me and watches me closely to be sure that this preoccupation does not cost us extra money. When the water bill comes in for 97.18, she insists I write a check for exactly $97.18. How incredibly weird is that?  Is she trying to drive me insane?

 

Of course, this obsession does have its downside…

 

“I’m afraid I have to write you a ticket, Mr. Wolfsie. You were going 76 miles per hour in a 55 mph zone. That’s gonna cost you $175.00.”

 

“Gee, officer, it’s my first offense. Can you cut me a break? How about 80 miles per hour and let’s make it an even 200?”

 

By the way, in case you’re interested, I’m 60 years old. I also like rounding down.

 

ROUND FIGURES

 

The call was from Sara at the bank. She sounded concerned...

 

“Mr. Wolfsie, I wanted to let you know as quickly as I could. It’s about your checking account.”

 

 “I think I know why you’re calling,” I said, dreading the worst. “How much are we talking about here?

 

“$3.32,” she said. “You added your mail deposit incorrectly and we had to issue you a credit. I am sorry to bring you the bad news.”

 

I hung up and accessed my account online. Sara was correct. I looked in disbelief, but there it was: my correct balance was now $1,003.32. How could this happen? I quickly hit the “Pay Bills” button and sent $3.32 to my Shell Oil credit card. It barely paid for a gallon of gas, but that was not the point of the transaction. My account now had an even one thousand dollars. I could feel my blood pressure returning to normal.

 

This preoccupation with round numbers is really the only compulsion I suffer from as long as you don’t count making sure that all my hangers in the closet point in the same direction and that the shirts themselves are completely buttoned while awaiting their turn to be worn. But who doesn’t do that?

 

When I get an electric bill for $87.45, I send them $100. Why? First, because I require even numbers in my checkbook, and second, because the next month my bill will be about $13.00 less. If I keep doing this for about nine months, all of a sudden I get a month free from IPL. I bet they have no idea I’m pulling something over on them.

 

This fixation goes way back. When I first started driving in the ’60s, I always put exactly five dollars' worth of gas in the tank. In the ’70s it was ten dollars. Then 20, 30, 40…now 50. Never  $40.92 or $50.13.  Even if getting to $50.00 results in some spillage, I think that’s worth a good night’s sleep, don’t you?

 

Okay, I know what’s happening now. Half of the people reading this are saying things like: “Hey, Gladys, you have to hear this: Dick Wolfsie does exactly what I do. I wonder if he also re-ties his shoes before he puts them away in his closet. (Note to those readers: I do.)

 

Others are saying:  “Herb, Dick Wolfsie is nuttier than a pecan pie. He gives the electric company extra money. He must have an IQ of about 85.”

 

(Note to readers: I like to round that up to 100.)

 

Mary Ellen hates this trait in me and watches me closely to be sure that this preoccupation does not cost us extra money. When the water bill comes in for 97.18, she insists I write a check for exactly $97.18. How incredibly weird is that?  Is she trying to drive me insane?

 

Of course, this obsession does have its downside…

 

“I’m afraid I have to write you a ticket, Mr. Wolfsie. You were going 76 miles per hour in a 55 mph zone. That’s gonna cost you $175.00.”

 

“Gee, officer, it’s my first offense. Can you cut me a break? How about 80 miles per hour and let’s make it an even 200?”

 

By the way, in case you’re interested, I’m 60 years old. I also like rounding down.

 

GOODBYE TO A FRIEND

Military historian and arms collector Fred Ropkey died this past week. He opted out of medical treatments that might have prolonged his life for a few months. After 84 years, he was not surrendering. He simply wanted to walk headlong into the truth.

 Fred was no fan of war. Few people are. Yet he knew that every tank, aircraft and piece of artillery he recovered was not only a work of exquisite design, but combined they represented the hundreds, maybe thousands, of lives that had been lost—or saved.  

His passion, which was almost an obsession, got its roots early. At age eight, his parents gave him a WWI sword and a Civil War pistol belonging to his great-grandfather. At 16 he bought an armored WWII scout car and drove it to school. He stood up in the auditorium at Pike High School the day after Pearl Harbor and “reported” the Japanese attack to his fellow students. He tried to enlist in the Marines, but he was too young. He would later serve during  the Korean conflict as a battalion commander.

Fred’s collection of arms grew over the years, and he stowed his thousands of acquisitions on the sprawling 100 acres of family land (dating back to the Great Depression) on the northwest side of Indianapolis. At the time, says his longtime mechanic Skip Warvel, the idea was to simply find a place to restore those treasures. But it was really more a warehouse than a showcase. So in 2005, Fred moved everything to Crawfordsville, signaling a new vision and purpose.  “Build it and they will come,” his wife Lani recalls him saying. Then he added: “Who would think that a little pole barn on a 50-acre cornfield in Crawfordsville could change so many lives?”  It was no longer simply a standing building; it was a building that stood for something. He called it the Ropkey Armor Museum.

Once it opened, Fred and Lani fully realized the impact the collection had on people. “Are you familiar with that tank?” he once asked an older man who was examining the vehicle. “I practically lived in it,” said the WWII veteran who revealed that he had not seen his “old girl” in 40 years. “Thank you,” he said to Fred. “My life has now come full circle.” Later, according to Fred, the veteran retreated to a hotel room with a bottle of bourbon and wrote an entire account of his experiences, those notes now part of the museum’s Wall of Heroes.

To the end, Fred loved digging into history, uncovering the human stories behind each piece he salvaged. He found tanks, aircraft, even parts of ships in barns or buried underground, where the  government had discarded them. Fred was always mystified by the lack of appreciation for these historical artifacts. “We can fix that,” he would say to Skip. The mission was simple: No matter the degree of disrepair, it was an obligation to resurrect the piece, honoring those who had lived and died in it. “Everything in the museum runs, flies, or floats, but the cannons don’t fire,” says Warvel, who uses the original spec manuals to make repairs.

Over the years, I was honored to be Fred’s friend. We toured both facilities on a number of occasions for television segments on WISH-TV. I’ve ridden in Sherman Tanks and sailed around a lake on a Vietnam-War-era vintage patrol boat. I will miss Fred. I won’t miss the harrowing ride in a Russian biplane.

Fred Ropkey could converse knowledgeably (and endlessly) about every U.S. combat mission in WWII. At the end of Fred’s life, he chose not to share his plight with others, instead enduring his cancer pain privately.

This was the one battle Fred Ropkey did not want to talk about.