The last three months have been a nightmare inside Surf City California. A day before my car vanished from the Five Points Senior Center, I had found my brother Mel at the Fountain Valley Hospital on a ventilator. I could not get over the lack of medical care or fact that the nurses spoke only Vietnamese...My car vanished from the Five Points Senior Center, but that did not keep me from taking thirteen buses to visit my brother, now in Santa Ana's Kindred Care unit...Two days later my wallet was lifted from the bus...l fell violently ill for a week. I had no idea that Huntington Beach is home to identify theft rings... but sure do now. I wondered if anything the police were doing to prevent it.
I got a temporary driver's license but now it is time for me to pray for a new car. Amby Schindler will be 99 years old on April 21 so from now on, excerpts from his life will be on displayed until his birthday. I would be kidding you if I thought he might outlive me-but as of today, it is a reality, ever since I set foot in the mold invested apartments inside the El Loco Apartments inside Surf City
"You Deserve it...Amby."
Amby celebrated the 1939 victory over Notre Dame in South Bend inside his lower bunk. His forty yard cutback touchdown run had sealed the deal and he and his mates had celebrated at a nearby inn. He was singing away and putting away the cosmetics he had bought for his sisters and gal Lucille.
The cab ride from the Stadium at South Bend to the train station put him face to face with Mr. Turner, a wealthy tire man who traveled to the away games on the fourteen car Trojan Express. He had spoken to the players before the train departed from the Union Station. "Anyone who scores points against the Irish score against the Irish will receive a gift of four brand new tires."
As Turner left the cab, he reminded Schindler to pick up his four tires. After imbibing himself with beer and cheer with the boys, he returned to his lower birth and sang his favorite drinking song, "How dry I am.." He began to smoke his Medico Pipe when the curtains were drawn and a Stetson hat poked him in the noggin.
Peering through the drawn curtains was non other than his coach Howard Jones. He quickly put away his now dangling pipe under the covers, and Schindler face turned ashen as he looked up at Professor Jones.
"I was scared Jones would throw me off the train. He had strict rules about smoking, although he had been a chain smoker himself."
"Great game Amby, you deserve it after that fine run of yours that iced the game."
"I was in shock that this dumb cluck said nothing about the pipe, that by now had started to smoke under my blankets."
"Back home in San Diego, the owner of the only Mission Hills gas and tire station also congratulated me and presented me with four brand new tires for my 1934 Ford Roaster. His son had also belonged to Sigma Epsilon Pi.
Donations for a car can be mailed to the Five Points Senior Apartments, at 18561 Florida Street, Huntington Beach CA 92648 box 1001. Thank you. George Garrett
Tuesday, March 29, 2016
Friday, March 18, 2016
Surf City's Main Street Library
I made the mistake of walking from Surf City's City Hall to the historic Main Street Library. The buses on Main run on the hour, and I took a chance that a mile walk would not burden my lungs on a Santa Ana day...of course it did.
In my last blog, I felt disgusted that my brother Mel did not get the medications he sorely needed-to prevent a stroke or something worse. The Assistant Living Center did not even know he was at Kindred until I inform them...as always, their interest was on filling beds. What a sham! No longer does resemble my brother at the French Park Care facility, but he did tell me he still has heart and a soul. I will let God handle the remainder of his life.
Yesterday, I spent a peaceful day at the downtown Main Library. I could write in peace for a change since Talbert's Central one sometimes resembles a zoo. And besides, the #172 hourly bus takes me a block from the little old library. There is no New York Times or the books I desired. I asked the matron if it carried any books about Debs or Darrow. Of course she never heart of my heroes of bygone days.
My throbbing head and empty stomach requested that I go to lunch. Across the street sat the First Federal Bank and also a jewelry store, a vegie café, and the one I made a beeline to-Jan's Health Bar. In front of the small eatery, no free tables were available. Young kids enjoyed the small town serenity over healthy food and good friends. It was my turn to order.
I looked up at the various plates and ordered the SURF SHOP SPECIAL. My half a sandwich held fresh tuna, a salad and chips.
"What type of dressing would you like?"
"How about Oil and Vinegar."
"Do you wish an avocado?" The additional one dollar and fifty was not in my budget. I gave her nine dollars and a few cents.
"What is your name?"
"George"
Now relaxed, I gazed at the young stuff entering the café. Everyone had a smile and most knew what to order. A waiter told me the little hole in the wall gets about five hundred customers a day. My calculations came to about $5000 per day -- enough to feed the seven busy workers.
My name called, a server brought the heavy plate to me. My jaws mashed the chips and I emptied the cup of dressing over my salad. Without a driver's license and car, the meal made up for the loss since I knew those items would be replaced.
The half-a-tuna filled my stomach. Now with more energy, I returned to the little old library to work on my football story...The only blemish to the day was the missing copies of my birth certificated and other items inside the Five Points Senior apartments. Last Saturday, Lisa called me requesting a copy of my social and driver's license...some irony!
The Huntington Beach restaurant is at 501 Main Street. For advance orders, you can call 714-536-4856
Wednesday, March 16, 2016
L.A.'s Grand Central Station
J.S. Bach celebrates his 331st birthday on March 21 and musicians around the world will perform in subways and public places. A Bach marathon will feature his music, and at noon time, the Los Angeles Organ company will feature his music.
Since I ride the rails out of Buena Park twice a week to either Los Angeles or Oceanside it is no miracle that I love the Grand Union Station-finished by three railroads in 1939. I do research in the downtown library and enjoy visiting my 94 year old friend Connie Goldstein once a week.
Connie had been a witness to the Miracle at the Coliseum at the 1939 Rose Bowl that pitted Duke against the Trojans of U.S.C. She sat in Murrays old Plymouth on their way to Wave Crest off the Roosevelt Highway-now called the P.C.H. She heard the end of the game when Doyle Nave threw four straight for the winning touchdown for U.S.C. A few years earlier this Freemont grad performed at the Melrose Comedy Club.
She will be a featured speaker at my book signings after the book is released. She will speak about the four straight completions from a kid from downtown Manual Arts High School that sent the boys from Durham back on the Santa Fe at Central Station.
Earlier at the Union Station the day before, I took advantage of a piano set up in front of the waiting area and across from the Amtrak ticket window. I played a few ditties but this time only about eleven dollars filled my Bruin hat but received a large ovation from the tired patrons.
Pico Blvd no longer represented the city I knew in the forties. English no longer was the first language-at least on the bus. Inside the Ralph's bus stop, a lady began to get up. Her belongings sat next to her inside a Ralph's shopping car. Next to her, Fagan, a character out of Dicken's Oliver Twist sat up eating fruit loops. His beard had grown a few inches. His sleeping bag stood up by itself. But for contrast, Pico now wore a prayer hat. Hasidic rabbis made up a large number of its occupants.
The Big Rapid Purple bus had earlier picked me up on Pico and returned me to the Subway on Western and Wilshire. I paid a dollar fifty and took the Purple Line into the Union Station. A bit tired, I heard the piano sing. A professional played the hits of yesteryear. '
Mr. Shaw was dressed to the hilt. He wore a leather hat and a chest warmer. His fingers, yes his fingers jumped every-which way on the piano. I envied him and made him play a few more. I will paraphrase our chance meeting.
"I grew up in the Beverly Hills area and played the piano in several churches. Whenever I see a piano I love to play it. In no way could I have stayed married with my talkative wife without the piano.
I only hope that one day I can have my fingers play as effortlessly as his. His piano fingers played the piano as fast as Secretariat ran its races: Poetry in motion."
I decided to take advantage of Olvera Street and its host of Mexican restaurants. The perfect day had no clouds in the sky. I bought two tacos with beans and rice and enjoyed the day. A volunteer handed me two post cards celebrating Bach's birthday.
Nuts and bolts for today: It is not just perchance that I hear music everyday. I discarded the T.V. and turned to the U.S.C. station 91.5 FM. Music does wonders for my mind inside an unsettling world.
Since I ride the rails out of Buena Park twice a week to either Los Angeles or Oceanside it is no miracle that I love the Grand Union Station-finished by three railroads in 1939. I do research in the downtown library and enjoy visiting my 94 year old friend Connie Goldstein once a week.
Connie had been a witness to the Miracle at the Coliseum at the 1939 Rose Bowl that pitted Duke against the Trojans of U.S.C. She sat in Murrays old Plymouth on their way to Wave Crest off the Roosevelt Highway-now called the P.C.H. She heard the end of the game when Doyle Nave threw four straight for the winning touchdown for U.S.C. A few years earlier this Freemont grad performed at the Melrose Comedy Club.
She will be a featured speaker at my book signings after the book is released. She will speak about the four straight completions from a kid from downtown Manual Arts High School that sent the boys from Durham back on the Santa Fe at Central Station.
Earlier at the Union Station the day before, I took advantage of a piano set up in front of the waiting area and across from the Amtrak ticket window. I played a few ditties but this time only about eleven dollars filled my Bruin hat but received a large ovation from the tired patrons.
Pico Blvd no longer represented the city I knew in the forties. English no longer was the first language-at least on the bus. Inside the Ralph's bus stop, a lady began to get up. Her belongings sat next to her inside a Ralph's shopping car. Next to her, Fagan, a character out of Dicken's Oliver Twist sat up eating fruit loops. His beard had grown a few inches. His sleeping bag stood up by itself. But for contrast, Pico now wore a prayer hat. Hasidic rabbis made up a large number of its occupants.
The Big Rapid Purple bus had earlier picked me up on Pico and returned me to the Subway on Western and Wilshire. I paid a dollar fifty and took the Purple Line into the Union Station. A bit tired, I heard the piano sing. A professional played the hits of yesteryear. '
Mr. Shaw was dressed to the hilt. He wore a leather hat and a chest warmer. His fingers, yes his fingers jumped every-which way on the piano. I envied him and made him play a few more. I will paraphrase our chance meeting.
"I grew up in the Beverly Hills area and played the piano in several churches. Whenever I see a piano I love to play it. In no way could I have stayed married with my talkative wife without the piano.
I only hope that one day I can have my fingers play as effortlessly as his. His piano fingers played the piano as fast as Secretariat ran its races: Poetry in motion."
I decided to take advantage of Olvera Street and its host of Mexican restaurants. The perfect day had no clouds in the sky. I bought two tacos with beans and rice and enjoyed the day. A volunteer handed me two post cards celebrating Bach's birthday.
Nuts and bolts for today: It is not just perchance that I hear music everyday. I discarded the T.V. and turned to the U.S.C. station 91.5 FM. Music does wonders for my mind inside an unsettling world.
Friday, March 11, 2016
Santa Ana's French Park Nursing Home
Ever since my car, Dolly, vanished have been wearing out my souls, you know the ones on your feet. Already I have ridden on over one hundred buses, lost ten pounds, and feel a whole lot better. My brother Mel ended up at the French Park Care Center inside old downtown Santa Ana . I felt eager to see him, my last link to my family. In no way should he have ended up in the nursing home.
My bus trip began at about eight forty five. The #760 or Talbert bus run every one hour and goes as far as Newport Beach before circling back. I love letting Hertz...oh I mean the Orange county buses do the driving for me. It gives me time to check out the passengers and perhaps make a date with a pretty blond.
I descended at Bristol where the Orange Coast Shopping Center is located and then went north on the 535 Express bus. I listened to the passengers to see if anyone spoke English. The bus had filled with students going to the City College and laborers. Julie, from the nursing home, told me to get to Main and Washington in downtown Santa Ana.
Does anyone here no how to get to downtown Main Street? Standing in the aisle, a tall heavy set told me he knew the way. I followed him out the door on First Street and walked across the street. Was this my lucky day? While we waited for the #64 to take us to downtown Mr. Smiles asked me where I was going.
"I am looking for the French Park Care Center?"
"Let me google it...Is that where you wish to go?"
"Exactly!"
"You are in luck. I am headed for the same place, but across the street. Need to pick up some pictures..Do you like Mexican food?
"Love it...In fact some people think my roots are part-Mexican."
On the corner was a Spanish Tienda. The counter had several types of Mexican food and inside the back had lots staples like in a small market.
He returned with two taco combination plates. I don't know when I have had such an appetite. Mr. Smiles spoke about his life. To save time I will summarize what he told me. He finished his plate long before I had barely begun mine.
"I was born in the U.S.A and my aunt kidnapped me, She took me at four years old and abused me. My parents got me back but the damage was done. I suffer with a host of physical and mental problems...But now I will sue my family. I have a lawyer."
"I had been fired from my paint job and now am a picker My employer fired me from my job restoring old cars and now I have a job as a piker. My bosses air mail me to states with the types of cars they are looking for anything gold of bygone days..."
After the meal and my stomach pleased, we walked down Washington Street. I felt like I lived in the late Nineteenth Century. Three or for story old Victorian homes thanked me for company. All had porches, gables, and attics. Why I even thought I saw King Albert kissing his bride, Queen Victoria.
The fronts were one hundred feet wide and at least one hundred a fifty feet deep lots. They must have have lived during the time of Teddy Roosevelt and Taft. George took pictures with a high water tower in the background.
The French Park hospital was built in 1902 and had over two hundred beds. With white the prevailing color, a sea of evergreens and large park greeted me. I felt serene and overjoyed that Mario had taken me there. White hallways with the usual corridors greeted me. Nurses, case workers, rehab workers but no doctors walked the hallways. Of course a few immobile wheel chairs sat in the hallways.
I thanked god for sending me Mario, who not only understood English, bought me a Mexican combination and also led me to my destination. He had told me that he had been disgusted that so few Mexicans wished to learn English.
I left Jorge and entered the 1902 hospital. A grandfather clock thanked me for being on time. The big hand of Big Ben struck twelve. It was now eleven o'clock. I thanked the clerk for providing me with directions-of course I lied to be polite.
"Mel can be found in room 153." After two left turns, I found corner room 153. A man watched T.V. in the second bed. Yet no Mel existed. A case worker told me that he might be in rehab.
Inside the rehab room, a young lady sat immobile in a wheel chair, and her graphite leg sat on a bed. She did not show any emotion but simply sat there implacably. What appeared to be a young drug addict lay stretched on a table. A worker twisted his feet.
Mel did not appear in the rehab room so I asked for assistance.
"Mel is over there on the bike."
It just could not be Mel. Instead of a rotund face, his changed to a narrow one. He could barely see me but when he did he screamed.
"You should not have sold the house. How is Jenny doing?"
A nurse told Mel he had another six minutes on the bike. In front of him a gadget measured his oxygen I felt pissed that the Fountain Valley hospital and later the Kindred did not administer any medication but happy at least the pneumonia was gone.
"Good Mel, your oxygen is 90 percent. I pushed Mel to his room, well really not a room but a large closet with two beds. Since I could not find a chair, I needed to stand. . The T.V. was of no use since he was blind. The leaky left eye had not been given a shot.
"George, Edward was here and I signed a paper that I wished to return to the Assistant Living Center.
Earlier I had spoken with Case Worker X and she told me that I could not get a power of attorney. Mel needs the OK from a doctor before he can sign anything. I wondered why Edward had been given permission to get Mel's signature but not I. Of course all Ed wished for was another month's pay from the government. His job is to fill beds.
Mel gave me the OK to push him to the dinning area, I mean room where mush was served up. Most of the patients sat in wheel chairs. None could walk or move .One lady sat reading a book A T. V. was on. I fed Mel but after a few bites of gruel, He wished to return to his bed. No wonder he had lost so much weight.
A month earlier at the Fountain Valley Hospital he had a great appetite. He was anxious since the hospital did not know what medications he needed I suspected a stroke had occurred rendering helpless. The Assistant Living Center did not know the name of the hospital. I told Angie that it was Kindred.
Case worker Z wiggled into the room. Her name had been on the intercom several times. "I have only two minutes to give you." I followed Mrs. Wiggles to a private room One of her eyes went one way but the other looked at me. She seemed distracted and wished to rid of me as soon as zi sat down.
"I am here to make sure Mel get a shot in his left eye. "
"I have it taken care tomorrow. Got to go!"
Mrs. Wiggles eyes were not in alignment but her figure did not miss a beat. Whereas many of the staff were doing a good job. I felt let down. to be a witness of what once was a thriving-good- looking young man.
Hell I had known Mel, my brother for over 75 years. I will miss his singing and his favorite Mack the Night or Chances Are.
As soon as i left the facility, my mind tried in vain to remove the dread of Brother Mel remaining there until the end. I felt in no way could he sing again. The medicine ball had been dropped. I felt pissed that Edward would not allow me to sit with him at the dinner table. Too bad that Edward needed so much control.
The Metro I found a bit too far and my legs told me to bus it back to Huntington Beach. I climbed aboard..or tried to climb aboard the Main Street bus that would drop me off at Mac Arthur. Even though I had ridden on thirteen buses-I did see my brother Mel!
I had left Surf City at eight and returned at five o'clock. I paid twenty dollars for a thirty minute massage-of course for my tennis shoes.
Nuts and Bolts for today: It is a disgrace how we treat senior citizens today. Back in the day, they remained with their family until the end.
My bus trip began at about eight forty five. The #760 or Talbert bus run every one hour and goes as far as Newport Beach before circling back. I love letting Hertz...oh I mean the Orange county buses do the driving for me. It gives me time to check out the passengers and perhaps make a date with a pretty blond.
I descended at Bristol where the Orange Coast Shopping Center is located and then went north on the 535 Express bus. I listened to the passengers to see if anyone spoke English. The bus had filled with students going to the City College and laborers. Julie, from the nursing home, told me to get to Main and Washington in downtown Santa Ana.
Does anyone here no how to get to downtown Main Street? Standing in the aisle, a tall heavy set told me he knew the way. I followed him out the door on First Street and walked across the street. Was this my lucky day? While we waited for the #64 to take us to downtown Mr. Smiles asked me where I was going.
"I am looking for the French Park Care Center?"
"Let me google it...Is that where you wish to go?"
"Exactly!"
"You are in luck. I am headed for the same place, but across the street. Need to pick up some pictures..Do you like Mexican food?
"Love it...In fact some people think my roots are part-Mexican."
On the corner was a Spanish Tienda. The counter had several types of Mexican food and inside the back had lots staples like in a small market.
He returned with two taco combination plates. I don't know when I have had such an appetite. Mr. Smiles spoke about his life. To save time I will summarize what he told me. He finished his plate long before I had barely begun mine.
"I was born in the U.S.A and my aunt kidnapped me, She took me at four years old and abused me. My parents got me back but the damage was done. I suffer with a host of physical and mental problems...But now I will sue my family. I have a lawyer."
"I had been fired from my paint job and now am a picker My employer fired me from my job restoring old cars and now I have a job as a piker. My bosses air mail me to states with the types of cars they are looking for anything gold of bygone days..."
After the meal and my stomach pleased, we walked down Washington Street. I felt like I lived in the late Nineteenth Century. Three or for story old Victorian homes thanked me for company. All had porches, gables, and attics. Why I even thought I saw King Albert kissing his bride, Queen Victoria.
The fronts were one hundred feet wide and at least one hundred a fifty feet deep lots. They must have have lived during the time of Teddy Roosevelt and Taft. George took pictures with a high water tower in the background.
The French Park hospital was built in 1902 and had over two hundred beds. With white the prevailing color, a sea of evergreens and large park greeted me. I felt serene and overjoyed that Mario had taken me there. White hallways with the usual corridors greeted me. Nurses, case workers, rehab workers but no doctors walked the hallways. Of course a few immobile wheel chairs sat in the hallways.
I thanked god for sending me Mario, who not only understood English, bought me a Mexican combination and also led me to my destination. He had told me that he had been disgusted that so few Mexicans wished to learn English.
I left Jorge and entered the 1902 hospital. A grandfather clock thanked me for being on time. The big hand of Big Ben struck twelve. It was now eleven o'clock. I thanked the clerk for providing me with directions-of course I lied to be polite.
"Mel can be found in room 153." After two left turns, I found corner room 153. A man watched T.V. in the second bed. Yet no Mel existed. A case worker told me that he might be in rehab.
Inside the rehab room, a young lady sat immobile in a wheel chair, and her graphite leg sat on a bed. She did not show any emotion but simply sat there implacably. What appeared to be a young drug addict lay stretched on a table. A worker twisted his feet.
Mel did not appear in the rehab room so I asked for assistance.
"Mel is over there on the bike."
It just could not be Mel. Instead of a rotund face, his changed to a narrow one. He could barely see me but when he did he screamed.
"You should not have sold the house. How is Jenny doing?"
A nurse told Mel he had another six minutes on the bike. In front of him a gadget measured his oxygen I felt pissed that the Fountain Valley hospital and later the Kindred did not administer any medication but happy at least the pneumonia was gone.
"Good Mel, your oxygen is 90 percent. I pushed Mel to his room, well really not a room but a large closet with two beds. Since I could not find a chair, I needed to stand. . The T.V. was of no use since he was blind. The leaky left eye had not been given a shot.
"George, Edward was here and I signed a paper that I wished to return to the Assistant Living Center.
Earlier I had spoken with Case Worker X and she told me that I could not get a power of attorney. Mel needs the OK from a doctor before he can sign anything. I wondered why Edward had been given permission to get Mel's signature but not I. Of course all Ed wished for was another month's pay from the government. His job is to fill beds.
Mel gave me the OK to push him to the dinning area, I mean room where mush was served up. Most of the patients sat in wheel chairs. None could walk or move .One lady sat reading a book A T. V. was on. I fed Mel but after a few bites of gruel, He wished to return to his bed. No wonder he had lost so much weight.
A month earlier at the Fountain Valley Hospital he had a great appetite. He was anxious since the hospital did not know what medications he needed I suspected a stroke had occurred rendering helpless. The Assistant Living Center did not know the name of the hospital. I told Angie that it was Kindred.
Case worker Z wiggled into the room. Her name had been on the intercom several times. "I have only two minutes to give you." I followed Mrs. Wiggles to a private room One of her eyes went one way but the other looked at me. She seemed distracted and wished to rid of me as soon as zi sat down.
"I am here to make sure Mel get a shot in his left eye. "
"I have it taken care tomorrow. Got to go!"
Mrs. Wiggles eyes were not in alignment but her figure did not miss a beat. Whereas many of the staff were doing a good job. I felt let down. to be a witness of what once was a thriving-good- looking young man.
Hell I had known Mel, my brother for over 75 years. I will miss his singing and his favorite Mack the Night or Chances Are.
As soon as i left the facility, my mind tried in vain to remove the dread of Brother Mel remaining there until the end. I felt in no way could he sing again. The medicine ball had been dropped. I felt pissed that Edward would not allow me to sit with him at the dinner table. Too bad that Edward needed so much control.
The Metro I found a bit too far and my legs told me to bus it back to Huntington Beach. I climbed aboard..or tried to climb aboard the Main Street bus that would drop me off at Mac Arthur. Even though I had ridden on thirteen buses-I did see my brother Mel!
I had left Surf City at eight and returned at five o'clock. I paid twenty dollars for a thirty minute massage-of course for my tennis shoes.
Nuts and Bolts for today: It is a disgrace how we treat senior citizens today. Back in the day, they remained with their family until the end.
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