Never Let the Bad Guys Win–Ever!

Posted on June 29, 2011 by Joe Challmes

I’ve never thought of myself as vulnerable.

Certainly not as a soft mark for a predator looking to pluck easy cash from someone who on the surface appears “helpless.”

So I was stunned last week when out of the blue a mid-30’s, stocky, black male who was fairly well dressed tried to intimidate me into just handing over my money to him.

This brief confrontation occurred on the apron of Delaware Park race track, where I had gone last Tuesday with my friend, Larry, who is a fellow amputee, his son and two other friends.

It was a sunny day to savor. Live racing. Real horses. No simulcasting. And, I had a pretty good day, winning enough to cover my auto insurance for the year as I cashed 5 of  the 7 races that I wagered on.

The only difference between this day and many other days at that I spent at Delaware decades ago was that I didn’t cash my own tickets. I made my own bets, but to save my energy (it takes an enormous effort to walk on a prosthetic leg) I had asked one of my companions to cash my tickets when I won.

Apparently, this would-be predator must have spotted a transfer of a wad of bills at some point and shadowed me because as we went to leave, he approached me rather smoothly and with purpose.

Larry’s son and the other fellows had gone on ahead. So Larry and I—two amputees, him sans a right leg and me with a metal pole where my left leg used to be—were sort of semi-toddling toward the exit when this guy steps in front of me.

“You’re NOT leaving with all the money, are you?” he said with the emphasis on NOT!

I was a bit taken aback. At first, I was amused. I’ve talked to a lot of folks at the race track. I’ve been going to the track since I was in my teens. In all that time I’ve never heard of a crime at the track other than the occasional fight between friends who messed up each other’s bets or pickpockets. But, with the slimmer crowds at the races, the pickpockets seem to have migrated to more promising environs.

My initial tactic was to laugh it off. “Have to,” I said with a big smile. “If I stay and take too much more out of here, they’ll think I’m a bad guest and won’t invite me back.”

The fellow blocking my path wasn’t buying it.

“You can’t leave with all that money,” he repeated. “I think you need a body guard.”

Larry, who couldn’t reach my chest if he stood on his tiptoes and probably doesn’t weigh 150 pounds soaking wet, piped in, “I’m his bodyguard.” And that got a smirk and an off the cuff reply that “then I’d have to shoot you. And I’ve got guns.”

As he said that, our antagonist lifted his pullover shirt to reveal a chest full of scars (round like bullet holes) and a curved handle stuck in his belt loop.

LIKE PLAYING POKER

I am either too stubborn (or too stupid) to be intimidated, even though I was clinging to a walker to keep myself in an upright position so I laughed and said, “Well, just shoot us in the leg. We won’t feel it.” And started to walk away.

But, this fellow sidestepped into my path and said, “You don’t understand. You can’t leave with all that money.”

Now, I’m a poker player. I am used to “reading people.” There’s a very successful poker player named Phil Laak, who has a term for when you read people right. “Just felt it,” he says. I certainly didn’t have a conscious stream of thoughts, but I “felt” it was a bluff.  And my natural instinct is never, never, never to let the bad guys win.

So, I fell back on the old “if you can’t dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bullshit” idea and just said, “I can and I will. I have to go now.” The guy started talking, but I just ignored him, turned and walked to the door. Larry followed.

Last I saw of our would-be strong arm man, his jaw was still moving, but he had a completely befuddled look on his face.

“I thought he was going to shoot you,” Larry said a little while later.

I said, “No, wasn’t going to happen.” After thinking about it, I knew what I “felt” as I “read” my would-be robber’s body language.

He was smooth. He never overtly asked for money. He never really said he’d shoot us—just that if I had a bodyguard, he’d have to shoot them. He was careful enough that if security came by, he could say he was just congratulating me on winning and that I misunderstood his intentions.

Anyone that careful would not have a gun. He would want to get the cash with a minimum of fuss and with no loud words. He didn’t want to attract attention. We were on the apron of the track. If anything physical occurred, he would have to negotiate 150 to 200 yards through a casino filled with video cameras and security guards. His chances of getting away were pretty bad and he was smart enough to know that.

I just “felt it,” but walking away then was the right action. And, because Larry’s son had to get to a meeting we had to leave right away.

But after letting this incident rattle around in my thoughts for a week, I now “feel” that this guy is a serial predator. He was too smooth. He had it too well thought out. And the careful wording of his approach indicated he had tried to set up a “misunderstanding” defense, if anyone complained to security.

So my next move is to head back to Delaware sometime in the next few days to talk to security and to see if I can spot him.  I’ll see if he wants to go “Round II” with a “helpless amputee.”  And I’ll see if we can’t put an end to his predatory career.

After all, you can never, never, never let the bad guys win.

Posted in General Interest, Philosophy, Wheelchair/walker | 2 Comments

A Paean To the Peabody

Posted on June 15, 2011 by Joe Challmes

On quiet streets where old ghosts meet
I see her walking now…
- From “Raglan Road”

Thirty years ago amid the dust, spilled beer and laughter of my misspent youth there were far too many “she’s,” but when it comes to memory only one “her.”

The “she’s” were young and comely, teasing and, sometimes, pleasing. They were nurses and artists, MICA students and bar maids. Season to season, the names, hair styles and color, body styles and life stories varied, but the friendly flirtations across tables, the “gift” pitchers of beer and shared songs remained unchanged. In memory, their individual faces have long faded into one almost forgotten memory of “them.”

But, the “her” is someone who will remain a part of my being as long as I breathe. She was not a lover. Not even close. She was far more, far more than that often brief interlude that burns so fiery and then extinguishes just as quickly. And now that “her” memory has been re-awakened, it’s time to tell at least part of her story as I knew it.

NOSTALGIA IS “IN” FOR BALTIMORE
With the passing of Burke’s Café and the closing of Werner’s on Redwood Street earlier this spring, nostalgia for a long lost Baltimore has been fodder for Baltimore’s older writers. The uniquely “Bawlamore” institutions of our youth are gone. In their place chains, franchises and Royal Farm Stores sprout.

But my memories were sparked by a new beginning, at least one for my youngest son, Jake, who started a job at the Mount Vernon Stable on North Charles Street. He’s home from Temple University for the summer. And thanks to the intervention of his sister-in-law, Shana, that’s where he landed to work.

So, last week, I found myself in the 900 block North Charles Street, Baltimore, at 1 A.M., a place and a time where once my presence was ubiquitous. It jarred me as I sat in the quiet of the early morning to realize that it had been 25 years since I was last in that same block at that same hour. After all, for nearly a decade before my last nocturnal visit there I had spent many hours after leaving The Sun’s city desk at the end of my shift in that very spot at what to me (and many, many others) was Baltimore’s most unusual saloon.

“Once upon a time there was a tavern,” is the old Russian folk song and it came rushing back to me then. Somewhere before “we were young and sure to have our way,” I was transported to Baltimore circa 1977-78, the winter the Chesapeake Bay froze, an ice age that I survived by thawing out nightly at that fabled drinking establishment.

In my mind, I stood just at the top of the 3 steps at the front of the more than slightly dumpy, 3-story end of row brick townhouse where a sign invited “Come in” and the name carved in a wooden sign above read, “Peabody Book Shop.” A slightly smaller carving to the right of the name added the legend, “Beer Stube.”

Transported in my mind back to a time when I still had two legs, I bounded down those steps and entered a separate universe of ancient, mostly worthless volumes of arcane and long out of interest lore.

To the right I saw the ageless Charles Lancaster, beard askew, eyes bright, with pipe and porter bottle. A smile, a turn of the head and Charles continued “managing” the establishment from his perch overlooking the crammed bookcases, piles of paper, streams of cheap costume jewelry more overpriced than the gaudiest pawn shop faux diamonds, faded photographs and the ever present century of dust that layered all of it.

Now I had a choice.

I could maneuver through the narrow path that had been carved from the overflowing piles of “second hand” items for sale (in truth most looked 8th, 9th or even 10th hand and had long ago lost their value for any but the homeless or those too drunk to notice) and make my way to the first floor bar.

And what a dingy place that was. Cold stone floors with a small, ancient kitchen to the left and a piano that may have been carved in the golden age of Steinway, but obviously not from that famous house, was halfway down that left wall. A long-stuffed buzzard sat precariously on an unlighted chandelier, a 100 millimeter cigarette jauntily hanging from its beak.

The lure of the first floor bar was a walk-in fireplace so huge that the heat singed the hair of those who sat at tables 10 feet away. No frozen winter, not even one so fierce that it could freeze the Bay so solid that folks walked over it, could chill the warmth of this room.

But the real warmth came from the entertainers. For the Peabody ground floor was a magic land of smiling elves and ancient sorcerers.

There was “Dantini The Magnificent,” a bent over, white bearded, aging Gandolf, who claimed to have known the legendary Houdini. Night after night, Dantini would perform his act of the Chinese rings and other low-level magician tricks. He then passed the hat.

Though the young and the stupid sometimes mocked Dantini behind his back, there was something there beyond an old man’s fading skills and the magic of another era that had long ago lost its allure for those who grew up in the television generation. Once, I stood behind him quietly as he prepared to go on stage, and I heard him return his young audience’s lack of respect with words that actually chilled me at the time.

“Magic. I’d scare the pants off of them if I showed them real magic,” he told himself. Somehow I think he could have too.

The other fixture of the first floor was Max, the Gypsy violinists, a short, bald as a cue ball musician, who filled the room with Strauss Waltzes, Polish Polkas, Irish folk songs and just about any music ever written by a human.

Max claimed he never forgot a customer’s personal song. Certainly, night after night if I entered his first floor domain, he would spot me and break into my favorite request. But, that was easy. I was a regular.

Then in the late 70’s, I was witness to an astonishing feat of memory. Early on a weekend evening, a man probably in his 60’s stepped into the first floor bar. He looked at Max. Max looked back, did a sort of double take and then fiddled up a tune I’d never heard. The new arrival then did his version of a double-take and began crying.

As the story unfolded, the unknown visitor had been stationed in Baltimore during World War II. In the 1940’s he frequented establishments, including at least one where Max played and he often requested that song. Before the war ended, he shipped out and he had not been back to the city in nearly 35 years.

Cheers might have been “the place where everybody knows your name,” but only the Peabody had Max, who knew “everybody’s song.”

OR A DIFFERENT ROUTE TO CHOOSE…

Or had my whim been different, I could have carefully mounted the windy, narrow, shaky staircase that led to the Peabody’s second floor bar, a different planet from downstairs. In an airy, high-ceilinged “Swiss Chalet” layout, the upstairs was “clubby clean,” with a pool table, dart board, long bar. Of course, it had a piano player too. There “El Duko” sang nightly of his “Thrills on Blueberry Hill” and the relatively low noise levels allowed for serious conversation or what passed as serious as reporters, editors, college professors and others increasingly slurred their words as the night got later.

This was a famous drinking spot. In the early 1970’s a drinking writer had managed to wander across the United States partaking of thousands of pubs, saloons, speakeasies and stills. He tried fancy restaurants and run down gin mills. He then compiled a list and wrote the book, “America’s 100 Greatest Watering Holes.”

The Peabody Beer Stube was listed as the 3rd Best Bar in the country.

The mistress of this domain was the indomitable Rose Boyajjian Smith Pettus Hayes, Baltimore’s bundled up version of “Auntie Mame,” “Second Hand Rose” and “The Unsinkable Molly Brown” in one tightly wound, extremely formidable woman.

Rose was not human. She was a force of nature.

As a teenager, Rose arrived in Baltimore with $8 in her pocket in the 1950’s. When she died of breast cancer 30 some years later, she owned the Peabody, the historic Brexton Hotel/Apartments, 1,000 apartment units, a farm in Carroll County and had $200,000 in cash stashed in her apartment above the bar.

Of Armenian descent, Rose proved the ancient Middle Eastern business adage that “ A Greek can outwit an Egyptian, an Arab can out bargain the Greek, a Jew can get the better of the Arab, but only the devil can outsmart an Armenian.” With guile, guts and native intelligence she built a mini-empire.

Along the way, she collected 5 husbands, including one sent to jail for a failed bank robbery.

Rose also collected people, picking up the weak, the hurt, the helpless and giving them a place to stay, money, even a job to tide them over until they could get back on their feet. I saw her time and again slipping money to drunks or telling scared young runaway girls to go up to the Brexton and ask for so and so and they’d have a place to shower and sleep for the night.

The Peabody Bookshop was Rose’s personality. She was a “hoarder” before that term became so popular it spawned 3 TV “Reality” shows. Her office, desk and even her apartment had years of paper, money, clothes and old junk piled high. And the bar was the same way. She never seemed to get rid of people, even those who had long ago lost their usefulness to her.

I remember the night that a group of reporters and editors had taken over the upstairs bar and were about to inhale a few pitchers of beer and a quite obviously drunk out of his mind, obviously homeless man lurched to the table.

“I bet you a pitcher of beer I can chug that pitcher of beer without taking a breath,” he announced to our astonishment and laughter. It was a pretty big pitcher. We figured we couldn’t lose. But there were two concerns—he was drunk already and could pass out or he’d lose and we’d lose a pitcher of beer because he couldn’t pay for a replacement.

So, we asked “What will you do, if you can’t chug it down in one gulp?”

With pride, this scruffy-bearded fellow in a shirt so covered in grease and grime that it had turned from yellow to black and torn pants pulled himself to full height of about 5’ 7’’ and said, “I’ll play the piano free for the rest of the night.”

Collectively the table lost its judgment and agreed to the bet. And we then watched in amazement as this man started on this pitcher like he was swallowing an oyster. The beer drained fast and the flow was uninterrupted until with just a few more swallows left, he had to come up for air. We had won the bet, but what had we won?

Stumbling to the piano, our “losing drinker” loosened up his fingers and then began to play the most beautiful piano music I had ever heard (and have heard until this day.) He was Arthur Rubenstein, Van Cliburn or the ghost of Franz Liszt! Who was this guy?

His name was Gene Ostrawski and his story was a modern tragedy. He’s been a professor at Julliard, but had turned to alcohol after his wife and kids were killed in a fire. Terminated for drunkenness, unable to hold a job, he’d wandered the East Coast until the hint of a warm fire on a very cold night gave him the courage to push open the doors of the Peabody.

He wasn’t just a good piano player. Was a classical musician with the world as his repertoire.

Gene stopped drinking that night. Rose cleaned him up. Got him new clothes. Gave him an apartment and told him he had a job as a piano player and part-time maintenance helper if he wanted it and if he’d stop drinking.

He stayed at the Peabody playing the piano until the day Rose died.

GHOSTS IN A PARKING LOT

The Peabody Bookshop is no more. The building was torn down to make way for a parking lot after Rose died. But even 25 years after that, I still find it hard to believe that Rose is dead at all, so vivid are the memories.

The Irish have a greeting, “May you never die and may I live forever.” When I knew her, I thought that Rose was the one person who could live forever. Even as the breast cancer that killed was eating away at her, she was still full of life. Until just weeks before her death, she was taking a train to New York once or twice a week for acting lessons—a new venture that implied life would not end soon.

So as I faced the parking lot with “Once Upon A Time” swirling in my mind, I realized I had come face to face with my own “Raglan Road.” The ghosts of Rose Pettus walked through the parking lot, looking for people to help or customers to woo or publicity possibilities.

And I found myself silently wishing that Rose had, indeed, lived forever.

Posted in Baltimore, General Interest | Leave a comment

Petty Behavior Exposed At City Cafe Balto

Posted on May 12, 2011 by Joe Challmes

The City Café, 1001 Cathedral Street at Eager, and I have opposing definitions of what a café is and the general quality of life enhancer that a real café should be.

Wednesday afternoon, I had an unpleasant, actually offensive, encounter there. Without embellishing the tale, here is what happened and I’ll let my readers and friends judge for themselves whether they wish to patronize this establishment in the future. I, for one, will not be going back. I can better spend my money elsewhere.

Two of my neighbors, Bob, a former reporter in New Haven and former copy editor for the Philly Inquirer, and his wife, Sue, also retired from reporting, and I went for late afternoon coffee. We opted for the City Café. It is only a few blocks from the Symphony Apartments where we both live and the streets are fairly level—an important factor since I am in a wheelchair and Bob, who also uses a wheelchair, was in a motorized scooter.

On the Eager Street side, the café had 5 empty tables on the street. It was a gorgeous, sunny spring day so we decided to sit outside. Sue went in to order coffee and Bob and I, two guys in our own chairs, sat outside and waited. Within minutes a waitress appeared and we told her we were just getting coffee.

So far normal.

What happened next was definitely not normal, certainly petty and left me with a distaste for this establishment so foul that no matter how good their coffee, it will be a freezing day in hell before I return.

The waitress returned within a few minutes to inform Bob and myself that the outdoor tables were “reserved for people buying dinner” and if we didn’t order dinner, we could not sit there. She invited us to take our coffee (which was being purchased at the City Café) and go to “one of the lovely parks in the area.”

Understand, the café was half empty. There were 4 other empty tables outside. There were no hordes of customers waiting for tables. Bob and I were pretty puzzled. Was this a ploy to get us to buy food we didn’t want? Or didn’t they like the idea of two old guys, one in a wheelchair, the other clearly unable to walk and in a motorized scooter, sitting outside their establishment?

My idea of a café has always been a place where folks could linger over coffee unhurried and savor the flavor of the bean while taking in the ambiance of the surroundings. Apparently, City Café management thinks otherwise.

When Sue returned with our coffee, Bob and I told her what happened and that we had been invited to leave. She went back into the City Café to speak with a manager, but came a few minutes later with the pronouncement that “apparently they would prefer for us to leave.”

We moved our coffee inside, a chore trying to get the wheelchair over the ridiculous door mats this establishment has. In addition, our bulky chair and scooter meant that other patrons had to climb over and around us in sort of a made “musical chairs” pattern to get to their seats.

And I kept an eye on those tables. For the next 45 minutes not one patron much less a group sat at any of those five seats.

So I’m giving big thumbs down to the City Café for being so petty. Whatever happened to “the customer is always right?” And I pass this experience along for what it’s worth. If you feel I’m right in being offended, feel free to forward this blog as many times as you like to the City Café management. They won’t see me or my money again, but if they think I was an inconvenience for sitting at their table Wednesday, I wonder what they’ll think after they see this a few hundred times in their inbox.

Posted in Baltimore | 7 Comments

An Old Friend Reaches A New Height…

Posted on May 5, 2011 by Joe Challmes

His nickname was “Lumpy,” which at the time fit his 14-year-old frame that was still soft with baby fat. He’d stand by himself in a room in the press box at Laurel or off in a corner of the rooftop balcony at Pimlico and “call the races” to himself under his breath and into a tape recorder while the horses ran.

That’s all Larry Collmus ever said he wanted to be—a race caller.

And true to the traditions of the race track—where more people live on hope than at any other address in the world—no one discouraged him.  In fact, it was just the opposite. Race announcers like Dick Woolley on the Maryland circuit and the nasally, “New Yawker,” Costy Karas, the voice of Charles Town, welcomed him into the announcers’ booth at their respective tracks.

That was the early 1980’s. Larry was still a student at Mt. St. Joe in Baltimore. And being the voice of horse racing at even a small track like a Charles Town was a distant dream.

Saturday about 6.30 P.M. EDT, the world will see how far Larry Collmus has come as he takes control of the microphone and for NBC TV, radio and the world announces the Kentucky Derby.  He takes over for the longtime voice of the Triple Crown, Tom Durkin, who is the regular announcer on the New York racing circuit.

Now 44, Larry is no longer “Lumpy” and no longer a kid. In fact, he achieved his dream as an 18-year-old calling the races at the now defunct Bowie Race Course in Southern Maryland and he’s never looked back, getting the job as track announcer at Golden Gate Fields in San Francisco, Suffolk Downs in Boston, Monmouth Park in New Jersey and for the last several years at the most prestigious winter race meeting, Gulfstream Park in Florida.

Last year, he went viral on a You Tube video with a call of a race that featured a dual between two unlikely named runners—“The Wife Knows Everything” and “The Wife Doesn’t Know.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tQRlZw4Rad0

But Saturday he takes the biggest microphone in the world for what’s been called, “The Greatest 2 Minutes in Sports.”

Thankfully, it won’t be his first “Derby call.” Although all the news stories and radio and TV reports about him have focused on that and the nerve wracking stress that goes with being the voice for what amounts to a 20 horse cavalry charge with dust flying and positions changing in micro-seconds.

You see, in 1985 Larry made his first “Derby trip.” I was covering the Triple Crown for Reuters, a job I’d held since 1977. At the time, I owned a few horses that were racing and Larry became a friend and hung around my barn and went with me when the horses raced. He’s in almost all of my “Winners’ Circle” photos.

As I planned my Derby trip that year, Larry asked if he could come along. So, over the West Virginia Mountains we drove (pre-expressway days) on a long, winding journey that featured a not-so glamorous Derby experience of backwoods motels, bad diners and lots of potholes.

It was the year Spend A Buck stole the Derby under a “put the opposition to sleep” ride by Angel Cordero, Jr. It was the year that a rambunctious patron named Garry Laskin almost wiped out an entire section of the temporary seating when he stood on his chair to watch the race, lost his balance and started a chain-reaction, domino effect of swaying chair standees down the stretch until he was steadied by one Carole Holden, another friend of mine.

And standing on his chair, watching the race, I’m sure Larry Collmus was calling the runners. He never watched a race without calling it in those days.

I have a feeling that Saturday’s Derby call will be a lot tougher than “Spend A Buck by 4, now Spend A Buck by 5,” but I also know that Larry’s a pro and he’ll give one of the great Derby calls of all time.

And, thankfully, he has the experience of 1985 to fall back on.

Posted in General Interest | 2 Comments

As Good As New?

Posted on April 28, 2011 by Joe Challmes

Some things are worse than dying, I was told. Losing a leg, living as a “cripple,” was one of them, people said.

But, I told them I’d be as good as new. I would walk as naturally as though I had grown a new limb from the knee down.

And, here I was walking between the parallel bars at therapy–one leg after another, no hitch, no lock and step—just as I had walked in the first 61 years, 2 months and 17 days of my life.

“You’re amazing,” one therapist said. The others applauded.

“See,” I told them, “I told you I could do it” and I looked down toward my feet just to make my eyes confirm the message of the natural gait that my legs were sending through my nervous system to my brain.

Then, I woke up!

NORMALCY

The dream comes two or three times a week now. I think I must be getting close to walking unaided. My brain is reviewing the roll of the hip, the bend of the knee, the lift-off the foot and the landing of the heel that it takes to move one forward in a natural walk.

But, now, as I pass the 6 month anniversary of the amputation (October 25 to April 25), the only time I feel completely relaxed and normal (the old Joe, if you will allow that reference), is when I’m driving.

Driving is freedom. Driving is pure joy. Behind the wheel I am whole. I am the same as ever. My left leg always (when I wasn’t driving a stick) just stayed still and watched the right leg do all the work.

You take freedom for granted until you lose it. Having to rely on other people to ferry you to the store, the doctor’s, a restaurant, anywhere puts you at the mercy of other folks’ schedules. After a while, you begin to feel guilty about relying on them so much.

With apologies to “Me And Bobby McGee,” but Freedom isn’t “just another word for nothing left to lose.” Freedom is the opportunity and the ability to do what you want, when you want to do it. And that is priceless. Course, that line’s always bothered me anyway. Shame I had to confirm my feeling in such a traumatic way!

Posted in Lifechanges | 1 Comment

Opening Day: Milestone & Memories

Posted on April 6, 2011 by Joe Challmes

The last time I walked on two legs in any public venue was the final home game of the Baltimore Orioles on October 4, 2010. I went to the emergency room that night, doubled over with pains in my left calf and ankle that made me want to die to escape the misery.

Three weeks later on October 25, my left leg was amputated above the knee.

On Tuesday, October 26, I set a goal—that I would “walk” into Camden Yards in Baltimore for the Orioles home opener under my own power—not in a wheelchair! I didn’t know what it would take in terms of therapy and re-learning how to walk, but my mindset was that I HAD TO mark that milestone.

This Monday, I did just that. Walking on a prosthetic leg with use of a “walker,” but without assistance I made my way alone from Pickles Pub on Green Street in Baltimore where a cab dropped me off several hundred yards to the Babe Ruth statue outside the bleacher area entrance, where I met friends. I then went through the turnstiles and into that stadium as the Orioles celebrated their first home game of the year.

Doing so was important, I believed, NOT just because the two events connected the “end” of one life for me and the beginning of another, but because of the extra power of the symbolism of the opening day of the baseball season as a moment of ‘hope,” even for the hopeless. On opening day, every team from the powerful New York Yankees to the lowly Pittsburgh Pirates starts with a clean slate and can at least dream of a season that ends in a World Series, even if that dream be so fleeting.

It also is a day when Americans of all races, all political beliefs, all religions come together to forget their differences and root for the home team. In that sea of “Orange and Black,” the Orioles colors, were Tea Partiers and Progressives, Conservatives and Liberals, Christians, Jews, Muslims and atheists, with a large minority of drunks or would be drunks scattered through the mix.  We forget our differences and come together on common ground.

That’s something that Americans would recognize no matter what the era. My grandfathers and their grandfathers would not have been out of place in this setting. Baseball is the American game and the American spirit. It is our history.  When Lee surrendered to Grant at Appomattox to end the Civil War, the common soldiers from North and South played a baseball game to pass the time. Recent combatants engaged on a friendlier field.

Maybe that’s something we all should remember in this highly charged political climate. The right has dug in. The left is standing its ground (or fleeing to avoid controversial voting on controversial bills where they know they will lose.) Partisanship is high. And conversations seem endless and lead nowhere.

I believe Democracy is a game of give and take. The majority rules, but should not dictate. Power shifts back and forth in elections. And the ability to work out compromises and act together is what has kept this republic going since 1865. As Shelby Foote, the writer and historian noted in Ken Burns’s classic documentary “The Civil War,” the last time Americans failed to use political compromise on major issues we went to war with each other.

And if we can come together at a baseball game, we should be able to sit down and talk in Wisconsin, Ohio and all the states that are now battlefields for the future. Should union gains of the last century be rolled back? Should government slash/cut/social welfare programs in the face of what many perceive to be economic reality?

The battle of the budget in Washington could shut down government. Can Congress in good conscience close necessary social programs without undermining the fabric of society? Is this really a rich versus the common man question?

I’m not knowledgeable enough to know the answers to those questions. But those who have sought power through the elective process and who have put themselves in the position to provide the answers should stop spitting at each other and start talking. There is still common ground somewhere as a starting point.

BASEBALL IS THE CONNECTOR OF GENERATIONS

Baseball is also the connector of generations. As I look around that stadium, I saw fathers and sons everywhere. I was reminded of Billy Crystal’s nostalgic monologue in “City Slickers,” noting that despite any differences they had his character and the character’s father could always talk baseball.

That was true in my own life. My father took me to one baseball game, Orioles opening day 1956. During the game, a foul ball came our way. I was 7. I had my big plastic glove. I reached up to catch the ball. Just before it landed on my glove, my father, probably trying to protect me, jumped up and grabbed for the ball with his bare hands. I can still remember the “thumpslap” sound the ball made as it bounced off his palms and flew at least 30 rows behind us where someone else made a circus catch.

I was so mad and I let him know that I would have caught that ball. I must not have let up even after we went home. Something in our relationship fractured that day. Although I went to over 100 Oriole games as a kid, my father never once went with me again.

Yet, in his 80’s long after that event, when we disagreed on everything from my life and lifestyle to politics and religion, we could still talk baseball. And those conversations would erase our differences on other subjects.

As I think more about it, baseball is much more than a game. And that’s why meeting my goal of walking into “the yard” on Monday was so important to me.

Posted in Uncategorized | 7 Comments

All Horseplayers Die Broke–A Philosophy!

Posted on March 30, 2011 by Joe Challmes

I’m a horseplayer, unabashed, joyful …

…and bruised from head to toe from bad beats, bad decisions and slow horses!

But, as a friend said to me, “you’re handling the amputation mentally better than anyone I know exactly because you are a horseplayer. You are used to dealing with loss, adjusting and moving on to the next race or, in this case, the rest of your life.”

Other friends have told me, “If what happened to you happened to me I wouldn’t know what I’d do. I’d just fall apart” or “I’d commit suicide” or “I’d sit around and cry all the time.”

I’ve now had five months to examine why I adjusted to the loss of a leg even before the surgeons had removed it and moved on without one minute of doubt, devastation or depression. And I have come to the conclusion that I’m a throwback in mental outlook to my parents’ generation—the one that grew up in the Great Depression and found the strength to beat back tyranny in a World War.  And, yes playing horses, gambling and taking chances come with that territory.

Note: I am inviting comments or guest blogs to examine, refute or expand on what I am writing here.

It all starts with attitude. That’s what I’ve heard from Day 1 of my new life. And everyone I’ve met, from doctors to therapists to family have commented favorable or even praised “my attitude.”

Where did this “attitude” come from?

From my belief system, which is pretty much at odds with the consumer oriented, accumulate goods and luxury items mentality of recent history.

And it all starts with “All Horseplayers Die Broke,” the famous poem and quote by the chronicler of the borderline characters of Broadway and the race track, Damon Runyon.

Watching Guys and Dolls the other night on Turner Classic I felt more akin to “Nathan Detroit,” “Sky Masterson” and “Harry The Horse,” than I do to most of the people of my generation.

Those larger than life characters (most likely caricatures in words, not drawings) lived and breathed deeply of life’s experiences. They knew that life could turn on a card, a roll of the dice…

…Or an out of control car careening down a street and cutting someone down in their prime.

They knew they wouldn’t live forever so they drank long pulls on waters of life while they could. None of Runyon’s characters (and he covered Broadway for New York papers so they were drawn from his real life “beat”) accumulated much wealth, but they were wealthier for the experiences of life.

Runyon (and by extension) his characters knew that really, “everyone dies broke.”

Contrast their outlook to the ridiculously stupid slogan of the 80’s (and believed to this day by many) that “he who dies with the most toys, wins.”

Nonsense! He or she who dies with the most toys—dies!

No one as far as we, science or history can tell, managed to take those toys with them at death. The Pharaohs of Egypt tried mightily by building monumental tombs and filling every nook and cranny with the “toys” of their lives and era, but they didn’t get to enjoy them after death—they are now collecting tons of dust at museums around the world, where the living can stand in awe.

Accumulating cars, boats, luxuries for the average person usually means becoming the property instead of the owner. The struggle to “keep up with the Joneses,” to use an old, cliché (based on real Jones by the way) and to pay for, protect and insure these items becomes all consuming. It eats lives rather than enhances them.

The Bernie Madoffs and the Enron villains are just the visible products of a consumerism philosophy that I believe has eroded mental strength and made us dependent on “things” rather than self.

And I look around at others my age and a bit younger or older who are working two or even three jobs to afford mortgages on homes too big or more luxurious than they need, cars designed more for status than travel and a plethora of needless “designer” clothes, shoes and furnishings. Then I conclude that it’s no wonder so many people get depressed and practicing psychiatry is a lucrative profession!

My belief system developed over years and years of living, taking chances, avoiding the trap of becoming “the property of my property” is fairly basic.

I believe only things that matter in life are experiences. Too late I think the rest of my generation is coming to this conclusion—at least if you believe reports of the growth of “bucket lists” among the now aging “baby boomer” population.

I believe every experience is ultimately worthwhile. It teaches us something. And a lifetime rich in experiences is far more valuable than a life spent working day and night to accumulate luxuries that will eventually pass into someone else’s hands after the accumulator dies.

With that ingrained in my personality, I had no problem dealing with the news from the doctors that my left leg had to go to save my life.

Yes, I had to scrap my book collection, give away a lot of furniture (none designer made) and scatter whatever I had in my apartment to the winds. But that was no great loss because I am not overly attached to “things.”

Even before the leg was amputated, I was drawing up a post-operation program for therapy, re-learning how to walk and eventually walking.

I beat the depression that seems to overwhelm so many by concentrating on the joy that succeeding in each step would bring. Those who talked to me or read some of my early posts on Facebook know that I planned out…. A. Therapy. B. A leg within two months. C. Walking with a walker or crutches by the end of February. D. Driving by the end of March. E. Walking without the aid of walker, crutches or cane by September, 2011.

It is now the end of March. I received my prosthetic leg in mid-February. I am walking with a walker. I am driving and went out walking and driving by myself for the first time on Monday, March 28. All of the goals I set last October between the 22nd (when I found out the leg would be amputated) and November 1 when I was released to the rehab unit have been achieved so far. We’ll see if I’m walking unaided by September.

I am writing this not to pat myself on the back, but to explain why I believe what I do and how it helped me and in hopes that others facing life changing situations—cancer, amputation, anything—can maybe view the world my way and avoid depression over their difficulty or condition. After all, depression robs you of the focus and energy needed to move on and heal.

Finally, though, how does my life philosophy deal with death?

I really smile when I explain this:

When the grim reaper comes knocking at my door, I expect to be able to conjure up magically a lifetime of experiences—from holding my children for the first time to hitting a home run in little league, from rushing to the Winners’ Circle the first time one of my horses won to all the friends I’ve made over the years. And I will meet death with a joie de vivre and a smile on my face, knowing that my experiences made life worth living and death nothing to fear.

After all, everything that is born must die. It’s just another part of life. Another experience.

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May Have Found A New Career…

Posted on March 19, 2011 by Joe Challmes

Ubiquitous are beggars in Baltimore.

That fact didn’t quite sink into my consciousness until this morning as I sat outside the 7/11 on Park Avenue enjoying a morning coffee, an apple and the New York Times.

A young black man comes out of the 7/11, walks over to me and holds out a dollar. I thought he wanted change. Instead, he thought I was panhandling and he offered me that Washington.

If I’d have known it was that easy, I might have done it earlier. Now I know I can still make a buck even if the writing gigs shut down!

No, I didn’t take the dollar, but I’m still laughing hours later.

UPDATE: RESTAURANTS … In the interest of drumming up support for restaurants, theaters and other venues that have gone out of their way to be wheelchair accessible, I am going to start listing and rating those I find. If readers find a place they’d like mentioned, drop me a note and I’ll check it out.

BAN THAI…340 N. Charles…  Access… 4 Stars easy ramp in, no steps. Bathroom is down a narrow, but negotiable hallway and features grab bars and is wide enough to turn a wheelchair around.

Food: Only one visit, but I’ll be back. Interesting Thai menu with variety of spicy and mild dishes. Pad Thai seemed ordinary, but the curry dishes stood out. The coconut ice cream was to die (or give an arm and a leg) for.

I’ll do a more detailed review after a few visits. If you want to check out their menu, here’s a link:

http://www.banthai.us/

Posted in Baltimore, Uncategorized | 1 Comment

A NECESSARY ATTITUDE ADJUSTMENT-MINE

Posted on March 8, 2011 by Joe Challmes

I was well on my way to curmudgeon at age 61.  It was not pretty. I definitely was going to be a grumpy old man.

Years of news reporting had already put a cynical edge on my view of my fellow human beings.  Add to that the daily dose of dealing with road ragers, supermarket line jumpers, the “always entitled” whiners, office politicians and assorted others flawed with modern social afflictions and I had long decided that the milk of human kindness was pretty sour indeed.

Aside from a few very old and trusted friends at the Aging Newsmen’s (and Young Ladies Auxiliary) lunches, race track buddies and the hangers on at Merlin’s Coffee in Hanover, Pa., I avoided human contact.

Then life intervened and my left leg was amputated–and man did I quickly learn that within every human heart (or almost every) good will lurks.  It just needs nudging to come out.

From the first day I ventured forth on a city adventure by myself, I have been approached by strangers of both sexes and questionable sex, all races–Caucasian, Black, Asian and Mulatto– and all ages with offers of help to push, pull or even lift me along the way.

As a independent minded person -to the point of fierceness–that took some getting used to. I was the one who helped everyone else. I had been the guy who drove folks when they were too incapacitated to do so, who took in the tired, the weary and lost (see my Stoop Story Telling show of February 7) and the person who believed he was so strong that nothing could overcome him. And I mean nothing. That attitude, by the way, came from my father, who was beyond the doubt the most hard-headedly independent male of his generation. He thought that accepting assistance showed a lack of pride, unless someone was truly and utterly disabled.

With that kind of history and my life self image of being able to stand on my own two feet when others were falling, I strongly resisted offers of help even though I was down to one foot. I would say, “Thank you, but no, I can handle it.” Something in me would not admit to the fact that, yes, I actually could use some help getting up this steep hill or opening that damned stuck door.

In late December, though, one fellow would not take NO for an answer. I was struggling going up a hill downtown with some snow on the ground that made it hard to get the wheelchair wheels to do anything but spin. Along comes a hulking black guy–big enough to play for the Ravens–who upon getting my standard “no” just sort of lifted me and the chair over a snow pile and pushed me up that hill as easily as though I was a baby.

I felt humbled. But then common sense took over and I was very, very thankful. My back, arms and hands were already hurting from the effort. That help was not only needed, it was belatedly gratefully accepted. His insistence on helping me also forced me to re-think my stubborn independent streak. And the constant kind offers of help from strangers made me re-examine my cynical view of the rest of the species.

I realized that an attitude adjustment was definitely in order–my attitude. People were more than willing to help and I should let them. And, I should give people more credit for the good deeds they are willing to perform when they see someone who is really (or perceived to be really) in need.

Thus was “curmudgeonhood” avoided.

Posted in Lifechanges, Philosophy, Uncategorized | 4 Comments

A Useful Web Site For All

Posted on March 4, 2011 by Joe Challmes

Ever see an eyesore, a pothole, a building ready to collapse and think, “Hey, man, I ought to call the city (or county) and let them know so they can fix it,” only to have the thought that what good will it do?  After all, governments have the reputation of being slow to act in non-emergency situations.

There’s now a web site for concerned citizens that actually gets results, at least if my experience is any indication.

When I moved into the Symphony Apartments on Park Avenue in Baltimore, I was immediately struck by the incongruous situation that at my intersection where 4 streets meet there were 5 curbs and 4 of them had cross-cuts for wheelchairs. One did not. Of course, the one sidewalk lacking a cross cut was right in front of my apartment complex. There are at least 4 wheelchair residents in the building.

To get off our corner, we had to wheel our chairs into the street at a driveway ramp and cross 3 lanes of traffic going uphill to get to a safe island in the middle of the street. From there we could cross to one of the others sidewalks in the intersection. To get back to our side of the street, we could use a cross cut from one of the other sidewalks, but then had to cross downhill through oncoming traffic before we could get on the sidewalk.

Obviously a dangerous situation, especially for those like me in manually operated wheelchairs who move much slower than electric powered chairs.

My friend Margie researched this situation and found a web site that was set up specifically to make it easier for citizens to draw attention to civic problems.

www.seeclickfix.com/citizens

She used their easy to navigate system to pinpoint the intersection and state the problem. Apparently the web site alerted the Baltimore City Department of Public Works via email to the notice because within half an hour, she had received a response, noting that cross cuts were the responsibility of the Department of Transportation, not Public Works. The email contained a phone number and name of the person to contact.

After calls from Margie, myself and the leasing agent for the apartments, the city sent out an engineer to study the problem. His initial reaction was that a pole was placed in the natural spot where a cross cut would go. But he promised to study the situation.

Less than a month later, a city crew showed up, drilled and cemented a cross cut and the wheelchair users in the area now have a much safer trip across the intersection As one observer noted, “the city’s never acted that fast in history.”

No matter where you live or what your concern, you should check out this nationwide service. One problem we have noticed–a software glych makes it difficult to mark a case as “closed.” But that’s  minor compared to the results the web site helps achieve.

www.seeclickfix.com/citizens.

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