The Official 2020 Selfie Photo Album: a hair-raising tale

So what have I been up to since I dropped off Facebook? Same old stuff, but just not including anyone else or publishing what I’ve done. For the most part. I have been trying to keep up on what’s new in people’s lives, offering stray likes and comments here and there. Just not posting a bunch of stuff like I used to. But I have been keeping busy. Reading, writing, bingeing. And watching my hair grow. Here is how that went.

As a baseline, this is me on November 4, 2019.

Here I am on January 14, 2020, wearing the same sweatshirt (we’ll come back to that in a little while). I had just turned 60 and was still trying to get my head around that when the rest of 2020 hit.

Three and a half months later (May 5), things are well underway. COVID-19 is a thing and so is my growth.

Sorry I don’t have any in between pictures, but I’m not much of a selfie artist. These photos were taken at the behest of others. Fast forward to November 6, one year and two days after the baseline photo.

Ohhhh, this deserves a side-by-side comparison.

Damn, that year aged me. Still, I am impressed by how much foliage I was able to grow in just 12 months.

Had there been a Halloween that year, I had my costume all set. Since there wasn’t a Halloween, I finally got around to dressing up and documenting it on December 8, knowing that I would soon be ridding myself of the beard. It was a sort of Gandalf/Merlin hybrid. I recycled parts of Toni’s witch costume from several years earlier and added my wizard staff, to good effect I think.

But the time had come to rid myself of the extra weight. And I took the opportunity to do something I always wanted to try. Muttonchops!

 

If it’s good enough for Presidents Martin Van Buren and Chester A. Arthur, it’s good enough for me. Well, it was until I saw a movie. A silent movie. And suddenly, the muttonchops paled in comparison to what I saw there…

 

Oddly enough, Barrymore was not the source of my amazement. It was one of his two buddies in the movie.

Time for a closeup.

What was I looking at???

Turns out—as is true of all outstanding facial hair styles—it has a name. It’s called a Hulahee, Because nothing this extraordinary deserves a moniker of lesser prestige. I had to have one.

 

December 12, 2020: the transformation.

Just look at the years melt away! But how did I do in the Hulahee department?

Nailed it.

(Coincidently this was the same day I took a picture of a faux Star of Bethlehem in anticipation of the cloudy skies that would surely obscure the exciting alignment of Jupiter and Saturn that was to occur near year’s end. I was not disappointed: it rained all day and there was not a star in the sky to be seen, miraculous or otherwise. The photo is a reflection of a reading lamp on my TV screen.)

And not to slight the star of the Svengali, here is John Barrymore, who could easily beat me in a wizard costume competition (and he still isn’t his creepiest here: his Mr. Hyde beats all).

Actually, the top shot is not that far off from what I looked like…

Martha Mansfield’s emotional range in just a few seconds in this scene matches Barrymore’s 100%, although approaching from opposite directions.

 

My variations in hair have a long history. 2020 was not the only year this sort of thing has happened. Witness what happened a little over a decade ago. (Yes, I have posted this next bunch of shots before, but they have become relevant again.)

And it goes back even further. 30 years further back.

1976, 1977, and 1978 school pictures. You’re right! It’s the same shirt in the first two pictures. I am still guilty of the same crime 45 years later. And while there is a vast improvement in my personal appearance overall in the last shot, I still must deduct major points for the leisure suit even though we all were wearing them at the time. Conformity was never my strong suit (is that a pun?), so my fashion sense should have had more sense.

And what about all that hair that came off my face?

I know it looks like something out of a 1970’s porno, but really it’s just a beard without a face in the sink. I won’t even go into how much beard hair resembles pubic hair, even before I shaved it all off. It’s one of the reasons I was not sad to see it go. That and the shedding. I hadn’t counted on that at all.

There you have it. 2020 in a nutsack. I mean nutshell. I am also very much looking forward to getting my hair cut, but it needs to be a certain length before I can donate it to Locks of Love. I’m so close now, I guess I can stick it out for another little while. And I hope—as do we all—that 2021 is a brighter year all around. Now, for some hair of the dog.

Throwback Thursday (recycling a series of Facebook posts)

It’s Throwback Thursday, so I have prepared what I hope is a special treat for your enjoyment. I have a quartet of posts that hark back to the origins of the person you know as Me. It’s a bit more personal than my usual fare of how odd the past was (e.g. the 1900 German Fireman Sprinkler Head, or the How-in-the-World did that thing even fly 1938 Nintendo Airplane posted earlier).

A few weeks ago, Greg LaValley (who is quickly becoming my favorite local historian) posted a photo of Dr. Donahue (more on him in a later post) on the You Know You’re From Cass City Facebook page [https://www.facebook.com/groups/228587690517305/]. It reminded me of two occasions when my family made the front page of the Cass City Chronicle. Thanks for the Rawson Memorial Library newspaper archive, these articles are available online and I cobbled the columns to make them somewhat more compact. I present them to you now, with some necessary clarifications, and some personal observations as well. (I’m not going to go through each image-garbled word though, unless specifically requested.)

Oma und Opa

The first article about my grandparents predates me by two years. What struck me as I reread it this time around is that I am now the age my grandfather was then. Here was a 60-year-old man (58 when they first arrived in America) starting life over again. True, I am two years into the process of “starting a new life” as well, but it is not by the sweat of my brow. I am currently living a life of leisure, so it’s not at all the same.

The article does do a good job of characterizing my grandparent, concise though it is. They  never did get their citizenship (anyone who has tried to pick up a second—or in their case, a fourth—language later in life, knows it’s not a cakewalk; they knew enough English to get through life), but they did get their green cards, of which they were very proud, and which I still have…somewhere.

The second article will fill in a few more details of their life, so I won’t spend any more time on that here.

Notes:

My grandmother’s first name was Clara, which, owing to the era of the articles, does not appear in either article: “Mrs.” was enough.

The “Yugoslavian” language they spoke was Serbian. It was the language everyone in the household used when speaking about matters that my young German ears were not supposed to understand. As a result, I have a sizable store of Serbian curse words locked in my head whose meaning I can only guess at, but have deduced to a degree over the years.

The sister who sponsored their immigration was my grandfather’s sister, Theresa, my Tante Resi. So, yes, Joanne Reinbold, if not for your grandmother, I wouldn’t even exist.

My mother’s name was spelled “Hedy” not “Heddy”, proving that journalism back then is not that different in some regards as it is now.

End of part one.

Mom

Yes, before anyone says it, that adorable, cherubic little towhead in the photo is me. Can we move on now?

When it comes to a biography, I have often thought that my mother’s would make a great Hollywood epic. Facing what she did at such an early age (she was a teenager during the War) and coming out the other end with such grace, only to be slammed down again later by divorce and rise up from that until death came calling way too soon [see my blog for that story: https://jonnyquestone.blogspot.com/2018/01/today-is-day-i-traditionally-wax-bit_31.html]. She was able to keep her humor throughout—witness the inclusion of the Cognac and Statue of Liberty stories—something that she no doubt got from my grandmother whose wit was legendary.

Not many notes or comments to make; the story really tells it all. I do like the brief description of her as a person.

The only real standout for me that needs additional fleshing out is that the twelve years they spent as refugees in Austria is reduced to a single sentence. Twelve years is a long time by any standard, but when your days are spent in a work camp and your nights in a one room apartment no bigger than my current bedroom living in a country that wished you weren’t there, it takes on a little different meaning. They didn’t talk much about those years around me (or the wartime either for that matter), so I can’t offer much in the way of details. I do have pictures though, and every year during that period there was a Charlie Brown Christmas tree in evidence. I am forever grateful that the photo albums made it through the War and beyond.

The two suitcases each which accompanied them to Austria grew to three wooden trunks (lidded crates really) and three suitcases total when they left for America (I assume a more relaxed round of packing than when you are fleeing for your life), still not much when you consider most people need at least a moving truck to relocate these days. The smallest trunk was painted and repurposed as a toy chest for me; and I still have the smallest suitcase.

End of part two.

Bonus: Grandpa

The year after my grandmother died, this appeared in the society page of the Chronicle on July 1^st, 1982. It reiterates some of the previously related details but also adds a little more depth to my grandfather than just “grave” and “studious”. And it actually gives names to my grandmother and my great aunt.

One little detail that needs to be corrected is that my grandparents got married in 1926, not 1927. Otherwise my mom would have been born two months before the wedding. I have their framed and dated wedding picture to prove it. (The date was too faint to show up in this image of the photo, so you’ll have to take my word for it.)

Dr. Donahue

I would be remiss if I didn’t include something about Dr. Donahue. Since it was the post about him [https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10216488429430965&set=gm.3600687133307327&type=3&theater&ifg=1] that got me started on this trip down memory lane. But more than that, Dr. Donahue was a part of our lives since forever, and not just us, but the whole town. He was there when I came into this world and he was there when my mother left it. He was quite broken up about that, professionally for sure, but personally as well. I think his obituary paints about as good a picture as you can get of the man. But there was an incredibly human side to him that might not shine through all the larger than life details in print. Case in point is one of my favorite anecdotes.

About a year after my mother died (I had my driver’s license by then), my grandparents and I were on our way to see (I assume) my grandmother’s sister, Elizabeth (Tante Liza [pronounced, “Leeza”]). Before we even got out of town, I rear-ended a car at 45 mph. (I claim limited responsibility: he had his turn signal on and was pumping his brakes at the same time in sync with, but alternately from the blinker. (This was back when there was no center brake light; and I’m sure the situation I’m describing is exactly why they became the industry standard years later). The way I saw it, I had a 50-50 chance of guessing which way he was turning. I guessed he was going right, and I gunned the engine to pass. He was turning left. Bang. No one was seriously injured, but Grandpa—uncharacteristically in the front seat—cracked his head on the windshield. So, after all the insurance nonsense (I don’t remember if there was police or roadside assistance involved) off to see Doc Donahue we went.

As it turned out, the driver of the other car was an Osteopath, for whom an MD like Dr. Donahue had a smidgeon of professional contempt. When he found out who I had hit, a strange and mirthful expression crossed his face. Again, nobody was seriously injured. Dr. Donahue explained that he knew him. And then several more times during the examination, he would say, “so you hit Dr. So-and-So”, feigning disbelief by shaking his head, but betrayed by the barely concealed smirk on his face. To be sure, Doc Donahue didn’t wish the man ill; that wasn’t in his nature. But appreciating Karma might have been.

I have for my entire life been surrounded by these types of larger than life figures (and more that I haven’t mentioned here). I am left with one of two conclusions. Either I have been extraordinarily blessed, or that larger than life folks are much more common than I’ve been led to believe. Either way, I count it as a win.

Mia Famiglia (I figured since we were at the Italian-American Cultural Society this title would work)

I have survived the wedding weekend of the century and lived to tell the tale (I did wimp out on day three though). There were actually three events going on, but I certainly didn’t want to steal any thunder from either the bride and the groom, or the bride’s pappy the next day at his surprise birthday party. OF COURSE, I was celebrating the union of two souls. OF COURSE, I was celebrating the completion of one more year of life on this planet for one of my family. But I also had reason to celebrate something for myself. And because not everyone knows what that might be, here’s the short version.

For various reasons over the years (some legit, some dubious) I have been in and out of contact with the bulk of my family on my dad’s side. As a small child, I had more frequent contact—though even that wasn’t really “frequent”—but as time went on, those points of contact became ever more sparse. Folks moved away, I became a delinquent but eventually turned that around, I got married and led a fairly insular life. A couple of weddings here, a couple of funerals there, and then even that dried up. And time gets away from you. And because life is the way it is, not everyone is at every event, so the range of time you haven’t seen someone can vary greatly.

Enter the wonder that is Facebook. I give Facebook a lot of shit, but it has enabled me to connect with family members (and friends, too) that I haven’t seen in a very, very long time, and with some that I have never met at all. Before Toni passed away, though, I only dabbled with social media; after that, I exploded all over Facebook (they’re still trying to clean up the mess). Since that time, I have become extremely close and very attached to several members of my extended family. I have witnessed them interacting with each other, and gotten to know my family just a bit better. And that great as far as it goes. Maybe I’m just irreparably old school. As wonderful as the internet has been to me, it still cannot substitute for meeting someone face to face, hearing their voices (I’m not big on FaceTime or Skype), holding them close and breathing the same air. So as nice as it’s been connecting electronically with everyone (“everyone” is a relative term; I’m still gathering friends…although “relative” is an appropriate term, since that is what I am writing about), something was still missing.

I’m minding my own business, looking through my junk mail, thankful that there are no bills and then remembering 99% of my bills get paid electronically (duh), when suddenly I come across a letter addressed to me from my cousins, Birtie and Lenny. It’s either way too early or way too late to be a Christmas or birthday card…Oh. It’s a wedding invitation. Their daughter is getting married. Huh.

Now, you have to keep in mind that over the last 2 ½ years, I have pretty much become a hermit. I don’t leave the house unless I have to, like when I run low on/out of food. One of the main reasons I go to therapy every week (I’ve only played hooky once in over a year’s time) is so that I get out of the house at least once a week (don’t tell my therapist that). I usually try to time my food shopping trips to coincide with therapy day so I don’t have to go out more than once. For all I know, the invite might have been in the mailbox for a couple of days because I don’t check it everyday (see mostly junk mail and non-bills above…); my mailbox is across the street and my driveway is 90 feet long. So. I’m going to an event with a few hundred people, at least half of whom are related to me in some way or another, a few of whom I know personally, none of whom I've seen at the very least in a decade and a half, and at most more than 50 years. And have a good time. Sounds like a disaster in the making for someone who is socially challenged.

But here is the amazing and wonderful thing about my family—and I hope that it works this way in yours, and if it doesn’t I hope you find a family where this is true someday or create one of your own—I didn’t have any anxiety about it. And this is why. In all of those many years of meeting up every once in a great while, I have never once been treated like I didn’t belong. Those feelings of being on the outside and looking in (if they exist at all) would be all on me. I have always been part of the pack, no matter the time and distance. Whenever we have gotten together, it’s as if no time has passed at all and we just pick right up where we left off. I expected that this time would be just like that. And it was. I have missed a lot of opportunities over the years there is no doubt. But I have etched in my memories every single one that I was part of.

Look, I’m no fool. I know day to day life is different from event life. Every family has problems and squabbles and no family is perfect. I get that. But. There’s a world of difference between “Oh god, why did you have to invite him” and the warm embrace of people who love you no matter what. I am very lucky to be on the good side of that equation. (Of course, I have no way of knowing what anyone says when I’m not there, so there’s that…)

Having the wedding reception was a great way to get reintroduced, and in quite a few instances, introduced for the first time, to people that are a part of my history whether I was aware of them or not. We each hold a piece of our family’s history and it’s a wonderful thing to be able to share that with others. Having the birthday party the next was almost as great a treat for me, because it was then that I could actually sit down with folks and have longer conversations that didn’t require shouting over the music. (I say almost, because the wedding has to be on top.) But even then, there wasn’t enough time for everyone. But that’s okay, there’s always next time. I’m excited to get to know my newly acquainted relatives, even as I look forward to reminiscing more with the ones I already knew.

It’s strange to think, that we members of the OG Kessler/Seibert/Gelb Cousin Crew are now at the age our grandparents were when we first started popping up. Well most of us are; one of us still has a couple of years to go…And we’ve long since passed the ages of our parents in that regard. And as I look out of this field of NextGens that you all have, I’m a little less worried about the world in general. I see an awful lot of really good people following after us. Good job, Crew, good job. In the time we have left on this earth, I hope to get to know each one of you better. And this holds especially true for the cousins that couldn't make the wedding.

So thank you yet again, Alicia and Trey Raynes for inviting me. You have no idea how much this has meant to me, but I hope this gives you just a little idea.