Category: Uncategorized

Just A Quick Address Correction

My bad!

Greetings readers,

For those of you who were trying to contact me via the email address in my previous post, I apologize. My email address was missing a letter. Comments can always be made directly here on Substack or sent to me at:

lesrraffblogger@myyahoo.com

In the previous post, I was missing the 2nd “r” in raff.

Shout out to MK for alerting me to the possible error. And thanks to all for being loyal readers! Keep those cards and letters coming in (now that they can get here!)

Les Raff

A Day at Home Depot Shines A Light On My Past

I sometimes miss the simple life.

Growing up in Rogers Park I frequently accompanied my mother on an important mission. As we walked through the neighborhood, I was trusted to carry a small rectangular piece of stiff white cardboard. The card was not a postcard or an invitation. It was a bill, our monthly chit from Commonwealth Edison, the city’s sole electricity provider.

Mom and I were not out to pay the bill. Like all of our family payments, that duty was handled by my dad, a meticulous bookkeeper who was never late meeting a financial obligation. The journey Mom and I were on was to a neighborhood hardware store, where we could present the bill in exchange for 10 light bulbs.

The bulbs were “free”; their cost was likely built into our monthly bill. At the store, we could choose from any of the available bulbs. And what was available? We had a choice of 60, 75, or 100-watt incandescent light bulbs. Standard light bulb shape, standard light bulb size, standard light bulb base. They were a perfect fit for every fixture of our apartment.

I remembered the lightbulb task this morning while standing in Aisle 1 of the Home Depot store in Northbrook. I was there because a 60-watt incandescent light bulb, one of the three bulbs in the ceiling fixture of our home office, had burned out. My goal at the store was to find equivalent LED replacements for all three bulbs.

Through more than 7 years of service, the incandescent bulb had projected a warm yellow glow through the glass base of the fixture. That’s what I was looking for as I studied about 400 shelf-feet of bulbs at the Home Depot. They were virtually all LEDs but beyond that, the variations and choices were uncountable and unimaginable.

There were long bulbs, short bulbs, round ones and square ones. Candelabra bases, standard bases, and something in between. Bright white, soft white, daylight, and plain white. There were even smart bulbs that changed colors with your mood, your music, or your appetite. Overwhelmed, I chose some daylight bulbs, assuming they would project light with a soft, sunny, slightly yellow appeal.

I was wrong. The new bulbs filled the home office with an unpleasant, glary, harsh, white light. Twenty minutes later I was back at Home Depot exchanging those bulbs and grilling the store clerk on the best bulb for my needs. We chose soft white bulbs and the soft yellowish-white light is just what I like while I sit at my desk typing this post.

We have traveled a long way since those Rogers Park days in the 1960s. Technology has gifted us a wonderful assortment of energy-efficient, environmentally friendly, and cosmetically stylish light sources. But sometimes, in our quest for progress, we lose sight of the small, simple treasures that once illuminated our lives—like a walk with Mom and a bag of light bulbs.

________

Hello friends—this is the first time I have used Substack to distribute a blog. I am still trying to figure the site out. Please let me know if you have received this by emailing me at lesrrafblogger@myyahoo.com

Commetns are always appreciated!

Challenges in Sports: Why ‘Nice Shot, Les!’ Stings | RaffStuff Blog

I hear it in the morning. I hear it in the evening. I even hear it in my sleep. Three little words said over and over again. It’s enough to drive a man crazy.

What are the words that have that effect on me? What utterance sends shivers down my spine? You might think it is “Wrong again, Les.” That’s the phrase my son claims that the late, great, Alex Trebeck used ruthlessly and repeatedly on my single Jeopardy! appearance. However, my review of the gameshow videotape indicates that Alex never said that, not even once. Therefore those three words don’t bother me a bit. They are just a bit of fiction.

But the phrase that truly gets to me isn’t ‘Wrong again, Les.’ It’s ‘Nice shot, Les!’ My friends say it to me. Casual acquaintances say it too, usually with sincerity but always with a hint of amazement. These folks mean no harm — they believe they are being supportive. So I smile, nod my head, and mumble my response.

An opponent said it yesterday during pickleball. With a slight variation a friend said it while we were bowling. And I know someone in my threesome will say it today by the 4th hole of our nine-hole round of golf.*

Why is this phrase such a dagger to my heart? Whether it’s in pickleball, golf, or tennis, it is usually uttered after I have muffed five or six shots in a row, and then finally hit a semi-decent forehand, tee shot, or lob. That’s when a chorus fills the air, as everyone in shouting distance proclaims “Nice shot, Les!”

I know everyone means well as they chime in. But the goodwill rides on a current of “we know you have trouble playing this game well and we are just a bit surprised you managed to make that shot!”

I really can’t blame anyone for having that sentiment. Despite a love of competition, lessons galore, and practicing whenever I can, I have never excelled at sports. Hand-eye coordination is lacking, as is the ability to shift my weight to get power behind any of my serves or drives. And as my bowling partner has lectured me many times, my follow-throughs aren’t too hot either.

But I’m a blue-eyed optimist. So, I’ll keep swinging, hitting, and rolling, all the while hearing those three infamous words. Maybe one day, they’ll be said without surprise, but with genuine admiration. Until then, keep cheering, and I’ll keep smiling—’Nice shot, Les!'”

*Post-script: I was on the ninth hole before I hit a good one today. However, it was a beauty. I’ll say it for you. “Nice shot, Les!”

Looking Back and Wishing All A Happy Holiday Season

A little while back my friend Rick handed me an old holiday card he had received from Barb and me years ago. “We were decluttering the house while we renovated, ” he said. “We came across years worth of your cards, and thought we should save at least one for you.”

I added the card to an orange folder I keep, a folder containing a somewhat incomplete roster of all the cards we have sent through the years. This morning, I added the 2023 edition and spent much of this dreary day looking back on all the old cards, as many past memories came my way. It was my personal TBTOAS (Throw Back Thursday on a Saturday.)

The collection begins with the very first picture holiday card we ever sent. In the photo, Barb, Michael, Laury, and I are enjoying an English Tea at a small shop on Vancouver Island. The kids, aged 7 and 5, daintily raise their cups, little fingers extended, bubbling over with sophistication. It is almost impossible to comprehend that in the photo on this year’s card, a card featuring the entire family at Disneyworld, both our kids are parents, and our grandkids are now 40% of the clan.

Where has the time gone? As I look through the cards, I see it in the many photos we have selected to send to our friends every December. Pictures from birthdays, from weddings, from marvelous vacations, and from everyday life. There are reminders of beloved pets that are no longer with us and a photo that stands as a memorial to our former home in Long Grove, the home in which the kids grew up and from which Barb was so reluctant to leave.

Along with the photo cards are many of the inserts we composed to send along to let everyone know how we were all doing. Those inserts were clearly forerunners to my blogs, with the same tenderness mixed with the same tiny bit of snark. Among my favorites: A letter to a “Dear Kitty” advice columnist in which our new kitten described the past year and asked why we had so much trouble naming her; a newspaper Special Edition announcing the various roles our family would play in the (first) Obama administration; a TV Guide page listing the astonishing TV shows the Raff’s were starring in that season. All fun things to write, and along with the photos wonderful to look back on.

I hope this holiday season is being kind to you all. For all of us, our personal lives and the world around us bring challenges, but to paraphrase the late Danny Thomas, “Give thanks for the good things in your life, and give support to those who need it most”

Happy Holidays from our family to yours.

To subscribe to our blog enter your email in the box below.



Putin Shows Us Why Trump Must Not Be Re-Elected

You start an insurrection in the USA, and you may find yourself standing trial, facing prison sentences, or having a crimp put in your campaign for the highest office in the land. Start an insurrection in Russia, like Yevgeny Prigozhin, and you find yourself dead.

Donald Trump calls the many investigations into his “activities” witchhunts. He verbally attacks prosecutors, judges, the press, and anyone who will not fall into line with his mad pronouncements on the 2020 presidential election. But we are not Russia. Because enough people in this country accept and protect the values that our republic aspires to, Donald Trump is able to live among us as a walking, breathing citizen, awaiting trial, safely flying wherever he chooses to go,

We are not perfect. I understand that we have not always lived up to the most noble values, and perhaps never totally will. And I think I understand why a person like Donald Trump will always admire a ruthless dictator like Vladimir Putin. Yevgeny Prigozhin leads an apparent attempted coup in June, in August a plane he is flying in crashes from the sky.

As I write this, there is no confirmatory evidence that Putin or his henchman were behind the plane crash. There is just conjecture and coincidence in a country where one man’s word is the word of law.

Our nation must never drift that way. We must never again elect a president who seeks that type of power. We don’t want or need to shoot him from the sky, just try him, convict him, and elect a man better than him as our president.

Phon-etics. My New Career as a Cell Phone Finder

What are the worst five words in the English language? I thank you would be at a loss to find any more terrifying than “I can’t find my phone!”

I first heard that phrase a few years ago. Barb was opening every drawer and cabinet and poking behind every chair and sofa in search of her missing iPhone. I joined in the hunt, finally suggesting we see if we could locate it with the FindMyiPhone app on Barb’s iPad. (Yes, we are an Apple family.) We found the app on the tablet — a 10-minute search in itself) — pressed the button and waited to see what the app could tell us.

In a minute or so we had a location. The app was telling us Barb’s phone was at the entrance to our subdivision, where our local access road intersected the main thoroughfare. Barb was puzzled and unbelieving. “How could it get there?” she questioned. “It must be a false signal.”

I pulled Barb out of the house and we took the short walk to the spot the app appeared to be indicated. We stood on the sidewalk, and as Barb had predicted, no phone.

I looked into the intersection and saw something sparkle. As soon as the light was green, I sprinted down the crosswalk and retrieved Barb’s phone, cracked but still broadcasting its “Find Me” signal.

How did the phone wind up in the middle of an intersection? The most likely scenario–earlier in the day Barb had probably laid the phone on her car hood before going driving on a short errand. The valiant phone clung to the car before spinning to the pavement when Barb made a hard right turn to leave the subdivision. My first case was solved.

My next two lost phone incidents both occurred recently, and both in airports. Airports thousands of miles apart.

The first was about a month ago. Barb’s friend and high school classmate (we’ll call her Wendy) was arriving at O’Hare Airport from California to attend their high school reunion. Barb was volunteering at Lake Forest Hospital that afternoon; I was the designated pick-up driver.

I pulled up to the airport just as Wendy started texting me that she had landed and would be ready to be picked up shortly at Terminal Two. In the intervening minutes, Wendy also got a text from her husband Bill back on the West Coast. He had COVID! Distraught with Bill’s news, Wendy greeted me with a “No Hugs” warning and slid into the car.

We were just driving past Terminal Three when Wendy uttered those awful words. “Les, I can’t find my phone!”

With a hard pull to the left, I turned into the recirculating lane for a loop back through the airport. Despite Wendy’s urging to “Go faster” and “Don’t stop at that red light,” I kept my cool. Even so, it couldn’t have been more than 3 minutes before we were are the spot where I had picked up Wendy. She leaped out of the car, searched the curb, and held up her hand, triumphantly showing me her phone.

But I still didn’t get a hug.

Now let’s travel to our flight last week from Warsaw to Krakow. The Lot Airline hostess glowered at Barb and told her “You must put your little purse under the seat in front of you for takeoff. You must do it immediately while I stare at you and make you feel extremely uncomfortable.”

Barb scrambled to accommodate and the purse wound up under the seat in front of me. Two hours later we were in an Uber leaving the Krakow Airport when Barb reached into that little purse and said “I can’t find my phone! I’m sure it fell out of my purse when SHE made me stick it under the seat.”

This time it was the Uber driver who made the airport recirculation drive. and directed us to the Information Booth. The attendant there sent us to the Lost Luggage station. Barb picked up the connecting phone and spoke to a second attendant.

“I left my gold iPhone on the plane from Warsaw. It has a picture of a couple with two grandchildren.”

“Yes, we have it. I will bring it to you in a moment.”

It was the attendant who got a hug.

How about you? Are you a finder of lost phones? Let me hear about it at chidoc@post.com

From Göppingen to Auschwitz–We Must Always Learn From The Past

I don’t usually write travelogues, but those of you who have noted an absence of posts for the last two weeks may wonder where I have been. To unabashedly steal the title of a John Le Carre spy novel, Barb and I began our travels in a small town in Germany.

The town was Göppingen, a burg with a population of about 60,000, a 40-minute train ride outside of Stuttgart. The occasion was an exhibition of about sixty pieces of art created by my great-grandfather John Elsas. From about 1925 to 1935, Elsas created over 25,000 watercolor satirical paintings and collages, each approximately 8 inches x 10 inches in size. Each piece was adorned with a short statement or poem, many reflecting on the political situation in Germany, culminating in Adolf Hitler’s rise to power.

Barb and I attended the invitation-only opening of the exhibition where we were warmly greeted by Dr. Dominik Sieber, Director of the Städtische Museum im Storchenm. The introductory presentation was given by Dr. Dorothee Hoppe, the archivist who introduced me to my great-grandfather’s works and after years of investigation knows more about the German side of my family than I do!

From Göppingen we traveled to Berlin. Here we spent three days exploring Germany’s capital, including the political, historical, and Jewish aspects of the city where my father lived until immigrating to America in 1933. Throughout, remnants and memorials to the Cold War and the Holocaust were never far away. With our next stop, the full weight of the Holocaust bore down upon us.

We flew from Berlin to Krakow via Warsaw on Lot, the Polish national airline. While we enjoyed the sites and atmosphere of the lovely central Oldtown, our main reason for traveling to Krakow was an hour’s drive to the west; here we reached the gates of the Auschwitz concentration camp and its partner camp, Auschwitz II-Birkenau.

Visiting the camps there is no escape from the horrors of the Final Solution. We were surrounded by residual structures, photos of the dead, surviving confiscated shoes, and an emotionless recounting of the murder of over a million people by our tour guide. For Barb and I, it was a reminder of what we already know; we hope for the many other visitors it opened their eyes to what must never happen again.

We had to hustle to make connections back to Chicago when our direct flight from Krakow to O’Hare was canceled immediately before boarding, but we arrived home just one day late. As I write, I reflect on the places we visited, the international meals we dined on, and my great-grandfather’s art. But also on the wondrous people we met: the Moscow businessman who insured yachts and thought Putin was crazy, the Irish statistician who was in Poland to organize a juggler’s convention, our Uber drivers, our guides, and our hosts.

All in all, it was a trip well done.

To subscribe to our blog, enter your email address below.

To read our previous post on Pizza in Chicago, click HERE.

What Does a New York News Site Know About Chicago Pizza?

You love Chicago pizza. We love Chicago pizza. In my high school days, it was Pizzaria Uno or Due downtown–before their reputations were sullied by franchisization. Then came a My Pi phase–enjoying pizza at the original shop down the block from the Loyola El stop.

On my first date with Barb, sandwiched between watching a polo match at the Chicago Armory and a visit to a Chicago magic bar, we munched on the piping hot cheese pizza at Gino’s East. We enjoyed Gino’s again on the night we got engaged, and completed the Gino’s hat trick on our wedding day, walking from the Drake Hotel for a late-night snack after our afternoon nuptials.

And these days, any excuse is a good excuse to enjoy a Lou Malnati’s pie. Barb is partial to the Lou Special (hold the cheddar cheese, please) while I like to indulge in some pepperoni on my slices. Best when eaten in one of Lou’s sit-down restaurants, the delivered pizzas are nearly as perfect. Even the frozen version can brighten up a weeknight dinner at home.

What do all these pizzas have in common? They are all Chicago legends and they are all deep-dish pizza. Deep dish is what Chicago is known for, as iconic as Vienna Beef Hot Dogs, Garrett’s Caramel and Cheese Popcorn, and Alinea’s five-star meals.

Yes, Giordano’s stuffed-style pizza has its devotees, but that is an anomaly. Single-layer deep-dish is where it is at.

So I was amazed to read an online article in Bloomberg, informing me that the Chicago pizza style that is “taking over the US” isn’t “pudgy deep-dish” but instead cracker thin, crisp-crusted, tavern-style pizza. It’s the rage in Brooklyn, wowing the Northwest in Portland and Seattle, and truffled up for wine-pairing in Napa Valley.

Is it true? Is Chicago’s bulky, broad-shouldered pizza about to be replaced by a crispy cracker slathered in tomato paste? I hate the idea. But I suppose if I can root for The Bear’s Carmy Berzatto to be successful in turning his Italian Beef shack into a Michelin-starred restaurant, I have to be open to food evolution in other Chicago classics as well. Maybe I will try the crispy ‘za at a restaurant in Westmont recommended in the Bloomberg piece.

Just don’t start putting ketchup on my Superdawg!

Like what you read? Enter your email to subscribe to our blog.

Visit our most recent post here.

Wild Horses Couldn’t Drag Me Away

Often the hardest part of writing my blog is picking a suitable image for the top of the column. Sometimes I have a photo on my phone that will do, sometimes I pick one from our old photo albums. Occasionally I will use Dall-E, an artificial intelligence tool from the folks who brought us Chat GPT to create an appropriate depiction of my post’s theme. And sometimes I will search the World Wide Web for something to punch up my words.

Of course, one has to be careful when choosing images from the Web. Many are copyright protected and should not be appropriated for other uses. When my posts were part of the Chicago Tribune’s ChicagoNow site I was allowed to use the Tribune photo files—at least according to the ChicagoNow Guru, Jimmy Greenfield. That gave me a lot of creative photo choices.

There are other options. Once a week, the website Deposit Photos sends me a link to a Photo of the Week that can be used for free as long as I give proper attribution. So yes, that is where today’s stunning illustration is from. It’s such a marvelous photo of a Clydesdale that I knew I wanted to use it to head up my blog. The only problem is that I don’t have much to say about…horses!

I have ridden horses a few times. I recall a summer vacation with my parents in upstate New York where trail riding was an afternoon activity. And when our kids were 6 and 8 years old, we spent a marvelous week at Peaceful Valley Dude Ranch in Colorado. Although I am sure I took a daily ride through the mountains, my strongest memories are of Michael in the kid’s rodeo, and watching Laury screw up her courage to go for a ride. The cowboy hats from that adventurous summer are still on the high closet shelf in our bedroom.

I may not have been on a horse in the last 30 years, but I have ridden a camel. That took place somewhere in the south of Israel during a tour in 2008. My ride was uneventful; I wish I could say the same about the ride of one of our tour companions who was unceremoniously dumped from her “ship of the desert.” She had a dusty, painful landing!

How about any of you? Great horse stories to tell? Something to make that fiesty Clydesdale at the top of the page proud? Send them to me at chidoc@mail.com, or leave them as a reply.

Just remember, if you fall off your horse, or your camel, screw up your courage and get back on. We will ride those wild horses, someday.

Like the blog? It’s easy to subscribe. Just enter your email address into the box below.

To read last week’s blog, click here.