Pause for Purpose

Mark K September 7th, 2011

We received word this summer that our restaurant was going to need major repairs – Leaky pipes under the floor. We’d have to close for two weeks – haul all of the equipment to the parking lot, jackhammer the floors, dig up and replace the faulty pipes, install a new floor and put it all back together.
Meanwhile, our bookkeeper had planned a two-week cruise to the Mediterranean and I would have to fill in for her and prepare the payroll while she was gone.
I hunkered down in her office with construction dust on the floor, pounding and roaring outside the door, along with the smell of paint fumes. I poured over her detailed notes and entered and reentered the payroll numbers, spending an entire morning on it until I realized that I was doing it all wrong and had to start over again.
Meanwhile, my nephew Max had volunteered to remove some ivy that had encroached on the roof. He worked gamely on it all day even though he had a fear of heights and spiders and fair skin that was getting redder as the day progressed.
I was making progress on the payroll in the afternoon but my lack of number keyboard skills was holding me back. The regular bookkeeper could whip through the entries, punching the 10-key pad without looking. I had to hunt-and-peck and then check the numbers over and over until they balanced. It was taking me four days to do what Cindy could do in one.
In the afternoon, Max came down from the roof and most of the construction workers called it a day. Billy, the subcontractor remained, working on the dining room floor. His radio was tuned to a pop station. I heard Adele’s “Someone Like You” for the sixth time.
Doing a task that you’re not very familiar with can be so frustrating that it makes you question whether you have the necessary make-up for the job. I felt like I had a set of handicaps that could match Max’s up on the roof but instead of battling spiders, height and the sun I was up against multi-tasking, math-phobia and an uncooperative keyboard. There was a spider hiding for me in each new set of numbers.
Billy finished with the floor but left the radio on because it was on the other side of the wet cement. Payday was the next day – it would just be Adele and me until I finished. Like Max, the main thing I had going for me was dogged determination.
It was good to keep busy, though – in the back of my mind was another deadline. My second, and last, child would be leaving for college in a week and my wife and I would be facing an empty nest. I had been preparing for this with plans for volunteering and a hike across Spain -I wasn’t sure how to fill the void after 20 years of parenting. But then life made other plans.
The plumbing fell apart. The bookkeeper left for Europe. There were major personnel changes at the restaurant. My wife and I decided that we needed to take more control and that I would be needed more at work.
I felt like George Bailey, the Jimmy Stewart character from It’s a Wonderful Life. Every time he thought he was finally going to escape Bedford Falls and pursue his dreams, he is reeled back in to take care of the latest crisis at the family Savings and Loan.
I thought that I had just about figured out my job description – that I would morph from a teacher/father/husband/restaurant support person into something slightly different with emphasis on the teaching with a side of world travel, visits to my parents and getting reacquainted with my wife. I hadn’t bargained on a full-time restaurant job.
But why not? By eleven, the checks were ready to be printed. Payroll took forever, but turned out well, if I do say so myself. I had begun taking notes on a philosophical statement about what our restaurant is all about. I was starting to form my new job description.
I had to keep busy – my daughter leaves for college in four days.

Tags: Empty nest

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Mark K August 28th, 2011

I was dying for something to eat – wandering around the Novato Safeway with low blood sugar, hoping to find something healthy before resorting to Twinkies or donuts.
Jamba Juice!
There was a Jamba Juice stand inside the store with only one person in line. I scanned the menu for something more substantial than a smoothie. I found something called a “Chunky Strawberry” – a new item consisting of five of my favorite foods – yogurt, peanut butter, granola, strawberries, and bananas. What’s not to like?
As soon as Jamba Juice Guy finished with the customer ahead of me, I ordered one. At that moment you could almost hear the well-oiled gears of the Jamba Juice factory come grinding to a halt. Rather than making a quick 360 as he added yogurt and fruit, made a quick stop at the blender and poured the smoothy into a cup, Juice Guy had to do a considerable amount of head-scratching and consulting of formulas.
Then, just as he was adding the yogurt, a smiling new customer arrived behind me in line. But as it turns out, she wasn’t a customer at all.
“When will you be home for dinner? the middle-aged woman asked.
“I’m not coming home for dinner at all tonight,” Juice Guy responded without turning around, consulting a formula taped to the wall.
“Why not?” asked Jamba Mom.
“Because I’m going to San Rafael after work to get a tattoo.”
“You can’t go to San Rafael,” Jamba Mom replied without dropping the smile. “There’s a guy with a hostage shooting from the window of his hotel. The SWAT teams have shut down the freeway in San Rafael. You can’t get there.”
That’s brilliant, Jamba Mom, I thought to myself. I’ll have to remember that one when my own son asks for a tattoo. I wonder how she came up with that one.
Juice Guy wasn’t fazed though as he donned a pair of plastic gloves for the delicate dissection of a banana.
“I won’t be home for dinner tonight,” he repeated tonelessly, without looking up.
Jamba Mom and her tireless smile wander off and I got my Chunky Strawberry, preventing an embarrassing swoon onto the tiles of Safeway.
“That was quite a workout,” I offer by way of acknowledgment for his efforts,” but I get little more than a grunt in reply. Perhaps his thoughts were consumed with hopes that the next customer would order a simple smoothie so that he could divert his attention to the upcoming inking of his bicep.
I finished the snack, a little disappointed considering the time and effort that went into, but re-energized for my drive home to San Rafael.
Approaching the last hill leading to San Rafael, traffic slowed and soon came to a complete stop.
SWAT team induced gridlock.

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Mark K August 17th, 2011

I tried a new coffee place the other day and was sitting outside drinking my coffee and reading a book in front of this planter and bike rack. After a few minutes a guy pulled up and hastily parked his bike, talking angrily to himself as he pulled out his ear buds. He grabbed a five gallon plastic bucket and headed for the planter and began deadheading flowers and removing dead plants.
I asked him what was wrong.
“They’ve got the wrong kind of plants here,” he spat out to no one in particular, “and they’re not taking care of the ones that survive!”
He darted about from one planter to the next.
“How hard would it be to connect to a hose bib and run a drip line out here?”
Two questions came to mind. 1) Was this guy actually in charge of maintaining the plants, or was he just a morally outraged citizen? and 2) Would he attack me with those garden shears if I were to suggest that his reaction were over-the-top?
Looking back on it, though, I have to kind of admire him for taking a stand on the proper care and treatment of ornamental flowers. Who am I to say he was crazy – I might become just as indignant when someone fries chicken in the cooking oil that ends up in my gas tank (more about that some other time).
Where do you draw a line in the sand (or the potting soil)? What drives you mad?

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Mark K September 17th, 2010

In the summer of 1958 my dad took my brother and me to our first Giant’s game. I remember finishing a French twist donut at my grandmother’s apartment on San Bruno Ave. and then catching the 25 Bryant on the corner.

The bus fare was ten cents and you dropped your dime into a big metal hopper next to the driver. As the bus bounced along the driver would occasionally pull a handle on the hopper and you would hear this chugging, jangling sound as the fare box digested and sorted the coins. Sometimes as the bus lurched down Bryant St. the coins would noisily resort themselves without the aid of the driver.

Soon we arrived at Seals Stadium at 16th and Bryant, across from the Hamm’s brewery. There was a giant pilsner glass atop the Hamm’s building with yellow and then white neon lights that lit up steadily from the bottom of the glass to make it appear that the glass was being forever filled and refilled with beer.

To enter the stadium, you had to walk through a dank dungeon-like area under the grandstand and then open some swinging doors that brought you to the bottom of the stands. Instantly, your eyes were greeted by the brilliant green of a carefully manicured field like none that I had ever seen.

My dad showed our tickets to an usher and we climbed to our seats, choosing not to rent an optional seat cushion – thousands of which we would later see being hurled into the air at the end of the game.

The Giants were playing the Cincinnati Reds that day and Johnny Antonelli was pitching for San Francisco. My dad told my brother and me to pay particular attention to the Giant’s center fielder because he was a great player – I was so young that I hadn’t yet become aware of Willie Mays.

As the game went on I became distracted by a couple of black men sitting several rows behind us, with empty seats between them and us. They seemed like they were angry with each other and kept arguing.

My hometown had a population of a thousand, none of whom was black. I had once seen an itinerant black man in my neighborhood. In my small-town little-boy confusion, I was convinced that he was returning from the Civil War.

I couldn’t resist turning my head to watch the two men at the game. They were mad at each other, weren’t they? They sounded like they were ready to fight, but they kept smiling while they were doing it. One minute one of them would be poking the other one in the chest just like my brother Jeff did to me right before he popped me one, and the next minute he was slapping the other guy on the back and they were both laughing.

I turned my head all the way around to get a better look.

“Don’t look at me like that,” one of the men shouted at me. “I’m gonna come down there and choke you!”

I turned my head and aimed my eyes toward centerfield. Willie Mays made a basket catch, his hat flying off and landing on the neon grass. I didn’t look back again and when the game was over, kept my eyes on the steps as we made our way to the exit, trusting luck that I wouldn’t get hit by a flying seat cushion.

I didn’t look up again, except once, to catch one last look at the giant bubbling glass of beer before climbing back onto the 25 Bryant.

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Mark K February 23rd, 2010

When I moved to Berkeley in the ‘70’s, I soon learned about all of the colorful characters who hung out on Telegraph Avenue.  Little did I know that my dog, Eddie, would also soon reach legendary status.

There was a guy we called “The Orange Man” who could usually be found on the edge of Sproul Plaza, at the south entrance to the university.  He was always dressed in pastel tie-dyed clothes and had long curly blond hair like a halo around his head.  He carried a plastic bag with three or four oranges inside which he would swing about as he stood for hours, talking to no one in particular.  The word was that he had lost his mind on drugs and that he fancied himself to be a sort of Johnny Appleseed, but with oranges.

There was a homeless man with bloodshot eyes and a crazed expression who camped out near the Café Mediterranean down the street.  He would mutter and scowl and then occasionally break into a frantic kung fu fight, driving away unseen foes.  Once I asked him if I could buy him a coffee.  “No, thanks, I’ve already had one today,” he replied in a clear and refined voice.

My favorite, though, was the one we called “One-way Shoes” who shuffled about town, sometimes pushing a shopping cart.  He had a pair of worn-out leather shoes with the back part squished down under his feet – like someone going outside to get the morning paper.  The shoes were so tattered that we joked that if he ever tried to back up, he would leave the shoes behind.

My friend Bruce worked at Moe’s Books in a five-story building on Telegraph and lived in an apartment on the third floor.  I was staying with him temporarily until I found an appropriate place for Eddie and myself.  Finding an apartment was going to be tough because not everyone allowed dogs, not even an average dog, and Eddie wasn’t exactly average.

Eddie was a shepherd-terrier mutt and to call him hyperactive would be an understatement. His expressions of strong will were legendary, leading him to near-expulsion from a dog obedience class (for trying to bite the trainer) to being maced by a mailman (for greeting him with barks, snarls and a driveway-long sprint). He had already dodged death once – or at least dodged a few fenders in a mad dash across four lanes of Interstate 80. But despite all of this, Eddie was a lovable and loyal pup who never wanted to leave my side.  But that day in Berkeley, we had a terrific craving for a cappuccino and couldn’t bring him with us across the street to the Café Med for fear of what Eddie would do to the apartment if left alone. So we meticulously planned (for 20 or 30 seconds) and decided that the perfect solution would be to leave the dog alone on the roof of the apartment building.

There was stairway access to the flat room where a clothesline was located and the perimeter was enclosed by a four-foot high solid wall. As we left Eddie up there, we wedged the door shut, gently pushing his eager snout out of the way, and made our way to the elevator. In a minute, we were in the lobby, opening the front door.

We were greeted by a passer-by who seemed to be very disturbed about something.

“There’s a dog running around in the street and I think it was just hit by a car.  Does it belong to one of you?”

“No.  My dog’s on the roo…,” I started to say.  Bruce and I looked at each other in horror as we came to the same conclusion.

We ran outside to see Eddie, who recognized me and came hobbling in my direction, listing twenty degrees to the right, stepping gingerly, as is he were walking on thin ice.  My mind couldn’t quite figure out how he had gotten there until I went around to the alley next to the building and saw a parked car with a dent on the hood, surrounded by Eddie-hairs.

No, Eddie had not been hit by a car.  He was the one who had done the hitting.  “Dog Hits Car”, the headline would read.

I was filled with guilt as I took Eddie to the emergency vet, certain that he wouldn’t survive the day.  I felt completely irresponsible for leaving him on the roof, but who would have thought that he would have jumped over a four-foot wall?

Amazingly, Eddie survived.  He didn’t even have any broken bones or major injuries, although for a few weeks he moved as if he had aged a dozen or so dog-years.

Looking back on it, I wonder what One-way Shoes would have said if he had shuffled around a corner just in time to see Eddie flying off the roof and crash landing below:

“Hey little bro’ – you got the right idea – keep moving forward, never go back.  Just remember though – the jumping is the easy part – it’s the landing that takes a little getting used to!”

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Mark K February 4th, 2010

This is my “greasecar”, Stella.  It’s a 1982 Mercedes 300 D (for diesel) that has been converted to run on used cooking oil.  I took it to a shop in Oakland called Veg Rev where they did the conversion work.  Diesel engines were originally built to run on a variety of oils – the only problem with cooking oil is that the viscosity is too thick.  You can either have a conversion done to your engine so that the oil is warmed up and made thinner, or you can chemically convert the oil, producing biodiesel, and use this with a stock diesel engine.

Since we own two restaurants that produce about 15 gallons of used cooking oil each week, I decided to have the conversion done.  The cooks at our restaurants know about my project, so they save the oil for me.  Each Saturday, I go down to the restaurant and take about an hour to filter the oil through a simple sock filter and put it back into the five gallon containers. I also test the oil in a hot frying pan to make sure there is no water mixed in.  Then when I need to fill up, I attach a funnel to my gas tank and pour the oil in.  I haven’t bought diesel for about three months now.

We use canola oil at our restaurants.  The oil comes from the rapeseed, and is grown in Canada.  Not only is the fuel free, but it comes from a renewable natural resource.  The carbon emissions that are produced by cars running on waste vegetable oil (WVO) are offset by the carbon dioxide being absorbed by the crop.

Filtering the oil, storing and pouring it into year tank can be a bit messy and time-consuming.  You save money in the long run, but you have to do some work instead.  A stop at the gas station might take five or ten minutes; filtering the oil and filling my tank might take over an hour.  The thing that happens, though, is that you really begin to see the relationship between the fuel and the traveling – it feels good to know that you’re part of the loop and that you’re not just sending your money to an oil company or being indirectly involved in the politics of importing oil from the Middle East.

People always want to know if my car smells like french fries.  Not exactly, I would say it’s more of a barbecued chicken aroma – it definitely smells better than diesel!  The gas mileage and performance is about the same as when I use diesel – about 20-25 miles per gallon.  If I’m on the road and run out of cooking oil, I can always fill up with diesel, or mix the two.

In the picture below, I’m filling up with Mazola corn oil.  A friend of mine deep fried her turkey at Thanksgiving and then gave me her used oil afterward.  So for a while, Stella was smelling like fried turkey!

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Mark K November 30th, 2009

I was already in a hurry when I pulled into the gas station.  It was one of those discount stations that gets swarmed with customers when the price of gas is especially high.  I maneuvered my way over near a row of pumps that was on the correct side for my gas tank and pulled up to the rear pump when the person in front of me finished.

I slid my card through the credit card reader and was about to start pumping gas when the car in front of me pulled out.  By now, there was a car waiting behind me, so I decided to cancel my transaction and move up to the forward pump so the person behind me wouldn’t have to wait needlessly.

As I moved up, I was congratulating myself on being such a considerate person and was pleased that the driver behind me gave me a nod and wave of thanks.  Then I slid my card through the card reader once again, but this time the pump flashed the message, “See attendant.”

I guessed that the gas station computer system had become suspicious that a person would use a credit card at two different pumps within two minutes and had intervened to block my transaction.  Muttering to myself something about no good deed going unpunished, I made my way to the attendant.

I explained the situation to the attendant and he abruptly barked back at me, “Your card is not being accepted. Give it to me.”

I never like handing over my credit card to a gas station clerk.  I like the control of handing the whole transaction myself – I’m never quite sure what kinds of mysterious numbers and charges might be added to my bill the moment I walk away.  It gives me the same unsettling feeling that I have when I check into a hotel in a foreign country and the desk clerk insists that I leave my passport at the front desk overnight for safekeeping.

Now when I returned to my car, I realized that my whole “being a considerate guy and moving to the front pump” strategy had backfired.  My appreciative friend at the rear pump was now well ahead of me in the gas-dispensing process and I still needed to pump my gas and retrieve my credit card.  To make matters worse, a line of cars was beginning to form behind her – I was holding up the entire parade.

As I began to pump my gas, out a nowhere appeared a young man with a reddish, bloated face.  “Can you help me out?,” he began, “I’m from out of town and I ran out of gas.  I need twenty dollars to fill my tank.”

Quickly, I began to evaluate the plausibility of his story – the condition of his face and the fact that there was no car in plain sight raised my suspicions, but I couldn’t really concentrate because I was racing to end my one-car gas station blockade.  Moreover, I am not a good multi-tasker and don’t like it when people come up to me and blurt requests without a word of introduction.

“Sorry, I can’t help you right now,” I mumbled.

Not to be deterred, Red Face began to negotiate.  “Ten bucks would be good.  I can get half a tank.”

Now I was pretty sure that this guy was a scam artist but had decided that I could spare two or three dollars.  I just couldn’t do it at that precise moment.  I really needed to get the gas pumping. “Okay.  Give me just a minute,” I said.

And that’s when he answered – I kid you not about this – “I don’t have a minute,” and turned his flushed face and disappeared.  I never did see a car and he just walked away with me calling out something lame like, “Then I can’t help you!”

The teenage kid at the pump across from me and I exchanged bewildered shakings of the head.  He must have wondered along with me where this stressed out panhandler might have needed to be in such a hurry that he couldn’t wait 30 seconds for some free cash.  Did he have a more cooperative and faster-moving sponsor on the hook at pump number six?  Was it time for his break? Was there less than sixty seconds worth of gas left in his tank?

I finished pumping my gas as the driver behind me snaked her way around me to get out of the station and the next car pulled up to take her place. I went inside to pay and resisted the urge to take out my frustrations on the less-than polite attendant.

I got back in my car, started the engine, shook my red-faced head one last time, stomped on the gas, and raced out of the station.

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Mark K November 14th, 2009

November has been a busy month for the Krahling family.  Not only has Heidi published her cookbook Insalata’s Mediterranean Table, but Mark has finally released his collection of short stories, Still Blinking.

From the book cover : “Still Blinking is a collection of stories which capture those tiny moments in time that pass in a blink of an eye.  Mark helps us to sit back and ask the question, ‘What just happened there?’ – sometimes supplying us with his own interpretation while encouraging us to find our own.”

Still Blinking is available online and may be purchased ($11 plus tax, shipping and handling) using a Paypal account or major credit card.

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Mark K November 14th, 2009

“If you’ve ever thought that ordinary life was, well, just ordinary, you have not yet read Mark Krahling’s quirky, humorous stories. Mark has an exquisite gift for making us pause and pay attention to people and events most of us would overlook. After reading his stories, we are called to a new perspective.”

- Rosie Sorenson, award-winning writer and author of They Had Me at Meow

“Humor twinkles in Mark Krahling’s kindly observations of life’s incongruities.”

- Lum Franco, Co-author of Other Voices

Mark’s pause––your elixir. Drink! Savor!

- Carolyn Ingram, co-author of The-Not-So-Scary Breast Cancer Book: Two Sisters’ Guide from Discovery to Recovery.

“Read Still Blinking in bed, alone or with your lover, sighing and laughing outloud.”

- Christie Nelson, author of Woodacre: A Novel

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Mark K November 14th, 2009

Last summer, I learned about a book club for the homeless, founded in Boston.  Peter Resnik, a downtown lawyer, made it a habit of cutting through Boston Common on his way to work. Each day he would see a homeless man named Rob and they began having daily conversations about jokes, sports, and eventually literature.  Peter loaned a book to Rob, who in turn shared it with other homeless people. Before long, a book group was created, with members meeting each Tuesday to discuss stories while snacking on doughnuts and coffee.

The meetings are described in an Boston Globe article by Jenna Russell:

When talk flows at the book club, the dynamic that emerges is pure and powerful.  The members are equals, linked by what they read and respected for their insights.  Their discussions…are both a stimulus and a respite for people used to staying focused on survival – where to sleep and how to stay dry – rather than the themes and symbols of fiction.

This description very much appealed to my own sense of what a book group should be about – that the group should use the literature as a stimulus for discussion and sharing rather than something that needs to be critiqued and dissected.  I sent an e-mail to the group and received a response from Ron Tibbetts, a Beacon Hill church deacon and longtime homeless outreach worker.  Ron has created a nonprofit group, the Oasis Coalition, and has replicated the idea of a book club for the homeless.  I offered to donate copies of my book Still Blinking and he wrote back, accepting my offer.

The books are now in the mail and I look forward to hearing about what kinds of interesting discussions the stories might generate.  Ron says that the idea of a book club for the homeless is spreading across the country and that he plans to set up a blog to keep people informed of the progress. I’ll share that information on this blog when it becomes available.

Tags: book club, book group, homeless

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