Mark Was No Lester

Mark’s middle name should have been “Quirky”

Mark Steinhoff, my youngest brother, is heavy on my mind. He left us on New Year’s Eve two years ago.

His birth certificate said his middle name was Lynn, but it could just as well have been “Quirky” or “Unusual.”

Do you know of anyone else who ties rocking horses to a tree in their front yard? Or attaches his Christmas tree upside down to the ceiling?

I bet there must have been 200 people at his Celebration of Life, and each and every one of them had a Mark story – it might have been about something he did; a kindness he performed; a prank he pulled, or how he touched another human being.

One of my staffers sold Mark a Sailfish sailboat that he hauled from Florida to Kentucky Lake. Later, he gave it to Matt, who hauled it BACK to Florida.

Matt inherited the Spitfire

Matt Steinhoff with Mark Steinhoff’s Spitfire

Mark promised Matt that he’d get the Spitfire some time in the future. Robin made it happen. It’s been refurbed and put back on the road.

He was a pebble tossed in a pond that created ripples that reached out in all directions.

Waking up at 4 in the morning

I rolled over about 4 in the morning thinking about Mark, then a contrasting character popped into my head.

Marion showed up in my office one day. There are some newspaper folks who are great reporters who can Hoover up all kinds of quotes and turn them into “just the facts” journalism, and there are writers who can make their keyboards sing. She was in the latter category.

I loved working with her. We spent almost two weeks on the road doing tourist stories from South Florida up through Louisiana. Cutting through a foggy swamp road late one night, she, like Bobby McGee, “sang up every song that driver knew (and a lot of new ones).

We were investigating one of New Orleans’ above-ground cemeteries when my car was broken into (“You’re lucky you had an alarm that scared off the burglar, usually they hit the car, then go into the cemetery to rob the tourists.”)

We attended a Christmas party in the country’s only continental leprosarium in Carville, LA..  Not everybody can say that. She was also a regular on weekend bike rides with other newspaper people. On a hot day, water frolicking was apt to occur.

The well is dry”

“I’ve got to come up with a feature this week, and the well is dry,” she lamented.

“Everybody has a story to tell. You just have to find them,” I told her, falling back on one of my favorite clichés. “Grab the phone book and a thumbtack. Open it to a page at random and stab a name. We’re going to find out what that person’s story is.”

We selected Lester R. “Mosley” on Summit Blvd., in West Palm Beach, an address about three blocks from my house. [Last name changed for privacy.]

Mr. “Mosley” lived in an older, one-story home set back on a large, well-kept lawn. When he came to the door, he was dressed in clean, retiree clothes, and, while confused about why we were there, didn’t chase us away.

We talked with him for about 45 minutes and discovered that he was not only NOT like Brother Mark, he provided the exception to the rule that everyone has a story.

Mr. “Mosley” had no interesting tales of work; had no hobbies to speak of; maintained a neat yard, but without passion; didn’t mention any family nor friends.

About the only unusual tidbit he offered up was that he had married his brother’s widow. (I think I remember that correctly.) Beyond volunteering that simple fact, he never told us anything about her, whether she still lived there, had run off with the milkman or had died of boredom.

A Most Peculiar Man

( Not Mr. “Mosley” -He’s a man I shot in New Burlington, OH, for a book c 1971

A few lines from Simon and Garfunkel’s song, A Most Peculiar Man, came to mind.

He was a most peculiar man
He lived all alone within a house
Within a room, within himself
A most peculiar man

Mr. “Mosley” seemed to be content with his rather colorless life, so who are we to judge?

We didn’t do a story on Mr. “Mosley”. Somewhere in my files is an envelope containing a couple dozen frames of Mr. “Mosley”, which have probably faded away as much as he did.

Marion needed to find a Mark, and all I could provide was a Lester.

UPDATES:

A search turned up a brief obit for a man who could have been Mr. “Mosley.” (His middle name was Rembert). He was born in South Carolina in 1910, and died in Palm Beach county in 1979.

Marion left the paper, moved in with her elderly parents, became reclusive, and died at age 51 in 2002.

Here’s a not-too-brief collection of stories and photos of Brother Mark.

 

Elliot Visits St. Louis

Kid Adam took his oldest son, Graham, on a business trip to Washington, D.C., recently. He thought he owed middle son Elliot a trip, so they hopped on a jet for a weekend in St. Louis. Graham, is 7; Elliot is 5, and Kid 3, Finn, is 3.

Being a born and bred Florida boy, he wasn’t quite sure if he liked cold Missouri weather. (You can click on the photos to make them larger. Once clicked, you can use your arrow keys to step through them)

First stop: City Museum

I don’t have many photos from the City Museum because Elliot could go through places the fire department would have to cut me out of. Even his skinny dad contorted his body into shapes I didn’t think possible.

There’s a saying that there are old pilots and bold pilots, but no old, bold pilots. I was perfectly content to let Elliot be bold while I played old.

When we got to the gift shop, I told him to pick something out. He found a stack of shiny stones that WERE quite attractive. When he went to check out, the cashier said, “Four dollars.” She must have seen my face, because she quickly said that the four bucks would buy a tiny pouch that he could fill with as many stones as would fit.

He managed to cram four stones in it, and he played with it the whole time he was in town. Money well spent. His Uncle Mark (actually, I guess he’s his GREAT-uncle) kept scheming to try to entice the rocks from him for some sundry good or service, but he resisted.

Earlier visits to City Museum

The rooftop was closed for the winter when Adam and Elliot were there, but I DID manage to convince Curator Jessica to ride the Ferris wheel in 2014. (Despite hearing her mutter, “You’re standing on a banana peel on the steps to eternity, but I’ve got a lot of life left, and I don’t intend to die on a Ferris wheel in St. Louis.”)

Son Matt and crew were the first Florida Steinhoff contingent to visit the museum. Malcolm, like Elliot, explored all there was to be explored.

Licking the Arch

Elliot was afraid his tongue would stick to the stainless steel arch since it was a cold day, so I told him that he only had to stick it out for the photo.

I’ve had various results convincing first-timers that it’s customary to lick the arch. See the results.

The scale of the Arch was lost on a 5-year-old who was getting cold and tired.

He thought the tram ride to the top was kind of interesting, but it didn’t take long before he said, “I’m bored.”

Pulitzer Arts Museum

Our first stop the second day was the Pulitzer Arts Museum. He and I weren’t all that impressed by the “art” that was displayed inside.

We liked “Joe” a lot better. Here’s the official description of it. It reminds me of why I often wish I was wearing high boots in art museums.

Commissioned by Emily Rauh Pulitzer as a permanent feature of the courtyard, Richard Serra’s Joe articulates a space that reframes perceptions of scale and movement through its subtle, shifting contours. As a counterpoint to Tadao Ando’s angular forms and immutable concrete, Joe conveys an evolving sense of the organic; the walls of the sculpture’s spiral path expand and contract, conveying you to its center—a vast expanse of sky, framed by a ribbon of weathering steel. Named in homage to the late Joseph Pulitzer Jr., who commissioned the artist’s first site-specific sculpture in 1970, Richard Serra’s Joe stands as a testament to the forces of life that influence and shape us.

At the top of the stairs in the museum was a phonographic turntable with some vinyl records. Elliot, a child of the digital age, was fascinated. He suggested that we chill and listen to some music.

Before long, he and his dad were dancing.

National Memorial Family Church of God in Christ

While we were driving around looking for a place to eat, we ran across the ruins of the National Memorial Family Church of God in Christ. The remaining walls of the church had been reinforced, so it was safe to walk in.

Elliot found a small piece of stone inside, and wanted to take it with him to remember the visit. I felt a strong generational bond. I have bricks from Athens, Cape, my grandfather’s liquor store in Advance, and a “convict brick” made by Ohio prisoners and used to build a school. We weren’t sure the TSA would be happy with it in his carry-on, so I mailed it to him later.

St. Louis Science Center

Uncle Mark, who lives in St. Louis, knows all the tricks, so we saved $10 by parking for free at the McDonnell Planetarium, which is connected to the Oakland Building by a walkable Skybridge over Interstate 64/Highway 40. The skybridge is neat because it has holes where you can look down on the traffic below. It also has radar guns and speed displays. In the days when radar detectors were more common in cars, it was fun to watch drivers lock down when their warnings lit up.

He got to check out dinosaurs and see how he’d fit in one of their footprints.

He got to feel wild winds, build a an arch out of foam blocks, and learn all about electricity.

One of the coolest things was a board where you placed elements to show the flow of electricity from the power plant to the substations to transformers to neighborhoods of houses.

He was playing with the blocks when a boy of 8 or 10 walked up and patiently explained the whole concept to him. They played for quite a while, learning how eliminating one house wouldn’t make the rest go dark, but losing a substation or a transformer could.

After the old boy wandered off, Elliot stuck around trying different sets of blocks. A little girl about his age showed up, and Elliot took on the role of tutor, passing on what the older boy had told him. Girls, apparently aren’t much interested in electricity, so she didn’t hang around long.

Finally, it was time to rehydrate  and head back to Uncle Mark’s house for another treat.

Lime-S Electric Scooter

It seemed like bright lime-green electric scooters were buzzing around all over town. Mark explained how they were rented, and Adam located an unused one about two blocks away.

You can learn how the concept works by going to the Lime website.

He scored it by putting some money in a smartphone app, then he and Elliot went cruising up and down Flora Place. Mark loaned him a helmet and tried to charge his nephew four rocks for it, but the transaction didn’t happen.

I only have the one shot showing him rating the ride two-thumbs-up because I concentrated on video.

Next up will be night shots of the Missouri Botanical Gardens Glow Garden.

Castor River Shut-Ins

Wife Lila and Grandson Malcolm came up for a visit. When Malcolm was here last year, we went to Johnson’s Shut-Ins and Elephant Rocks. He liked them well enough he told us he wanted to do the same when he came back in 2018.

“I LOVE this place,” he commented. It’s good to see him infected with the Midwest. There may be hope for him.

Anyway, just as we were getting ready to pull out of the driveway, I saw Neighbor Bill across the street and told him where we were going. He asked, “Have you ever been to Castor River Shut-Ins.

I allowed as how I hadn’t, but since it was about half the distance to our original destination, we decided to check it out. (You can click on the photos to make them larger, by the way.)

Their new favorite place

My visitors said they liked it better than Johnson’s Shut-Ins. It has all the rock climbing of Elephant Rocks, with the water fun. I agree that all the pink granite is pretty, but Johnson’s has more cool water flumes to shoot down.

Traded bold for old

My bold days have been traded for old days, so I was conservative about where I stepped and climbed. Wife Lila was a bit more aggressive because she wanted to keep an eye on Malcolm so she could write the “Dear Matt and Sarah, Guess what we did to your kid” letter.

A gasp and a splash

It wasn’t long before Malcolm was playing mountain goat and heading up a near vertical wall.

I heard Lila gasp, followed by a splash. Showing that she really is a photographer at heart, she complained that there was a branch in the way that kept her from getting a good shot when he slipped and bounced on his backside into the river.

He sat in the cool water for a few minutes regrouping before frolicking some more. About the only thing injured was his pride.

Beautiful scenery

The place is pretty, offers plenty of room to spread out, and wasn’t overrun by people, even though it was a hot day.

Google says that the Castor River Shut-Ins are 45.7 miles (1 hour, 9 minutes) from Cape via MO-72. Johnson’s Shut-Ins are 88.6 miles (1 hour, 53 minutes), also on MO-72.

Earlier visits to Johnson’s Shut-Ins and Elephant Rocks

Road Warriorette Shari and Curator Jessica also made it to the parks in 2017, but they didn’t do anything outrageous enough to publish.

 

 

 

Leafing the Library

This hasn’t been a great season for fall colors in SE Missouri. It was too hot and too dry for the trees to put on a great show for more than a couple of days. I drove around trying to get excited, but there was too much brown for my taste.

If you’re wondering why I’m just getting around to writing about Fall when Spring isn’t far off (Please, please, please), it’s because the framework that drives the blog has been having Old Age issues.

Shaking out the bedbugs

Kid Matt has worked some magic that has given it a new look that’s going to take some getting used to, but will also, hopefully, shake out the bedbugs. By the way, you can click on the photos to make them larger, just like in the old version.

Trees were by the Cape Library

I stopped by the Cape Public Library to swap out some audio books and music CDs. On the way back to the car, the late afternoon set the trees on fire.

Is ‘Librarian Hell’ a real place?

I discovered the old Carnegie Library when it was on the Common Pleas Courthouse lawn. I must have been about 12 when I convinced the librarians that I really COULD read adult books. From then on, I would walk out with a stack of books on Saturday, then swap them out the next weekend.

The new library is one of the nicest I’ve been in. What makes it special for me is that I can wander the stacks and still find books I read half a century ago.

(How do I know? I may go to Librarian Hell for this confession, but I would write my initials very, very small print in the back of the book so I could tell if I had read it before. Some of them are still in circulation.)

The ‘good’ books

Debate partner Pat Sommers had a part-time job at the library, so we used his key to get in to do research when the facility was closed.

Not only did we have access to all the books and periodicals we needed for debate, but Pat knew where the “good” books were that were hidden from public view unless you were (a) an adult and (b) weren’t too embarrassed to ask for them.

Not just books

When I signed up for my library card, I was given a booklet that gave all the rules and regulations, plus a list of things you could check out. 

Take a look at some of things you can borrow: telescopes, WiFi hotspots,  audiobooks (they have a great selection, by the way), and cake pans. Yes, you read that right: cake pans.

It has an inviting kid area and lots of computers. Cape should be proud of its library. (I’d like to find out where they keep the “good” books, but Pat doesn’t work there anymore.)