Well, Walter, the old wagon is gone

A report to my late friend Walter Mirapaul:


After all of these years, Walter, it might come as a pleasant surprise to you that I finally dumped my 19-year-old Taurus station wagon.   Yep, as I write this, the old war horse may be on its way to Ford Heaven if the dealer can figure out how to get it started.  ( I explained that if you turn the key to the first faint click, you can then shift into NEUTRAL from PARK, whereupon you can then turn on the motor and freely shift gears.  The good man at the dealership seemed puzzled and asked me what that was all about.  I said, "Damned  if I know, it's been that way for a long time." All of that probably took his mind off the muffler, which hung no more than an inch or two off the road. Now I have to figure out all of the bells and whistles on the new car without your immediate advice.

You never did appreciate the usefulness of the old wagon and often ridiculed it to friends.  Besides, unlike your insistence on trying to repair my VCR's and TV sets with a screwdriver and pliers, there wasn't anything that tempted you to stick your head under the wagon's hood.  It's one reason I never mentioned the bizarre way that you could shift  the gears to start up the motor.

On another subject, Newt Gingrich, the Crazy Guggenheim in the field, finally gave up  and said he would endorse Mitt Romney, which leaves a big hole in the Republican cast of characters who were so much fun.    Did I tell you that Romney's name was totally ignored by the speakers at the Tea Party Rally in Cuyahoga Falls?

Finally, I had to get a new garage door for the house.  The old one was in awful shape.   I know.  You might have had an extra one or two in your garage.  Didn't know that Rex's sold those things, too.

Abe

Sorry, Walter, but they're closing Rex's

A necessary report to my dear friend, the late Walter Mirapaul:

I'm sorry to have to tell you the awful news, Walter, that they're closing your old hunting grounds. Yep. Rex's Salvage will be history by mid-March. That's the word from Rex's owner, Recovery Management Corporation. What a loss! I know you would agree.

But RMC says it had no choice. You know, the economy. And something about the new ways of the trucking industry, of which I know little.

As a careful student of the wares that were available at Rex's, you might not be surprised by the news. In the past several months, you said more than once that the inventory was slipping. In your words, "It isn't as good as it used to be." (I assumed that was the reason that you drove me to Big Lots to buy a desk lamp.)

So we must be satisfied with the memories of the shopping visits over the years that could kill a couple of hours as you rooted through every bin at Rex's for truffles while insisting that a sport jacket at $10 was a fraction of its value. Or that the shampoo was a steal. Only someone who had memorized thousands of prices in stores around town could identify a steal from a mere bargain.

So I will cherish all the more the items that I bought for no particular reason when I tagged along to Rex's with you to honor your skills as a comparison shopper: Clocks, picture frames, DVD's, paper clips, the lonely bric-a-brac of truck salvage.

By the way, remember when I had cautioned you against buying an oriental rug at Rex's when you called my office. "How big is it," I asked. "BIG!" you said.

"What is its condition?" "It's rolled up. I can't tell."

I told you it would be wise to look at the whole rug before buying it.

You did, and I do remember what you said when you called back. "It had a hole in it. No deal."

But you did have a closet filled with the deals that ended up as multiple gifts at your annual Christmas Party. For that, we were all thankful. Particularly to Louise, who gave up so much of her time wrapping dozens of your hand-picked presents. Those were the days.

P.S. Another update: They never did reopen the Blue Fig restaurant where the gang met as your guests for your regular Saturday breakfasts. I noticed that it has been converted into a martial arts operation. So hard to imagine, I know. Does anything ever stay the same?

Take care....Abe

Walter Mirapaul, 89

SHORTLY AFTER I began this blog more than three years ago with the alias of Grumpy Abe, I discovered that a close friend was emailing it to his army of recipients. When I called him to suggest that it might not be a wise thing to do inasmuch as some of his contacts were probably conservative Republicans, Walter Mirapaul dismissed the question. "So what," he said. "If they don't like it, I couldn't care less."

That was vintage Walter M. He didn't care a wit about what people might have said about him. A self-made millionaire who rose from abject poverty, he enjoyed the prosperity derived from his enormously successful fruit juice company (Ohio Pure Foods) by living out his 89 years his - and only his - way. He was full of good humor, eccentric, impossible, thoughtful, generous, and a source for the smartest buys at supermarkets, discount stores and birdseed shelves while being a determined regular at Rex's salvage.

In the more than 40 years that I knew him as a friend among friends, I witnessed - exasperatingly so, at times - his pursuit of beating the system. Our home is filled with items that he bought God knows where - a shaving mug and electric razor to a porcelain teapot and magnifying glass. He would shop the year-round for gifts for a group of friends at his Christmas parties with three or four carefully wrapped items for each. We chose them from a pile by lot. His dear friend Louise was exhausted by all of the preliminaries and gift-wrapping for the annual event.

On those occasions, he was sort of the earth father enjoying his role as a Jewish Santa who wanted to send everyone home happy.

Despite our family-style relationship there was always one more surprise from him. As Nancy and I sat at a dining table at the Cascade Club, Walter headed toward us, forcing his way past a number of tables in the crowded room. He cradled in his arms a heavy plaster camel as his latest gift to us. The neck had been repaired, which indicated late modern Rex's salvage. Walter ignored the people who were staring at him. He proudly announced that the big camel would have a proper home with us.

He called on one of the hottest summer afternoons to ask about my ailing ankle. I said I really couldn't leave the porch for any reason. Minutes later he arrived with balloons, insisted that I get into his car with his help and took Nancy and me to get a Strickland's ice cream cone. "That will make you feel better," he said. He absolutely knew that would work.

At Severance Hall for the Cleveland Orchestra concerts, he always handed the parking garage booth attendant candy, which had become a ritual. Wherever we dined, he drew sketches of the servers to refresh his early student days in art classes. A fully committed

patron of the arts, he provided tuition for string players at the University of Akron and made sure that WKSU fund drives met their quotas. His grants went to other arts organizations without fanfare; Summa, where he was a board member, and to friends in need. He shopped at Mark's for unbeatable prices.

Finally he was a liberal one per center who grew more scornful each day of the Tea Party crowd and the Republican presidential candidates, accusing them of utter stupidity and greed. A wealthy man himself, he distrusted wealth. On the other hand, great art and music, some patient friends who put up with his playful antics, and a big office desk cluttered with cookies and candy boxes - these surpassed whatever wealth meant to others.

A few days before he entered City Hospital to stay, I drove him to his barber and on to a South Side deli (Primo's) where we ate superb corned beef sandwiches. I asked him whether he had eaten corned beef sandwiches at the Carnegie Deli in New York and Wolfie's in Miami - both of which were memorable. Indeed, he said he had. 'Their sandwiches were very good" he said. "But this one is better."

I learned long ago I could never top Walter on quality and price. On his word alone, this would be the greatest corned beef sandwich in the world. Even in his absence , I won't dare deny it.