FRS -- A.K.A. Flame Rollout Switch. As in Carrier downstairs furnace. An interesting, reliable, necessary item. But why do they always go bump in the night in the dead of Winter? I had to view many YouTube videos before I found one about the FRS that wouldn’t alert the FBI to my online viewing habits. Oy!

Anyway. Steam had stopped coming out of the furnace’s burner chamber exhaust pipe indicating that the induced draft blower motor had ceased functioning.

Generally, the cause is blockage of some sort: ice, snow, mice seeking warmth, the odd lost bird. This time it was ice buildup on the screening that keeps pests out of the pipe.

So, after removing the screen and clearing the ice/snow buildup, the furnace still refused to fire. That’s when, at midnight, my eyes glued to the screen, I watched video after video about how to reset the now very familiar FRS. It was a last ditch effort to conserve cash and bolster my "Man-of-the-house" image. But after a while I gave up, placed an extra blanket on the bed, and retired.

In the morning I fed the cats, took my pills, and descended into the cellar armed only with a yellow plastic swizzle stick. (I couldn’t find a more suitable tool with which to reset said resettable Flame Rollout Switch and, hopefully, prevent my early demise from electrocution.)

After locating the FRS I presssed its red button and lo and behold the switch reset. The furnace made a perfunctory practice run making sure its intake/exhaust pipes were indeed clear. And then, it fired!

There was no heavenly music (Hallelujah!--Hallelujah!----Hallelu---uuu---jah), but the additional heat more than made up for it.

Now, it’s on to the rest of the day.

Growing up a Military Brat in a Far Away Land

Growing up a Military Brat in a Far Away Land


We weren’t rich nor were we poor. We were just another military family posted to Europe in the late 50’s and early 60’s. Paris, to be exact. And, even better, it was during my formative years. It was also a real treat for my mother.

One day, dad brought home a live-in maid whose duties were to clean, do laundry and be a companion for my mother. My mother still did all the cooking. My mother felt very special.

We lived off-base ("on the economy" in the vernacular) in a two story, four bedroom, living room, dining room, eat-in kitchen, two full bath, two water-closet home in the town of LaGarnene-Colombes, just West of Paris. I had both American school chums and French friends. The latter did their evil best to teach me French slang that always got me in trouble in school. When I would use slang in class, my French teacher would blanch; when I used classroom French with my friends, they would laugh and ask if I was running for high office. Somehow, I did get through it all.

Irene was Danish. Her parents were wealthy and had sent her to Paris specifically to get a job with an American family as a housemaid. Their goal was to make sure Irene didn’t grow up a spoiled rich kid with no empathy for common folk or servants. Irene stayed with us for about two years. She was always very friendly, very proper, and very efficient. She spoke Danish, French and English fluently and had a wonderful sense of humor.

Near the end of her "tour of duty" Irene informed my mother that she was engaged to be married and would be leaving. Her parents, she said, were sending her and her fiancée on a trip around the world ahead of their wedding in order to let them find out of they were truly compatible. Apparently money marrying money in Denmark those days was a very serious matter.

Irene and her beau must have been compatible because my parents received a wedding invitation soon after Irene left our employ.

In between Irene’s leaving and receiving her wedding invitation my dad hired Biette ("Bee-et-tah"), also Danish, also from a wealthy family, but decidedly not in sync with her parents goals. Biette had Thursdays off and would, invariably, rise late and somewhat hungover every Friday. She stayed with us for about a year before she abandoned us and her family to marry a local Frenchman.

Following Biette’s departure, my dad brought home a stunning Danish girl who might have easily been a sports magazine swimsuit model. While she was unpacking, my parents had an exchange of ideas that resulted in what’s-the-new-girl’s-name not even staying the night. And, in fact, she was the last housemaid we ever had. My mom took over all the household chores for the remainder of our tour of duty in France.
All-in-all, it was a fantastic coming-of-age time for me, and I will always remember it as the time when I learned that people are people the world over. That we all want the same things: life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. And that there are a few that feel they deserve more than an equal share of those things. Hopefully greed won’t replace the notion of common weal.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all.

So, you want to be a writer...?

Start a Blog, they said. It’s easy, they said. It’ll be fun, they said.

So, I decided to do just that.

First, I needed to choose a name for my blog. Next, I needed to choose a topic. And lastly, I needed to choose a voice.

Easy peasy I said, to no one in particular.

Then, it occurred to me that I might have to learn how to write. How to write in a blogger’s voice. Not a textbook writer’s. Nor a novelist’s. Nor a newspaper reporter’s. And definitely not a screenwriter’s. But, in my voice. My real voice. Camouflaged, of course, for a bit for flair.

Hunter S. Thompson once wrote: "If you want to write like someone, just read and re-read, at least 10 times, your favorite work by that person." Easy enough, I said, and proceeded to read blogs of all sorts on all topics until I found a style and voice I liked. It turned out to be a blog about an American ex-pat living in Paris.  It was written by someone called Auntie something or someone whose child was enrolled in the American School in Paris. The hook, for me, was how her writings illustrated the use humor to get one’s point across.

So, armed with that prescience, I chose to write about politics. Even though I don’t particularly care for nor understand politics.

"What could go wrong, boobalah?", I asked myself in my best New York Jewish accent. Yes, what indeed? But, "Tallyho", was all that was returned from the mirror, mirror, on the wall.

From Mr. Thompson I also learned about drugs, drug paraphernalia, how to transport drugs, how drinking and politics are intertwined and co-dependent, and most importantly, how to correctly use the word "atavistic" in a sentence. There, see, I just did it. Tallyho!

Next, I had to choose or create a name for the blog. A name that would invite folks to read it. A name easy to spell. A name purposefully disassociated from all topics: A name that could be reused for all manner of topics, thereby affording me multiple chances to fail.

But, I had just violated my own first rule. So, in the spirit of things I said, "To hell with the rules, Tallyho!"

Then, while pondering names for my blog I remembered a good friend from my, let’s say, colorful past, whose name I won’t divulge, but who liked to answer the phone by spelling his last name. "O-G-O-Z-A-L-E-K", he would say, firmly. And even though in retrospect it sounds like we were in an asylum, we were actually working for a large military aircraft company on its OV1-B project.

John’s favorite question was, "Why Is A Cow?" And, his favorite answer, after a beer or three, was always, "The more, the much". But, after some lite research I deduced that his question was really a Zen question, to which the answer, phonetically, is "moo", meaning there is no answer to the question. Sartre would have liked John, and that made me think of politics all the more.

The voices I chose included: me, country boy, nerd, ne'er-do-well, and mal vivant.  I purposely eschewed: Management Consultant, Multilayer Printed Circuit Board Designer, Computer Programmer, and Outsourcing Sales Professional, because all of those voices fell in the "Nerd" category.  Some voices die hard.

At that point, all that was left to do was to practice. So, I wrote a few pieces, polishing them as best I could, trying some of them on my friends. Then I launched my  blog.  I kept at it for several years, and what I have learned so far is that cutting grass or herding cats is much easier and definitely more rewarding. But hey, I’m a masochist with a few years still left in his old fingers, so I will press on. Tallyho!

Oh, if you decide to follow suit, I wish you the best of luck.  It is great fun, and if you decide to monetize it can be rewarding, as well.