The Oppenheimer Report 8/17/09

I have loved powerboats since I was about three years old. When I was a toddler my aunt bought me a toy which was a small scale model of a wooden runabout with little battery-powered outboard motor. I used to play with it in the bathtub all the time. Many of the boats around our summer cottage on Lake Erie were kept in boat lifts when they weren’t being used. I made a lift for my toy boat out of an upside down foot stool with string tied across the legs for slings. My very first “real” boat was a little red wooden craft made by a local carpenter, perhaps four and one half feet long, and I passed many a hot summer day floating around in that little boat in Lake Erie. I think I was about five or six when my parents bought me a used 10’ Feathercraft aluminum boat, the boat which later became the legendary “Raging African Queen,” and therein began my serious boating career. I have had many boats since, but that Feathercraft aluminum dinghy was the boat I loved the most.

Funny how some memories stick with you. I remember the day they bought it used, from a man on the next bay. The details are sketchy, but I remember seeing it floating in the water, and I remember the excitement I felt. I now owned a boat, which I could row and in which I could carry several other passengers. I loved that little dinghy. Over the next thirty years, that boat would have five very different outboard motors. The first motor my father came home with was a small outboard that one of his friends had given him. It was an Italian motor called a Girelli, and it was probably one of the first jet-propelled outboards. The friend had bought it for duck hunting, because he thought that, being prop-less, it would be good in the weeds. It was not, and it was an entirely unsatisfactory motor on all counts. It was heavy, hard to start, loud, slow, and every so often let out a backfire that shot flames though the end of its pistol grip. I was afraid of that motor and it did not last long. The next motor was my favourite. It was a 1961(+-) Johnson 5 1/2HP and I owned that motor through most of my youth. It always started with one or two pulls, and with that motor I travelled hundreds, perhaps thousands of miles, through some very rough seas. Regrettably, it was stolen one summer many years ago. The next two motors were about as bad as that first Girelli. One, I bought on a whim from a used outboard shop. It was a 1953 5HP Scott Atwater “Bail-O-Matic” (see above photo) and it was a noisy bucket of bolts that spit oil, took about fifty pulls to start, if it started at all, and was loud enough to wake the dead. My friends all made fun of me, but I suppose that motor paid for itself in the amusing stories it generated. We nicknamed it “Bobo” which was an allusion to a joke about sodomy. My antique outboard phase was short-lived. The next outboard was a 1980s Evinrude 4HP which was an awful motor, had a poorly designed throttle lever, and a pull cord that periodically broke. I beat the crap out of that motor, sold it, then bought the motor I’ve had for the past fifteen years, a very reliable Yamaha 3hp.

Finally, the story of how the “Raging African Queen” came to be named. Over the years, the Feathercraft went by several names. When I was a boy, I named it “Wasp” after the aircraft carrier. It then became the “Asp”. Years later, and shortly before Bobo met its untimely demise (I did keep the engine cover which I now use for a unique lampshade), one of my artist friends, who happens to be gay, decided that he would paint a new name on the transom, in yellow Rust-o-leum. We’d been joking about renaming it “The African Queen”, and someone (not me) decided that “The Raging African Queen” was an even better name. Before I knew it, there was my artist friend Peter, painting that name on the back of the boat. Rust-o-leum is forever. The name, like the paint, stuck, and from then on, this legendary aluminium boat, which I’d now owned for over thirty years, and which was still providing us with hours of boating fun, became affectionately referred to as “the Queen”. A while ago, it too was stolen off our beach, and I was crestfallen. The idea that someone would steal a boat with that name painted on the transom is unbelievable to me, but someone did. We did some pretty silly things with and in that boat. I distinctly remember one night, with several other passengers aboard, probably somewhat intoxicated, driving that boat around half full of water. At one point, I had to jump out of the boat in waist deep water and rescue the motor before the ship went down. One of my favorite boat photos is a rear shot of the Queen, pulled up on shore, Bobo mounted on the transom, covered in seaweed, tar, and other lake grime. Boating with attitude. I keep hoping that someday the Queen will resurface, but now, these many years later, I think the prospects are slim. Funny, the things we hold dear in life.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheiimer Report 8/12/09

A week later, I’m still buzzing from the WNY Poker Run. I can still hear all of those high performance V-8’s roaring as fifty-one powerboats took off from Erie Basin Marina. I have not done all that much boating over the past fifteen years, but that event brought back some fond memories. Ever since I was a little boy, with my first outboard-powered dinghy, I’ve loved going out in a boat when the water was rough. I used to take that little dinghy out in all kinds of weather. The trick was getting out past the initial breakers without sinking the boat. After that, the sky was the limit. I think my friend Bob and I missed our calling, because we both love to go out on boats when the water is rough. Perhaps we would have made good offshore racers – it’s in our blood. Even in this last poker run, there were probably fifteen or twenty boats in our group which were faster and perhaps even more seaworthy than we were, but on the last leg of the run, when we headed out into the open lake towards Angola, I believe we passed all of those boats. And it wasn’t even that choppy on the lake.

When Bob and I were kids, he had a red 16’ fibreglass Starcraft with a 60 HP outboard, and I had a 13’ Boston Whaler powered by a 40HP outboard. I think Starcraft and Boston Whaler should have hired us to market their boats, because we definitely beat the living daylights out of those two boats over a series of summers. We would go out on Lake Erie when small craft warnings were in effect and jump waves. From time to time, we’d chase lake freighters to jump their wakes. Lake freighters are surprisingly fast when they get up to full speed, and they’re not easy to catch. That was an adrenaline rush because, once you’ve committed to a freighter wake jump, there’s no turning back. I remember several jumps wherein I knew I’d made a huge error in judgment, and it a strong testimonial to the seaworthiness of the Boston Whaler that I am alive and in one piece today. I should have been wearing a kill switch. I never got a photograph of my boat leaving the water, but I can tell you what it looked like seeing Bob’s boat jump. There were several occasions when the bottom of his outboard was several feet out of the water.

Over the years, we upgraded our boats, but our love of rough water remained about the same. We’ve toned it down a lot, because we now wish to avoid back problems. The perfect jumping weather was right after the wind had died down, and the rollers were a specific distance apart. I suppose it was a little like finding the perfect wave for a surfer. On that rare occasion when the wave patterns were perfect, one could, if one was a skilful driver, leap from wave to wave, get incredible air, and land softly in a trough. It was a little like flying. Of course, more often than not, conditions weren’t perfect, and the landings were bone-jarring. During my Boston Whaler days, I had many an unsatisfactory landing, and more than a few passengers still complain to this day about their uncomfortable rides in that boat.

I gave up jumping as a driver a long time ago, but still love the rough water. I now own a very seaworthy 20’ Hydra-Sport, but it’s not designed for “getting air”. Bob has had much better boats for that, and he has had many. The 27 foot Magnum he now owns is a great boat in rough water, but my favorite remains his 18 foot Donzi. Bang for your buck that boat was crazy fun in the rough water, and I remember more than one exhilarating ride off Point Abino, near my parents beach house on Lake Erie..

This Poker Run, albeit a relatively tame ride in comparison to some I’ve had, conjured up all the memories of the fun we’ve had over the years in our many boats. I miss the Raging African Queen. More about that in another report.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 8/4/09

Last Saturday morning, bright and early, my pal Bob picked me up at my parent’s house in Buffalo and we drove over to his boat house at Rich Marine on the Niagara River. There we picked up his classic, 27 foot 1972 Magnum Marine sedan powerboat and headed up the river to the Erie Basin Marina for the annual Western New York Offshore Powerboat Association Poker Run. For anyone not familiar with the event, poker run is not a race, but rather a course with a series of checkpoints. In the run I attended, there were five checkpoints, and the participants picked up a playing card at each checkpoint. At the end of the run, the drivers handed in their cards – they’re not allowed to look at those cards until they've handed them in -- and the driver with the best poker hand won a cash prize. Really, the event is an excuse for people with really big boats to enjoy them, in the company of other like-minded boaters. Bob has invited me to this event at least ten times, but circumstances always precluded my attendance. I’m so glad I was able to make it this year.

Thankfully, we had the best possible weather of the summer for boating. Sixty-five MPH in the rain is not a whole lot of fun on a boat, but Saturday was uncharacteristically (for this summer) sunny and warm. After we’d signed in at the marina and were clear on our course, it was back to our boats to head out to our first destination, down the river to Grand Island. There is nothing quite like to sound of fifty-one offshore power boats firing up their high performance V-8 engines all at the same time. The roar was music to my ears. We were divided into two groups, the under and the over 65MPH boats, and each group had a pace boat. Bob’s boat was in the slower group and our pace boat was named “Deeply Disturbed”. How appropriate for Bob and me! The fast boats left first, and it was a rush to watch those high powered floating rockets take off. Some of the boats in this club are capable of top speeds in the range of 140 MPH. Of course, with high performance V-8’s come high performance problems, and often one or more of these boats will experience some kind of engine problems. One of the guys in the club gets ribbed a lot because his enormous catamaran seems to have an inordinate amount of engine problems. The other guys in the club nicknamed him “Peace Bridge Joe” (Joe’s not his name) because his boat never seems to make it past the Peace Bridge and out into the open lake without experiencing some kind of engine problem. I think he was trouble free for this poker run. I’ve attended several offshore powerboat races wherein we were on a boat, moored and watching the race from a fair distance. This poker run was much more satisfying, because we were actually running along side a lot of these big boats, at least before they took off and left us in their wakes. For a powerboat enthusiast such as me, this was nirvana; I had an inside look at some very exotic offshore boats, and not just on a trailer in a boat show.

The run officially ended at a beach bar down in Angola, N.Y. on the south side of Lake Erie, where we all moored, had a bite to eat, and enjoyed the rest of the day before cruising back to Buffalo. The cruise back was excellent, with just enough lake chop to make the ride interesting, but not bone-jarring. After the run, the power boat club hosted a barbecue back at the Erie Basin Marina, wherein the winners were awarded their cash prizes. In keeping with the good vibes of the day, all cash prizes were donated to a favorite charity of the boat club, which enables disabled people to enjoy various boating events. Some people, mostly the idle rich, trail their big boats all over the country to attend these poker runs, and that certainly would be fun. I was in my glory just to have been a passenger on one of the handsome old Don Aronow classics. I had great fun tooling along at 50-65 MPH, watching the big boys blasting around much faster in their $500,000 Apaches, Fountains, and Cigarettes, while churning up the water on the open lake. Thank goodness I didn’t have to pay for the gas! Three days later I’m still buzzing from the adrenaline rush. Thank you Bob for including me in this outstanding event.
–Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

The Oppenheimer Report 7/28/09

Last week I had the very interesting experience of taking some garbage to one of the Toronto transfer stations. Because of this never ending garbage strike, my mother and father-in-law had some uncollected garbage, which had been building up in their garage over the past several weeks. I, the good son-in-law, offered to dispose of it for them, not fully realizing what that would entail. When I arrived at the transfer station, there were picketers and police cars, and a bit of a line up. When it was my turn, I realized that, before I could actually dispose of my garbage, I must listen to one of the striking workers present their case. Of course, after he was through with his little talk, I had a few questions for him. In all, it was an edifying exchange of words, and no punches were thrown. Clearly this strike has caused a great deal of animosity, but it takes two to tango. I read an interesting article in the Toronto Star the other day – I do read sometimes – suggesting that the reason this crippling strike has gone on so long is that both sides have gone public with their negotiating strategies. By doing so, they have painted themselves into a corner, because once they have stated their position publically it becomes much more difficult to compromise. Wasn’t it the SALT talks three decades ago, before the end of the cold war, when Russia and the United States were in dispute over the shape of the negotiating table? Yikes.

I came up north last weekend with the good intention of completing some of the outside staining work I have not yet been able to finish, but the weather would not co-operate, In fact the weather continues to be atrocious here, and what has been particularly frustrating has been its unpredictability. One minute the sun is shining the next there is thunder rolling in. Today, I was at the dump in Burk’s Falls, dropping off some of the construction debris from our site. I seem to be spending a lot of time in these places of late. Unlike the fancy Toronto transfer station, the Burk’s Falls dump is basically a big landfill, with a little building for recyclable materials. Once one presents one’s dump card, one is let through to the landfill to dispose of one’s garbage. Before I could get out of the car though, the heaven’s let loose and we had a downpour the likes of which I have rarely seen. Even the ever-present black bears, who roam around picking through the plentiful supply of bear delicacies, were driven off. By the time the twenty minute deluge was over, there was a waterfall of muddy crap streaming down from the top of the fill and pools of water everywhere. I had a desperate call from Shauna to come back to the house, because apparently one of the old culverts near our property had backed up diverting an over-abundance of water onto our property. I understand the town of Huntsville, thirty kilometres to our south, had some substantial flooding, causing washed out roads and sink holes. Within several hours, our property had drained off, but how devastating this weather must be for the folks in low lying areas. There is great song by Chuck Pyle called (I believe) “Here Comes the Water” describing a flash flood in a valley. When the ground is already saturated and we get rain such as we got today, the storm drains back up, and there is no where for the water to go. Too bad we haven’t found a way to divert our over supply of H2O to the more arid regions of our country.

This coming weekend, weather-permitting, I plan to participate in a power boat poker run on my friend Bob’s 27’ Magnum. Though he’s invited me to attend many times, this will be my first. He claims his will be the slowest boat out there, at 65mph. I hope to report on that adventure next week. Stay dry! Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 7/20/09

Esteemed anchorman Walter Cronkite died last week at the ripe old age of 92. Once dubbed “The most trusted man in America,” Cronkite was, along with Edward R. Murrow, one of the pioneers of responsible reporting in America. It’s sad to note that his passing will likely receive one fiftieth the media attention that Michael Jackson’s did. It seems we have a short attention span for stories about those whose lives are not riddled with scandal or misfortune. I turned on CNN the other night, and was just in time to see the never-before released clip of Jackson’s hair catching on fire in a fireworks malfunction, which occurred during the filming of a Pepsi commercial back in the 80’s. Talk about your prime time video. How does one compete with that “news”?? Perhaps the clip was released posthumously to provide some spin doctor explanation for why the pop superstar might have undergone multiple plastic surgeries, or why he became addicted to prescription painkillers. Take your pick … a clip of Walter Cronkite, crying as he reported the assassination of John F. Kennedy, or a clip of the gloved one’s head on fire.

Celebrity’s a bitch; if you can’t take the heat, stay away from the fireworks, or at least don’t put flammable stuff in your hair. But why is it that so many of us gravitate to the train wrecks and completely ignore that which is truly important and noteworthy in our culture? Why does bad news sell so good? In so many cases it’s not even hard news. So much of what we read and hear today falls into the “infotainment” category and it is often saturated with spin. Someday, there will be a movie or a biography special on Michael Jackson, and we will finally know “the truth,” but for now we must settle for whatever dirt the butler, nurse, nanny, chauffeur, cook, chimp handlers, iron lung salesman, and tabloid photographers choose to dig up. I figure we’ve got a few more months of this the-public-wants-to-know nonsense before we move on to the next dead zebra on the savannah. Meanwhile, poor Walter takes his seat in the nosebleeds, doomed to obscurity, because I’ll wager a growing majority of Americans are now too young to have known how important he was. Then again, Walter probably wasn’t all that interested in glory or fame. I doubt he ever considered doing a Pepsi commercial. He probably would not have been a spokesman for Nike. I’ll bet he was approached by Viagra, but I think the disclaimers would have scared him away.

Final note …we are closing in on the one month anniversary of the beginning of Toronto’s garbage strike, and I can say from firsthand experience, this city is a smelly mess. As much as the mayor would have us believe it’s not really that bad, in fact it is, and Toronto residents have begun “get-off-your-lazy-fat-asses-and-DO-something” pep rallies in front of City Hall, in a vain attempt to move this thing off center. It’s a PR standoff, with one side hoping the public indignation will push the other side into caving. I’m no fan of Mayor Miller - I wanted John Tory for mayor - but as well, city employees, who receive benefits many in this city don’t, are striking for, I believe 3+% per year salary increases. Perhaps they need to wake up and smell the rotting tuna. How does NO job sound to you?

It’s too bad Cronkite’s hair never caught fire. He wasn’t involved in any scandals, and I understand he was happily married. I don’t think he even had any plastic surgery. Venerable is boring; he needed some kind of signature disaster news clip, something by which to remember him. He’ll be yesterday’s news in no time.
Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 7/14/09

Once again I was pleasantly surprised by the reunion to which I referred in last week’s report. I spoke with a lot of distant cousins and some of their grown up kids. My recovering alcoholic cousin seems to be on the wagon, and remarkably much the same as the charismatic character I remember from our ill-spent youth. My logger/farmer cousin from Oregon and his wife were there, and it was better than I could have imagined to finally meet her and to re-unite with him. We all have some miles on us, and I find that these reunions are strangely reassuring in that they remind us that we are not alone with our problems. In my recent myopic stupor, I needed a little dose of that reality. What was especially meaningful is that those relatives from Oregon were able to stop by and visit my ailing Mom.

At the dinner I attended - and there were three or four other dinners - I sat next to the granddaughter of the hostess, along with her fiancée. He’s a microbiologist from New Orleans who left the Big Easy after Katrina struck, and she is a horticulturalist. Together they raise rats - cute ones of course, not the plague-spreading, boot leather-gnawing kind - which they sell as pets in order to defray their living expenses. That’s right, rats. And people BUY them, so hogtie me and feed me beets. I asked the two of them the question everyone asks young lovers … “where did you meet?”, and when they told me it was online, I thought to myself, judgmental soul that I am, “Hmm…I suppose that’s marginally better than meeting at a bar.” Then came the zinger … “at a body piercing site,” after which she proudly pulled out her nose earring, which she had conveniently tucked up inside her nostrils, because “grandma wouldn’t approve.” I nodded admiringly, secretly relishing the thought that this person, who was probably twenty-five years younger than I, would presume that I am hip enough to approve. As is happening more and more these days, I am beginning to feel old, and I feel as if the part of me that used to be open-minded is starting to atrophy. The truth is, these young adults were interesting, intelligent, albeit quirky individuals, and, when I was able to discount my notions of what constitutes an acceptable pet and appropriate body jewellery, I genuinely enjoyed speaking with them. Who buys a rat for a pet?!

What is going on with the weather? If I hear the term “upper level low” one more time as an excuse for all the wind, rain, and below-average temperatures, my eyes are going to pop out in an indignant rage. Up north we have had copious amounts of rainfall in short periods of time. I put an empty bucket out in the back yard one day, and within a few days it was at least a third filled with water. Storm drains are being taxed, driveways are washing away, and the heavy wind, cold temperatures and rainfall are no doubt the subjects of many conversations. Speaking with friends out west in Exshaw, Delbourne, and Edmonton, Alberta, I’m told that the weather in that part of the country has been atrocious as well. There seems to have been more severe weather all over the country, and last night I heard on the news that there had been a “travelling microburst” somewhere around Oshawa, Ontario which had much the same effect as does a tornado. Of course, all these accounts of abnormal weather bring out the Prius-driving, anti-carbon, Gore-loving, told-you-soers, who arrogantly proclaim that all of this is the meteorological Second Coming, substantially caused by our over production of greenhouse gases. Absolutely, we should try and reduce our carbon footprint, as we should in general try to recognize and reduce our negative impact on the environment. But as well, don’t rely on bad science. We are guilty of extreme hubris when we assume that we can control Nature. I remind you that Nature is a mother, and we should listen to her! Weather patterns like El Nino and La Nina likely have a far greater influence on the weather than Bubba with his supercharged, gas hog 1975 Dodge Challenger. Address the things you can more effectively influence, like population growth, food production, less solid, un-biodegradable waste, and more potable water.

On a related note, at this writing, Toronto is heading into day 24 of its garbage strike. Actually, it’s a city worker strike, and other services are affected as well, but garbage is the olfactory bell ringer for media attention. We’re infamous, and last week our mayor was even interviewed on CNN trying to put a positive spin on this public relations and tourist industry disaster. There is nothing so effective in reminding us how much crap we generate than to see it piled up, in and around our city of 2+ million people, in parking lots, in parks, and overflowing from street corner garbage receptacles. This has been an ugly, ugly strike, and tempers are flaring, especially among residents in close proximity to the temporary dump sites. All the rain hasn’t helped, but if the weather was hotter, it would probably be even worse. Perhaps something good will eventually emerge from this problem. I am becoming more and more aware of the excessive amount of non-bio-degradable packaging I personally generate. What is the solution? I’ve bought the re-useable bags for the supermarket, though I keep forgetting to bring them with me when I shop. I suppose the single most effective step for all of us to take would be for us to be more sensitive to what we throw away. I call charities up on the phone and tell them
I will not contribute if they mail me any more paper. Given the choice, I will buy fresh vegetables and skip the plastic bags. I’m told by some in the know that a little co-operation from everyone would likely go a long way to stem this red tide.

Final note. More than one of my readers asked why, several weeks ago, in a report dealing with Michael Jackson’s demise, I displayed a picture of rock legend Jimi Hendrix. Don’t you think they look alike? Seriously, the idea was that Hendrix was also a remarkably talented and in some ways tragic star. Though their circumstances were quite different, their ends were eerily similar.

And as for the Toronto union workers, I understand that yesterday, finally, the first olive branch was extended. Boys and girls, it’s time to “stink or swim!”

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 7/6/09

A belated Happy Canada Day for my friends in the Great White North, and a Happy Fourth to my friends and family stateside. On the Fourth, I was mowing the lawn when Shauna called me up to the house. To my great surprise and amusement, I was presented with Shauna, her parents, and a friend, slowly walking towards me, carrying the star-spangled banner on a makeshift flagpole, as they sang the American national anthem. My father-in-law was even limping. All that was missing was the bloody bandage and a piccolo. They even got most of the words right (thanks in part to the fact that it is sung at most NHL hockey games). I’m not a very good singer, but I instinctively put my hand on my heart and joined in as well. I don’t know why the Founding Fathers picked that particular anthem to be our National theme, because it has a three octave range, and it is hard to sing. “America the Beautiful” or “God Bless America” are much easier to sing, and in my opinion, better songs. Then again, I’ve never written an anthem. Well, I suppose “Swamp Queen” is sort of a love anthem.

I always used to take the Fourth of July for granted, and never really thought much about the significance of the holiday. As I watched what Mr. Obama promises is the beginning of the end of the American presence in Iraq, and the coverage of the sham elections in Iran, and as I take note of the mounting casualties in Afghanistan, I am reminded that freedom can be a bloody business. People die so that others may be liberated, and over the years, I have become increasingly thankful for the sacrifices of all those who fought for my right to express my ridiculous opinions. More and more, I value and appreciate the freedom I have been so fortunate to know, but what concerns me is our propensity to foist it upon other cultures that may not be ready for the unsettling change freedom necessitates. How would North Koreans fare if they were suddenly “liberated”? How have we done in the Middle East so far? Is it a matter of national security that we liberate other countries – is that why we fight other people’s battles? Is it for oil, real estate … other natural resources? Maybe, just maybe, not everyone is ready or willing to fight or sacrifice their stability (albeit enforced) for our ideals … or for Big Macs, celebrity suicides, and reality television. Just exercising my right to offer a ridiculous opionion.

Next week, I will travel back to Buffalo to see my mom and to attend a family reunion on her side of the family. Sadly, she will likely not attend, although I hope some of the attendees can visit her. This week, Lehman relatives will arrive in Buffalo from Dallas, Oregon and Florida. As the Lehman/Oppenheimer side of my family rapidly erodes, I take every opportunity to connect with those that are still with us. Mom’s brother “Peanuts” Lehman passed away a while ago, but his son will be at this gig, and I haven’t seen him in perhaps forty years. He was once active in the horse logging business in Oregon, and I believe bred draft horses for a while. I love his emails, because they are colorfully written vignettes of life on a farm, described with a unique, stream of consciousness style. We share a love of music and good song writing. Another cousin, with whom I have lost touch and not seen since a funeral brought us together almost twenty years ago, will come up from Florida. I am told he has wrestled with demon alcohol most of his adult life. Back when we were teens, we were just rebels without a clue, and alcohol and drug use was a badge of honor. Now, these many years later, he is soberly struggling with the payback years. Everyone has one of those in their family. I wish him luck. Somewhat less so than with the trepidation I felt going to my boarding school reunion, I am nonetheless a little nervous about what I will see, and how I will be seen by these distant relatives. It should be interesting.

As I sign off this week , I can see the American flag waving in the wind outside the living room window. Corny as it is to say, I am thankful that I live in a free country, and I’m thankful to have a family with whom to share that freedom. Next year, bandages and a piccolo.
Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

The Oppenheimer Report 6/29/09

Michael Jackson died mysteriously last week, and of course it’s been all over the news. It might have been the ubiquitous “celebrity flu” we hear about so often, but it doesn’t really matter. Another great talent is now a legend. Now we see his top ten video clips: The young child star of the Jackson Five singing one of their big hits, Michael Jackson dangling his baby precariously over a balcony for his adoring fans in Germany, Michael Jackson’s creepy photo op kiss with Lisa Marie Presley, Michael Jackson standing on the roof of a car, looking like an extra from a George Romero movie, to greet his adoring fans outside the courthouse where he was being tried for pedophilia. We see the chronological transformation of his appearance after multiple plastic surgeries, and these images, along with the damaging accusations in the print media paint a picture of a crazy freak … or perhaps a really lonely man child who needed help and never got it.

Over the years, I have taken great pleasure in mocking Michael Jackson, and I’m still inclined to believe that, no matter what kinds of out-of-court settlements were arranged, he had a problem with little kids, and may have, upon occasion, even crossed the line. What is indisputable, even to a skeptic, is that the guy was enormously talented. The fact is, very few people know what really happened to him, or why he was as weird as he appeared to be, but I would wager that most of us have an opinion. It’s in my nature to judge; I do it all the time. Maybe he was a drug addict, or he was finally punished for his deviant lifestyle, or he had a mental meltdown, or it was the multiple surgeries that finally did him in … maybe he was assassinated by (really) White Supremacists … who knows. Perhaps he was a naïve little boy who, screened from the reality of human nature, simply existed precariously in a parallel universe, unaware or in denial of the judgment foisted upon him daily. Jackson was such an easy target, because he so publicly eccentric and so fabulously successful. The world loves a freak show, and he delivered in spades. Why are so many celebrities flakes? I keep thinking that I’d remain grounded, and I would be able to handle the fame and fortune. The truth is, I haven’t a clue what it is like to be so consistently hounded by fans and press alike.

All the rumors and the innuendo, the scandals, and the reports of his tortured existence will eventually fade away and, regardless of the imperfections of the individual, the star will shine forever. Jackson takes his place in the immortal short list of entertainers and celebrities who stood far above the rest. Though I was not a huge fan, I respected his talent, for pop song writing and dancing. I can’t say I’ll miss him, any more than I’ll “miss” the thousands of other deceased celebrities I never knew. Besides, there is plenty that he left behind to remind me of his talent. But I do feel just a little guilty for judging him so harshly without knowing who he really was.

In a few weeks we’ll find out that some toxic combination of pain killers or other medications ended his life, but that won’t really explain much. In truth, his life ended as enigmatically as he’d lived it, and what is sad is that his upcoming tour might have been very entertaining. Apparently there is a video of a recent rehearsal. We throw the word “tragedy” around a lot these days, but perhaps there are elements of real tragedy in Jackson’s short life. In my mind it was a tragic fantasy, and when they write his biography, perhaps the biographer should begin it with “Once upon a time, there lived a little boy named Michael Jackson.
Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 6/24/08

I am just back from Buffalo where I have been for the past week, foraging through safe deposit boxes, rummaging through files, and talking to lawyers, accountants, and bankers. Dad was pretty good about putting his affairs in order, five years ago. I suppose he felt that the end was near when in fact it was not. Always the organized record keeper, the problem over the past five years was that he kept EVERYTHING. I have been sorting through reams and reams of paper, trying to sort out what is and is not important to keep. As one of the co-executors of his estate (my sister is the other one), we are the detectives who must collect all his assets for evaluation. I find myself going through all of Dad’s possessions. In one folder, hidden in a bottom drawer, I found letters from my sisters and me to Dad, written when we were little children. I found foreign coins he’s collected from his many trips abroad with Mom. I found old photographs of distant family members, along with copies of their birth certificates … why in the world would he have those? Shortly before he passed away, I brought some of those old photos to him for identification, and surprisingly, he was able to put names to most of the faces.

During his last months, I spent quite a lot of time down in Buffalo. Perhaps it was guilt at not having been around much for the past few years, or perhaps I genuinely felt that my presence was helpful. Dad slept for most of the day, but sometimes he would rally late at night. It seemed that in the wee hours of the morning, all the mundane hassles of life on a death bed would drift away, and his memories would re-surface. Certainly, there were the anecdotes I’ve heard a hundred times before - I’m beginning to do that myself, so I can hardly fault him for doing it at 98. But what impressed me about those midnight talks was that invariably, there was a story I hadn’t heard, an anecdote that was new. I learned a little bit more about his early days in Buffalo and about his family in those last few months than I’d ever taken the time to learn in the past forty or fifty years. I came to realize how much there was about my father that I did not and do not know. I used to grumble that my father didn’t understand who I am, but in truth that complaint works both ways. I think a lot of us are strangers to the ones we love. I’ve been philosophical of late. This house is almost finished, and the combination of its construction and the concurrent decline of my parents has been pretty hard. We put all our energy into these projects, and sometimes we lose sight of the big picture, whatever that may be.

Just out of college, I bought a very used Triumph Spitfire and, with the help of someone who actually knew what he was doing, I rebuilt the engine. Unexpectedly, it was one of the better learning experiences of my life. On top of the lesson that it is much better to let a professional handle certain tasks, I learned something about coping with the unsettling prospect of unfinished projects. The rebuild took much longer than expected. Parts were not readily available, others required machining. One night I went out to the garage, and there were all the components of the engine, laying neatly on the floor. Pistons, valves, lifters, push rods … everything. I looked at all of these pieces and felt like at that point in time, this unassembled labyrinth of parts was a pretty good metaphor for my life. I’m in that unsettled state again. I comfort myself by believing that it will all come back together again, and it likely will. But it’s a little like losing my wallet, or my compass when I’m hiking…that feeling in my stomach that comes from the fear of being vulnerable. We all know the future is unpredictable, but sometimes we forget or simply ignore what we know. I’ve learned that no matter how organized I am – and admittedly, I am not well organized – and how much I try to steer the great rudder of my life, there are storms that I never saw coming. Keeping that notion actively in the back of my head has been helpful when the wind begins to blow.

Meanwhile, the world continues to spin on its axis. Iran is in the midst of a political crisis, the H1N1 Swine Flu virus is still a global threat and, just in time for the hot weather, Toronto is in the midst of a garbage strike. Doesn't that stink?

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

The Oppenheimer Report 6/7/09

The last two weeks have been very strange because, although I knew Dad was very old, I had become used to the notion that he would be around forever; I think a lot of people did. He seemed unstoppable, and the idea that he is gone is just now beginning to sink in. The other night, as I was watching the Detroit Red Wings beat the Pittsburgh Penguins in game two of the Stanley Cup finals, I caught myself starting to phone him in Buffalo. What did he think of that penalty call, for whom was he rooting? He would have been watching the game for sure, probably wearing his silly red knit Cornell Sherpa hat, which he wore almost constantly near the end, because he was almost always cold. He customarily wore the hat for Sabres games, presuming that would bring them luck. Invariably, it had the opposite effect. A while back, before Dad became permanently bedridden, my niece took a funny photo of him wearing that hat. He was sitting in his favourite chair in the den, reading a copy of Mad Magazine he found lying around, grimacing like an old curmudgeon because he did not approve of the off-color humor. The photograph is priceless, and a copy was sent to every member of the immediate family. Indeed there are many snapshots of him worth “a thousand words.” So many faces.

I had a complicated relationship with my dad, and I suppose that is fairly common in father-son relationships. Because he was so much older than I, we fought a lot when I was a teen. As I think Mark Twain humorously pointed out, fathers can improve considerably as time passes. I worked for and with Dad for over twenty years, and really came to know him best during that time. Of course he had his faults, but what I remember most about him was his uncanny ability to size almost anybody up in one conversation. He was remarkably intuitive and smart, and I came to admire him a great deal. Whenever anyone says that I remind them of my dad, I am proud of and at the same time humbled by that comparison. Shauna says that I talk to the dog with the same baby talk he used, and that many of my mannerisms are similar. I guess it is inevitable that one absorbs some of the character traits of one’s parents, and perhaps we are genetically hard-wired to do so. I remember a story he used to love to tell, and it always used to bother me. When I was perhaps three or four years old, Dad took me to a place near our first house in Kenmore where they offered rides on a miniature train. He obviously thought this would be big thrill for me, and I suppose he was vicariously delighted that his son was going to have such fun. When the ride was over, he asked me how I liked it, assuming that I would have been overcome with joyous enthusiasm. My reply was simply, “I could walk faster.” He loved to tell that story; perhaps he was a little proud of the fact that, at such a young age, I was already a wise ass. I can only guess, because I was not around in 1914, that maybe my father was a bit of a wise ass himself in his youth. Sadly, none of his contemporaries are still around, and stories of his indiscretions are hard to come by. I did get a few from his sister Edith, before she passed many years ago, but I have no hard evidence.

As time passes, I will likely screen out the past six months or so when Dad was so infirmed. I will remember more and more what a good and virtuous man he was. Home movies and photographs will likely color those memories, and even perhaps embellish them. I miss my dad, but take comfort in the long and productive life he lived. I only hope that, as time goes by, I will become somewhat worthy of the comparisons some have made.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Eulogy for My Father - 5/22/09

To all my readers...

My dad passed away last Monday, quite peacefully, in his home. He had a good life. To follow is the eulogy I gave for him last Friday afternoon at Temple Beth Zion:

I’ve had a long time to think about what I wanted to say when I got up on this podium. Dad began to prepare me for his imminent demise thirty-five years ago, when I was still a boarding school student at Taft. I remember he took me out to lunch one Father’s Day weekend and reminded me of the 45 year difference in our ages, and that I would likely be called upon to “man-up” and take care of Mom when, as he predicted, he would leave us prematurely. Indeed, throughout the years, my father had his share of formidable health challenges, but he was one tough son of a gun, and he endured for 98 years. Still, we all leave some day.

In the past few months, before Dad passed away on Monday, my sister Jill and I spent a lot of time in Buffalo with him and with Mom. I sensed Dad might be losing perspective on all he had done in his long and productive life, and I made it my challenge to remind him wherever and whenever I could of all that he had done, seen and accomplished over the past nine decades. We watched old family movies together, we went through a lot of our old photo albums, spanning back to his early childhood, and of course, we talked. I found one photo of Dad as a young boy, sitting in one of Buffalo’s first electric cars which, I believe, belonged to his mother. There was one picture of Dad that I particularly like, taken back in 1962. Both Mom and Dad loved horses and horseback riding, and while they rode primarily English saddle, they used to take a trip out to Palm Springs, California every Spring. There they spent a good deal of their time riding quarter horses in the desert. The photo in question has Dad up on his horse, standing on a mountain ridge overlooking what was back then the sleepy little town of Palm Springs. Below him, the empty desert stretched out for miles, and there he sat, tall in his saddle, wearing a cowboy hat – a real one - tanned and handsome; in the prime of his life, confident, in control. As I stared at that photo I realized that this image was an almost perfect representation of the man I knew. I take great comfort in knowing that this man was my dad. I’ll come back to that picture in a little while.

Most of you are here because you knew my dad. Some of you knew him well. Judging from the written correspondences and phone calls I have fielded over the past week, many of you had great affection and respect for the man; some of you even used the word love. I loved him as well, but I lived with the man for a good portion of my life, and the love I have for him is tempered by fifty-three years of my life with him. How lucky I was to have had that experience. And I think I grew to know him pretty well. Dad was a complex, fascinating, intelligent, generous, and really funny man. I am pretty sure most of you have at least one Jim Oppenheimer story that highlights his wonderfully irreverent wit, or his famous generosity, of spirit and deeds. I’m not going to share funny anecdotes about Dad here because, for one thing, he was a much better story teller. Besides, I wouldn’t know where to begin. Let it suffice to say, and I think we will all agree on this, we appreciated the fine man he was.

Mom doesn’t want long speeches, so what I want to say is this. Over my short lifetime, I have spent far too much time pre-occupied with the elusive concept of success, though I have never really understood that concept. What I am finally beginning to understand, largely through my association with this humble and self-deprecating mentor, is that success will elude me, if I seek it. Dad never bothered with a score card, and he never called attention to his achievements, though they were too numerous to mention. Surrounded by a world filled with self-promoters, he simply set about to accomplish every goal he ever put his mind to, with unfailing drive and with flawless organization. He was an amazing and selfless father, husband, brother and son, he was a well-read intellectual, a gifted writer, a confirmed expert in his profession, and he came to be respected by any and all who had the privilege to get to know him. He simply walked through his long life, consistently enriching his friends and family with his generosity, his unstoppable wit and charm, and his intelligent common sense. That, I have finally come to understand, is the definition of a successful man.

So I come back to that photograph of Dad on the ridge. In a world of shifting sands, my father was stability. The man on that horse was real, not some illusion, not some imposter. He was consistent, stable, good, honorable, and dependable, and he made me and every one in my family feel safe. I have relied on his strength most of my life, and I am quite sure it has made me a better person than I would have otherwise been. Dad I salute your long and beautiful life, and I hope that, as I lately imagine, you are back on one of your favorite horses, cantering through the verdant farmlands of heaven.

The Oppenheimer Report 5/10/09

Last weekend I went back for my 35th high school reunion at The Taft School, the boarding school I’d attended in Connecticut for the last three years of my high school career. Driving down to Watertown, Ct. from Toronto last Friday afternoon, I began to have ambivalent feelings, and I wondered if I shouldn’t simply turn around and go home. Without going into great detail, I recently retired from the business I was working in for over twenty-five years, my nest egg has been downgraded from “Robin” to “Quail”, we recently completed construction of a home which took well over two years, nearly driving Shauna and me over the edge, and presently I find myself charged with care giving responsibilities which have grown exponentially over the past 18 months. At 53 years of age, as I take stock of my life so far, I don’t feel particularly proud of my accomplishments to date. There I was, around Binghamton, N.Y., driving down to a reunion, at a school I have not visited in over twenty-five years, to see classmates I have not seen for at least that long. What was I DOING? This was madness! They’re all successful and I’m a loser. At a time when I am particularly vulnerable and confused, why am I throwing myself into a situation which could be a sucker punch to my self esteem, or even worse, to my sanity?! Apprehension gradually developed into anxiety, and by the time the five hundred mile drive was over, I was a quivering mess. At least I didn’t turn around.

After I’d checked in to the hotel, I headed over to the campus for a quick look around, before the school would be crowded with alumni. Much has changed, but as well, much has not. I wandered through the halls, poked my head into the old auditorium, where I remember the whole school assembled before dinner every weeknight, visited the dining room, then walked around out back to see some of the newer additions to the campus. I took a picture of the sun setting over one of the old dorms, and as the shutter clicked, I was momentarily transported back to 1973, when I had taken the same picture. A déjà vu moment. Time passes, but some things remain the same. By now, I was beginning to feel a little better about this imminent reunion. Somehow I belonged here. Though still apprehensive about seeing my classmates, I realized that Taft had played an important part of in my adolescent development, and I very much needed and wanted to revisit this institution and the people who were a part of it. I chugged a beer for courage and joined some of my classmates for the informal dinner our reunion chair had arranged in Woodbury. By the end of that dinner (during which I failed to recognize at least one close friend) I was reminded that this was going to be better than o.k. I had the opportunity to meet and talk to some interesting people, in some cases for the first time. I felt comfortable with almost everyone and really enjoyed myself. The next night was the big dinner, and that turned out to be a lot of fun as well.

Of late, I have been so focused on the present and the future, that I have had little inclination to revisit the past. I needed to remember what it was I got out of Taft, because I’d put that part of my life on the shelf. So much about my life in the past twenty-five years has been a random series of events to which I have reacted, however successfully. Upon reflection, I have not been particularly successful at steering my life towards happiness and growth, and my fear was that seeing all these classmates would shine a spotlight on my failure. The fact is, nobody seemed to care, and I was reminded that nobody escapes the relentless march of time. Given enough time, life eventually kicks us all in the ass. If it’s not health, it’s emotional or financial problems. A long time ago, I stopped seeking karmic retribution, or epiphanies, or any meaning that could explain why I am where I am right now. What I have tried to do in my life is focus on the friends and family who can help me through the journey. Taft was a good school when I attended. Academically, it’s probably an even better school now. But I did not come back to visit the school; I came back to see the people who shared time with me at that school. We were inmates together. Some of us had a better experience than others, but we all shared the experience, for better or for worse. After this reunion, I was reminded how many good friends I’d made at Taft, and that realization came at a critical time for me. I can say without doubt that my association with those people has improved my life, and though I may not see them much anymore, it is a great comfort to be reminded that they know me and I know them.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 5/4/09

As I begin today’s report on Saturday, the wind is blowing furiously off the grey and churning lake, and I sit in our new kitchen watching this bad weather while enjoying a hot cup of coffee. I am facing the stairwell, with its newly installed glass, and through the glass I can see the mountain mosaic above our fireplace. We christened the fireplace last week. My father-in-law did the honors, because he always used to build the fires. The house is so designed that one can see the blaze in that fireplace from almost any point in the house that faces it, on both floors. I remember how long we waited for the stone mason to complete that fireplace. There were many months wherein the structure was tarped in and we could not really gauge the progress. We’d spent a long time planning and reworking the design, but much of that project was a leap of faith that the stone mason could create what we’d envisioned. There were times when I thought the mason was going to have a nervous breakdown, such was the challenge with which we had charged him. His name is Mark, and we jokingly referred to him as “Markoangelo”. Mark not only succeeded in realizing our vision, but he created a work of art which we grow more fond of every day. Indeed there was great controversy surrounding our design, and when it was finally unveiled, some people working on the house didn’t like it. I suppose they were expecting a realistic depiction of the mountains, but that was not what Shauna and I had in mind. I suppose one could make the argument that Van Gogh’s “Wheatfield with Crows” is not a realistic depiction of that scene, but I still consider it to be a beautiful work of art.

I remember when we first visited the owners of a Neville log home near Dorset, Ontario, and I was immediately taken with the beautiful view afforded by its large picture windows. Today, looking out on that lake, with the forbidding weather and the trees swaying in the wind, I was suddenly aware of the fact that we too now have a spectacular view. I have been so involved in the myriad of expenses and details involved in the construction of this house, that I have been almost completely oblivious to the reasons why we embarked on this journey in the first place. This house is organic, it belongs on this site, and it blends in beautifully with its surroundings. Both from the interior and the exterior it simply belongs in this environment. As I spend more time just hanging out here, I am astounded by the sense of peace it exudes.

Our next door neighbour just bought a new outboard motor for his boat, and this evening, just before dusk, he launched it for a test run. When I saw him out on the lake, I waved to him and he motored in to give me a ride. As we took a power run around the lake at 55 mph, I watched the house from a distance. This is the first time I’ve seen it from the lake since last Fall, and much has changed in that time. This house was built in turbulent times, through an economic crisis, at a time when my parents have rapidly descended towards the ends of their lives. There it stands, a fixture on the ever-changing landscape. Much has transpired in the last two years, but the house, with all its stories, remains a solid, fixed thing in this ever-changing environment. For me this is a consoling thought.
-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 4/14/09

We had a Seder supper with Shauna’s parents to celebrate Passover last week. Still haven’t seen Elijah. Every year I make the same joke, referring to Mom’s delicious Charoses (pronounced ho-ra-sis) as “psoriasis”. She’s probably pretty tired of that joke by now, but it’s all I’ve got. The day after the Seder, Shauna headed back up north to deal with the never-ending house project, and I drove down to Buffalo to be with Mom and Dad, where I am at present.

The new house up north is amazing, and it will be even more so when we can say farewell to the last of the workers. Much finish work remains to be done, so that may be a while. Jasper is in her glory because, having lived in a very cramped 1200 sq. ft. bungalow for the past fifteen months, and an even more cramped trailer for six or seven months before that, she doesn’t know what to do with all the extra room. Now, instead of barking at pedestrians and cars, she has huge picture windows, out of which she can bark at deer, groundhogs, raccoons, squirrels, foxes, and birds. Last week, she figured out how to go up the half log stairs. We were sure she’d be afraid of the stairs, but now she fearlessly ventures up to the second floor to assist the workers. I’m never quite sure where I’ll find her, but can usually tell where she’s been by what is stuck in her beard.

We no longer have high speed internet access because our new home is in a dead zone for high speed. Keep that in mind if you decide to send us any photos in the near future. We will likely move to some higher speed satellite service if and when we can afford that luxury. For now we are reduced to dial up service and it is SLOW. When I got down to Toronto, I downloaded all our messages, and I have noticed a new form of junk email. I am getting a lot of promotional offers from obscure towns in places like Missouri, Arizona, and Iowa. I don’t think I’ll be spending my (non-existent) vacation dollars on a trip to Cow Plop, Iowa, but someone thinks I might. The funny thing is, a lot of these ads are targeting time share prospects, and time share ownership is a concept I am even less likely to embrace. Many of these promotions are handled by the same organization, and I was amused by a little note I saw at the bottom of the email ads. It says that if I want to be removed from their mailing list I should go to (and I don’t have the ad in front of me for the exact website) http://www.kibblespecials.com/. Of course! It makes perfect sense that, in these troubled times, when real estate investment is in large part the cause of the economic Armageddon we now find ourselves in, I am going to invest in one of the least secure forms of real estate ownership, from a company that promotes DOG FOOD! Just click on http://www.snakeoilinvestments.com/. Jeesh.

Perhaps next week, I will regale you with stories of Shauna’s fourteen hours on the phone dealing with Bell. We have our internet service, our satellite T.V., AND two phone lines bundled in some allegedly cost saving package with Bell. Between the outsourcing of their customer service to places like India and Pakistan, and the complete lack of accountability in almost every department Shauna spoke with, it is no wonder that one of Bell’s most active departments is their “Customer Retention” department. Let it suffice to say that we are less than satisfied customers.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 4/7/09

There is a comedy show up here in Canada known as “The Trailer Park Boys”, I think it airs on the Showtime network, and like so much of the Canadian humor, I am a HUGE fan of this show. I first caught an episode about two years ago, and I have been hooked ever since. Admittedly, it is an acquired taste, like two of my other favorite Canadian shows, “Kids in the Hall” and The Red Green Show”, but the more I watch it the more I like it. Basically it is done in a mock-umentary format, with a camera crew following the exploits of a band of low level criminals, drunks, and generally low life individuals who live in a run down trailer park. The individuals talk to the camera and as the “reality” of their exploits unfolds for all to see, the humor is there for anyone with half a funny bone to appreciate. This is irreverent, twisted humor at its best, and I heartily recommend it to any of you out there who might be as sick as I am. I just sent one DVD of a three DVD set to my nephew in Virginia, hoping to reinforce the notion that Uncle Jamie hasn’t completely lost his inner child. I got a call from him the other day expressing his approval. He wants the other two DVDs.

About ten days ago, I drove Shauna’s parents up to Jasper Bark Lodge to view the new home, and that was a milestone event. Their visit was special in many ways. March 21st marked their late son Jordan’s birthday, so it was fitting that they first visited Jasper Bark Lodge on that date. Jordan would have approved of the house we built. The Taylors have not been to the property for over three years, and not since the old cottage was demolished. Although there is still work being done to finish this house (audible sigh), it is now habitable, and we are living in it. There are still a few issues to resolve, and we have a list of deficiencies which must be rectified before the building inspector gives it a “pass” for his final inspection. Still, the deficiencies are relatively minor, the house has been officially deemed habitable, and it was with great satisfaction that we opened the place up to Shauna’s parents. Though they had originally intended to stay only one night, they liked it so much that we convinced them to stay for the week. I think in that short time, with the chaos of various workers coming and going every day, and all the crazy things that have gone wrong, they got some feel for what we have been through for the past two years.

What a change it is to finally be living in the lodge! We’ve waited a long time for this moment. Having moved out of the Burk’s Falls crap house we lived in for the past fifteen months, with its myriad of electrical and plumbing problems and its flooding basement, I can say that by contrast, Jasper Bark Lodge is a magical place to live. Shauna gets most of the credit for designing the house to fully exploit the lake view, and the open floor plan on the first floor is comfortable and I think an excellent use of space. Although it will be probably be a long time before we can say the house is truly finished, and while we have, as I am sure many others before us have, run out of money creating our custom dream home, we now have hope that this never-ending project will someday be completed. We have been too close to the construction of this house to appreciate the home we wanted to create. Living in the house, we are beginning to enjoy all of the unique design features we had built in, and we are reminded that we did it. We are finally living in the home that four years ago we only dreamed of building.


Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 3/16/09

3/14/09 - Last Thursday night, we celebrated a momentous event, enjoying our first official dinner in the new house. Granted, dinner was a pizza, but we did use our warming oven, and that means we have, by my definition, christened our new kitchen. We now have a working kitchen, with hot water, two sinks, a refrigerator and freezer, a stove, and a cook top. Though we have not yet moved in, we will by necessity move out of our rental bungalow in Burk’s Falls by the end of this month. Our landlord, who had promised to give us 60 days notice to vacate, has sold his cottage and will be moving into our home away from home in April. I wish him good luck, because the house into which he will be moving needs a lot of work. Not only does the basement flood every time there is any kind of thaw or appreciable rainfall, but the house has serious plumbing and electrical problems as well.

Even as we near the completion of the log home, there are problems to address. Glass cut to fit into the stair railings does not fit properly, nor do some of the glass pieces measured for the rear porch. We still need to chink the house, with material which was supposed to be supplied by our log supplier, Neville Log Homes. That company has filed for bankruptcy, and we never received the chinking material for which we had already paid. Nevertheless, most of the big problems are, I hope, behind us, and Shauna and I anxiously await the day when the house is cleaned up and ours to live in. This has been a long haul – we broke ground around May of 2007 – and there have been many challenges to face along the way. We were present for every stage of construction, and the entire process has been documented, in written journals, in photographs, and on audio and videotape recordings. For now, I prefer not to think about the tribulations of the past three years; it gives me a stomach ache. The house, for all of it’s flaws, is a remarkable and unique structure, and one which I am hopeful will provide us with years of pleasure. I’ll know we have officially moved in when our two cedar bears, “Shem” and “Naur” are guarding the main entrance to the house.

3/16/09 – I’m back in Buffalo now. Drove down yesterday afternoon and, after visiting with Mom and Dad for a while, and setting up a DVD player in Dad’s bedroom so he has access to movies, I rode my bike downtown for the annual St. Patrick’s Day parade on Delaware Ave. When I lived in Buffalo, I used to attend that parade every year, and it seemed as if every year the weather was atrocious. This year was different, and because it was a beautiful day, there was a huge turnout. I, the consummate people watcher, came armed with my digital camera to record all the Irish wannabes. On St. Patrick’s Day it seems as if people of all nationalities transform into mutant Leprechauns. Like Halloween, St. Patrick’s Day inspires us to channel with our inner fool. I might have been the only person at the parade wearing not so much as a speck of green. The funny thing is, when I lived in Ireland for six months back in the late Seventies, the Dubliners didn’t make a big deal out of St. Patrick’s Day. I don't even think there was a parade. Indeed St. Patrick’s Day is an American phenomenon. After the parade was over, I rode home and downloaded the 150+ photos I took onto my computer. Later on, I gave Dad a slide show of the day’s activities. Though he is largely confined to a bed these days, I am determined to give him at least a glimpse of the outside world. After all, he still has an active mind.

Next week will be a crazy push to move out of the Burk’s Falls bungalow, so I may not be able to get the report out. I will return when the dust clears. Erin Go Bragh(less)!

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 3/11/09

As I write this report, I am anxiously awaiting the repercussions of the latest thaw up here in Burk’s Falls. Presently, the wind is gusting to 70 Km/hr., the trees are swaying furiously, and I just came back from our new, ALMOST finished, house to make sure the protective tarps have held. When there is an extreme thaw, such as the one we are now experiencing, the basement in our temporary rental bungalow floods. If we lose power, which usually happens when we get winds like this, then the flooding becomes a bigger problem. I will not bore you with the latest tribulations involving the severely delayed completion of this house, but let it suffice to say we are at our wits end. The only thing keeping Shauna and I from lunging at each other like a couple of territorial wolves, apart from the fact that we have to consider Jasper’s mental health, is the mutual understanding that many of these problems are simply out of our control. We are hopeful that all of this will soon get better.

The weather has once again been very strange. In the past week, we have had a myriad of extremes, ranging from extremely mild to bitter cold. With all the freezing and thawing, roads up here are often reduced to glare ice, and the conditions change hourly. Last night it rained, but today the mercury has once again plunged, and the snow has begun to blow in a driving, horizontal pattern. Certainly March came in with a roar, and I’m guessing those groundhogs are once again lying vermin. Every year, it’s the same story … I listen to that drug-addled albino groundhog, “Wiarton Willie” (our debauched, Canadian version of “Punxatawny Phil”) and every year, the little bastard is off by about three weeks. Frankly, if I lived in Wiarton, I too would probably drink heavily and try to be optimistic about winter's end. I could likely get a better read from my brilliant nephew the meteorologist, but what fun would that be?

I have never owned a DVD player before, although my computer is equipped with one. I kept thinking that, when the technology was a little more affordable, I’d buy a recordable DVD player. Now that DVDs are soon to be and obsolete technology, I found a recordable player for $59.00 at the fell-off-the-back-of-the-truck-our-prices-are-insane-keep-your-receipt-because-this-puppy-is-re-conditioned-so-we-will-replace-it-for-ten-days-if-as-we-know-it-will-it-craps-out local discount electronics store. Of course, the first one did break, but the second one seems to be a keeper. Now I can convert all my priceless videos to DVD. There is, of course, Nixon’s funeral, complete with Bob Dole crying (one of Shauna’s greatest hits) and the very first episode of “Big Brother”, destined to be a collector's item. Now, if and when the rest of my life settles down (hardy har har) , I will have plenty of material to convert, just in time for DVD players to become obsolete.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 3/2/09

Today was another banner day for the world financial markets, as reports about AIG and CitiGroup are the latest bad news to batter the markets. The Dow closed below 7000 today, but I saw a clip on the news tonight about one industry that is making a comeback during these troubled times. Craving a few hours of escape, people are flocking to the movies, and film attendance is up a whopping 17 percent. Thank goodness that Brad and Angelina will remain unfazed by the latest economic meltdown. Speaking of movies…

I was down in Buffalo last week, and while I was there, I set up a VCR in Dad’s bedroom so he could watch some videos. He watched all 3 ½ hours of “Gettysburg”, one of his favorites, because he is a Civil War buff. He generally likes movies which deal with historical events, and over the years, he has amassed a rather formidable video library. We also watched some old Oppenheimer home movies. Years ago, I’d had many of our old home movies transferred to video cassette, because they’re easier to watch on video tape. Also, I was able to put almost all of our movies on one two hour videotape, so that I didn’t need to change ten 20 minute reels of 8MM film on a movie projector. Our movie projector is about the same vintage as our home movies – circa 1955 – and it’s about as loud as a vacuum cleaner. Another reason for the video conversion is that I knew those old celluloid films would eventually deteriorate, and I didn’t want all of those old family memories to be lost. There was video of me shortly after my birth, of my now deceased sister Joanne, and of horseback riding vacations in Palm Springs, back when Palm Springs was a sleepy hideaway for Hollywood movie stars. There were movies of a family visit to Ausable Chasm in the Adirondacks, where I’m told I climbed over a guard rail and almost fell off a steep cliff. There were panoramic views from atop Whiteface Mountain, and film of our visit to Santa’s Wonderland. What little Jewish boy should be deprived of this treat? I believe my sister was bitten on the butt by a goat at Santa’s Wonderland. Ho, Ho, Ho! There were movies of my Mom and Dad riding horseback at a farm near our summer home in Canada. They looked so healthy and energetic back then. Looking at those videos, I was transfixed, watching my distant past unfold in living color.

I’ve done some videotaping over the years, but I’ve never been very good at it. Camera technology has certainly improved over the years, and the smaller cameras, with their side-mount video screens, have certainly made their operation a lot easier. Those first video cameras were so big and cumbersome I found them difficult to use. Regardless, Shauna is a much steadier, more patient, and generally more effective camera person than I am. On top of this, I always felt uncomfortable filming subjects who almost unanimously did not wish to be videotaped. But here’s the thing. While most people don’t want to be filmed, and video recording is a somewhat invasive process, most of us enjoy watching those videos as time passes. “Oh my, there’s Aunt Josephine, boy did I get a kick out of her.” … “See how young Tommy looks in that video.” I remember back about fifteen years ago, when some of my father’s family gathered for some family affair, people were not very co-operative about being filmed, and in fact we didn’t take much video, because it was obviously making some people uncomfortable. Nevertheless, fifteen years later, I copied a bit of that video and gave it to a cousin, who thanked me and told me that there was very little record of such a large gathering of his family. In many of the above-mentioned old home movies my Dad made, there was inevitably a shy subject, grinning with embarrassment, waving away the obnoxious camera man. I’m glad he kept the camera rolling. If a picture is worth a thousand words, then a video speaks volumes.
Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

The Oppenheimer Report 2/23/09

I wonder if it is a coincidence that the ads I’m now getting in my email box correspond to my aging baby boomer status. Amidst the plethora of ads promising me a four hour erection (how did they know?) – and I understand that everyone gets those, the ads, I mean - I am now receiving a daily dose of offers for free colon cleansing, anti-aging pills, and a myriad of other snake oil solutions to my inevitable downward health spiral. I’m guessing those ads don’t go out to the “tweens” and “X-ers” ... just us decaying “Boomers”. Holy Ponce De Leon, Batman, is it that obvious? As medicine improves, and as we become more educated about the benefits of good nutrition, and about our health in general, we WILL many of us live longer lives. Therein sits the ethical dilemma. If, through science and technology, we manage to increase the lifespan of the average human being, but we do nothing about the quality of that human being’s life, is that progress? I’m now watching my father wrestle with the end stages of his life, physically and emotionally, and it is much more difficult than I’d ever imagined it would be, for him or for me. I don’t want him to die. Selfishly, I will always want him to remain my pillar of strength, there when I need him. But at 98, what does he want? I don’t think we ask this question of ourselves, and more important, we don’t really listen to those most affected by the issue.

Now I’m likely to cross that arbitrarily drawn line of political correctness. Pro Choice, and I am Pro Choice, should be a dialogue about the beginning AND the end of our lives. I strongly value life, all life, but I also value the rights of the individual. What a person of faith chooses to do is his or her business, but do not force those beliefs on me. Dr. Kervorkian was vilified for his actions, and in fact euthanasia is still a dirty word in our society. This is clearly a complicated subject, and I am not entirely sure how I feel about it. I’m not one of those who agrees with the logic that “we euthanize out pets to spare them pain, why do we not do the same for our aged?” Of course, one of the major obstacles, presented by those who oppose the concept, is the potential for abuse. “Let’s put Grampa down, because he’s lived long enough, and we want his money.” I suggest that human beings have free will, or at least some of us do, and should be given the choice of how they wish to carry out the end stages of their lives. Define some very clear and reasonable definition of the conditions under which euthanasia can legally be considered, and then leave it to the individual, whose compromised life is in question, to chose for him or herself. If you are diagnosed with some horrible terminal illness, and you choose not to suffer, then this would give you some control. It is really just an extrapolation of the DNR order, and going a little further than what Hospice offers. When I can no longer feed myself, clean myself, breath for myself; when I am in irreversible pain, let me choose to go gently. It seems so fundamentally simple, but it isn’t.

Final notes … Was it pilot error that brought down Fl 3407 outside of Buffalo last week? There is now a big debate about the use of auto pilot controls and the rules that should fall into place when icing occurs. The Dow has plunged 47% from record highs in October of 2007. Ouch. Australia is experiencing horrific wildfires, claiming over 200 casualties so far. President Obama received a hero’s welcome in Ottawa last Thursday. I wonder how long it will be before we all turn on him like a pack of angry hyenas. And under the heading of “Is ANYBODY responsible for his or her own actions???!” … I refer to two CNN clips. First, the drunk guy who was just awarded $2.3 Million after he was run over by a subway train. Potential Darwin Award winner Dustin Dibble was so drunk he doesn’t even remember falling onto the tracks of a NYC subway near Union Sq. Station, and a jury, in their infinite wisdom, decided it was the driver of the subway train who was at fault for running him over. Second, did you read about that infamous chimp attack in Connecticut? Some 200 lb. chimp named Travis went berserk, tore off some lady’s face, and had to be shot. Then, we find out that Travis’s owner fed him the drug Xanax shortly before the attack. Oops, I think they shot the wrong chimp! Speaking of anti-depressants, I wonder what ever happened to Michael Jackson’s flower chimp “Bubbles”? I’m guessing, it’s a permanent resident at the Betty Ford Clinic.
- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 2/16/09

I’m down in Buffalo again, and while I’m here, I try to spend as much quality time with each of my parents as I can. Last Thursday night, Dad and I were upstairs in his bedroom, watching an old Jimmy Stewart movie I’d never seen before (and I thought I’d seen them all), and after it was over, I went downstairs to check on Mom. She and the nurse were rapt in attention, watching live local coverage of the crash of Continental Fl. 3407, which had occurred in Clarence Center, N.Y. perhaps an hour earlier. All I could see on the television screen was the blinding glow of burning jet fuel. A chill went up my spine, because I suddenly had a déjà vu moment bringing me back to the morning of September 11th, 2001, when Shauna and I watched the events of the day unfold on CNN. While I didn’t suspect any foul play in this accident, I got the same eerie feeling I always get when I don’t yet have any solid information. It was so strange to be only about ten miles away from where the disaster occurred. I knew that there were going to be casualties, but not until the next morning did I find out how bad it really was. All I kept seeing was that inferno of burning jet fuel.

Shauna called first thing Friday morning from up North to ask if the crash was anywhere near where my parents lived. I assured her it took place well east of Downtown Buffalo. She’d been watching the overage on CNN. I turned on the tube and it was then that I learned 50 people had perished in this crash. Miraculously, two out of the three residents in the home into which the aircraft had crashed survived. The plane made a direct hit on the house, and it is a miracle that anyone got out of that mess alive.

That night, Dad and I sat in his bedroom and watched the struggling Buffalo Sabres play the league-leading San Jose Sharks. It was a roller coaster of a game; the Sabres were up a few goals early on, but then they were playing catch-up in the second half of the game, fighting to stay in the game near the end. In the last thirty seconds of regulation time they rallied to tie it up, and went on to win the game in a very dramatic overtime shootout. I was thankful to see such an exciting game with Dad. Over the years, I attended so many Sabres games with him in the now-half-demolished Buffalo Auditorium (see photo above). I thought it was fitting that the struggling Sabres gave their fans such a big win on the night after such a horrible disaster had rocked the community. Perhaps I’m reading too much into this David and Goliath win, but to me it was symbolic of characteristics I have always attributed to my home town. Despite a disparaging write up in a recent Forbes Magazine article, despite all the shenanigans of local politicians, despite the notoriously bad weather, which is actually something I like about WNY, Buffalo is still, in my mind, the City of Good Neighbors, full of friendly, good people, who come together when the chips are down.

Dad asked me to pick up some Valentine candy for Mom which he presented to her Saturday morning, along with an appropriately amusing card. They dined together that night in his bedroom and, while it was hardly a romantic candlelight dinner (beef stew “a la Jamie”), it was comforting to know that the two of them were sharing this universal holiday of lovers. After the tragic events of last week, I remind myself of the serendipitous nature of life. Some of us celebrate almost sixty Valentine’s with our partners, and some of us have our lives cut short. Much as we delude ourselves that we are in control of our destinies, none of us really are. Nobody knows how many exciting Sabres games he or she gets to watch. As my deceased brother-in-law used to say, “Don’t postpone joy”. These days, I take joy wherever I can find it. - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 2/9/09

My status as a citizen of Canada is that of a landed immigrant, or “landed ignorant” as I sometimes jokingly refer to myself. It used to be that I carried my landing document with me when I traveled back and forth to the U.S., but about six years ago, Canada began to issue permanent resident I.D. cards in lieu of the landing document. I would describe the process involved in acquiring said card as somewhat tedious, prone as I am to understatement. I don’t remember everything I had to do, but it was a big pain in the neck, and it took a long time for Canadian Immigration to issue me the card.

Jump ahead five years, and about three months ago, I noticed that my almost five year old PR Card had an expiry date, and guess what … it expired in January of 2009. It was actually January 11th, 2009 but I could not make out the eleven because it is obscured by a watermark. In fact the entire expiry date was practically unreadable. Silly me, I thought the card was good for as long as I was a permanent resident, surrendered if and when I moved back to the States. I guess that’s why I’m a landed ignorant, because I didn’t bother to read the fine print. By the way, when dealing with Canadian Immigration, it’s ALL fine print. Anyhow, I was a little surprised that there was no renewal notice, as there is with just about any other authorization card issued by the Canadian Government. If my health card needs to be renewed, I receive a notice. Same goes for my driver’s license, or for the registration for my car. Why wouldn’t they send a renewal notice for immigration? To make matters worse, the renewal process is almost as tedious, annoying, and bureaucratic as the original PR application. Nevertheless, I sent in my renewal application, several months before it was scheduled to expire. Bring me a shrubbery! (not-so-obscure reference to a scene from Monty Python’s “In Search of the Holy Grail”).

When I returned from Buffalo a few weeks ago, and crossed the Canadian border, I handed the immigration officer my now expired Permanent Resident card and was almost denied entry into Canada. I didn’t realize it had expired on the eleventh. The immigration officer asked me if I had my landing document, and I told him that no, I was required to surrender that document in order to get the temporary card. This is going to be a problem. I just got a notice from the issuers of renewal cards that in my application for renewal I had failed to dot an “i” on line 487, thereby delaying the application process even further. I called Canadian Immigration and asked what I am supposed to do in the interim until my card is renewed, and their advice directly contradicted what I was told at the border. I am now in immigration limbo. Although I am married to a Canadian citizen, have a Canadian health card, an Ontario Driver’s license, a Social Insurance Number, etc., my immigration status is unclear. Technically, I suppose that I am now an illegal immigrant, though I have made every effort to follow the ambiguous and complicated rules required to remain a resident of this country. By the way, good luck trying to reach a warm body to assist you in this process. Everything is phone menus and websites which are not particularly helpful.

Finally, last weekend, while I was up north, I volunteered my services as a grill cook for the 15th Annual Kearney Dogsled Races. Though the weather was unseasonably mild, there was a good turnout, and I was able to enjoy some of the races after my grill duties were fulfilled. There is no describing the cacophony of over one hundred sled dogs howling and barking at the same time. If you’ve never been to a sled dog race, and you like dogs, you might want to put this on your list of things to do. I hope to attend again next year … that is, if I have not yet been banished from the country.
Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED