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LINDNER’S FAMILY VACATION

 Okay, one more Manny story, then we’ll get back to Indictment Watch ‘23 and Iraq War +20. I’ve shared parts of this before, but not all of it.

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My dad had a burning obsession over the Holocaust. His side of the family lost so many relatives. In 2007, he told me he wanted to go see for himself where it all happened. So he signed up with an outfit called “Elderhostel” (which has since changed its  name to Road Scholar) to take a tour of Eastern Europe. I was gobsmacked.

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“And mom agreed to go along with you on this trip?”

 

“No. God, no. She wanted nothing to do with it. I’m going by myself, but I’ll join up with about 25 others, mostly from New England and Canada.”

 

“Well how’s about if I go with you? And maybe try to talk Mark (my brother) into joining us?”

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So Mark and my dad flew out from San Francisco to Stuttgart, I flew out from Portland. We had only the vaguest of plans how we’d connect once there. When I landed, I walked through the gate, glanced over my shoulder, and there were Mark and my dad walking through the next gate. We literally arrived within moments of each other.

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After lunch and a few beers at the airport, we flew to Budapest, where this picture was taken. We joined up with the rest of the Elderhostel folks and started our tour, which I must say, was very impressive. The hotels, the restaurants, the coaches, the guides, everything was top-notch.

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From Budapest we traveled by coach to Brno in Slovakia, then to Prague in Czechia, and finally to Poland. All along the way, we learned of the fate of our extended family. My dad took copious notes, which he compiled into a journal on his computer when we got back. We toured castles, went to a performance of the Prague Symphony, and of course; Auschwitz, Płaszów, Terezín, and a few other smaller concentration camps.

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Even though the subject matter was pretty grim, it was a wonderful trip. My dad literally got it all out of his system. I’m almost reluctant to use the word, but he found the closure he was seeking on that trip. (And I got to know more than I wanted to know about my brother… his snoring is indistinguishable from the launch of a Saturn 5 rocket.)

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Keep in mind the age makeup of this group. My dad, who turned 88 while on that trip, was the oldest. At 55, I was the youngest. Most of the men on the tour were World War II veterans.

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There was one guy from Boston named Marty, who kept asking my dad what he did during the war. Marty was a sailor onboard a destroyer near Tokyo Bay at the end of the war. It’s been estimated that if Japan hadn’t surrendered and the allies were forced to invade the Japanese home islands, there could be as many as 500,000 to 1,000,000 killed. The guys onboard those ships were scared shitless.

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My dad, reluctant to talk about it, kept brushing him off. Finally, when we were in Krakow, Marty said “Come on Manny. It’s no shame if you didn’t serve. Were you in school all during the war?”

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That did it (I witnessed this).

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“No, I was working on the Manhattan Project.”

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“You built the bomb?”

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“No, Robert Oppenheimer built the bomb. My team made the plutonium for it.”

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<<< Loooooooooooong pregnant pause >>>

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Then finally, Marty said; “I guess that means you saved my life.” His jaw trembling a little bit,
eyes tearing up, he reached out and the two men hugged.

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It was the perfect finale to a very informative and emotional trip.

 

WHEELS UP BY BRUCE LINDNER

 You’ve heard of flipping cars for profit, right? Check out this story.

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This is a 1962 Ferrari 250 GT SWB (short wheelbase) California Spider. I’m guessing here, but it probably sold for somewhere between $8,000 and $12,000 brand new. It was originally sold to someone in Hollywood. Let your imagination fill in that blank.

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In 1970, the owner slammed it into a curb, twisting up some suspension components, the right front brake and the exhaust system. So he sold it “as is” for $2,400.

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The new owners repaired the damage, and put it up for auction through the Gooding Company. And it recently sold for… 🥁 🥁 🥁 

 

$18,045,000. That’s EIGHTEEN MILLION AND FORTY FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS.

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If you factor in inflation, that $2,400 works out to around $17,000 in today’s money. Which is less than 1/1,000th of what it just sold for. Even if they spent a million restoring it, I’d call that a good return on an investment!

BY BRUCE LINDNER ………

 Mkay, one last tribute to my dad, then I’ll give it a rest for a while.

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My daughter Lisa took a picture a few months ago of my dad out stretching his legs in the neighborhood. I cropped it and enhanced it a bit.

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I call it “Going Home to Las Trampas.”

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Believe it or not, my dad was a big time nature fanatic and conservationist. I know that doesn’t square with ‘nuclear physicist,’ but it’s true. Those hills in the distance are called the Las Trampas Ridge. As kids, we used to hike up there, have camp-outs, etc. It’s about 1,000 feet high and forms the western side of the San Ramon Valley.

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On the opposite side of the valley is Mount Diablo, at 3,850 feet. It's a kid’s paradise up there too, with caves and trails to explore, unique wildlife, and a view from the summit that takes your breath away. You can see all of San Francisco to the west, and the Sierra Nevada mountains to the east.

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Back in the 1970s, as the population (and property values) were beginning to explode, some real estate developers set their sites on Las Trampas Ridge. If they’d had their way, those pristine hills would be covered in 7-11s, cul-de-sacs and swimming pools today. But my dad and another gentleman named Hulet Hornbeck (I swear that was his real name) declared environmental war on the developers.

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In the end, the greenies won and the greedies lost. But that’s not the end of the story.

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At the Southeastern slope of Mount Diablo is Morgan Territory. Developers had their eyes on that too, but thanks to Team Hornbeck-Lindner, it’s now a state-protected wilderness, off limits to human encroachment.

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Someone posted this article about his and Hornbeck’s efforts in my thread yesterday. I don’t recall seeing it before, but I’ve seen the inset YouTube clip. 

👇🏼

https://audiblemountdiablo.com/morgan-territorys-manfred-lindner?fbclid=IwAR2Un3PUNsMDZti3cnKo5OoaOPxw6solv9vi5ezgynoflF5jtACTlKI8TlY

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I’m hoping to scatter my parent’s ashes at either Las Trampas Ridge or out in Morgan Territory. I’ve gotta run that past the rest of the family. But I like the symbolism in Lisa’s picture; a 103 year old Manny Lindner, shuffling off towards the hillsides and wildlife he spent half his life fighting for. 💚

DR MANFRED LINDNER HAS DIED AT 103 YEARS - AMAZING MAN

NOTE FROM LIINDER

 George Harrison, the “shy Beatle,” was also the youngest Beatle. Today would have been his 80th birthday.

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Only in the group he was in, could a guy with Harrison’s talents be ranked the third-best songwriter.

 

#FabFourForever

BRUCE LINDNER’S BOOK IS OUT! I JUST BOUGHT MINE

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BUY ON AMAZON IN KINDLE OR BOOK FORM 

MR LINDNER MADE IT TO 103 ….HES A SCIENTIST.., HE KNOWS THE SCORE

Friends, thanks for all your kind words of support as my father transitions. He’s not gone yet, but he’s in the glide path. One day he’s bedridden and won’t eat, the next day he’s at the kitchen table, eating breakfast, telling jokes. Which is why the family congregated last week. He’s on hospice care now.

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This is a family portrait taken in late spring of 1926—ninety-seven years ago, when my dad was 7 years old. He was an orphan at 12, so his aunt Rae and uncle Lou took him in.

 

By the numbers:

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1: Manfred Lindner junior, my dad (who’s the spitting image of my brother at that age). Born in 1919.

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2: His uncle Lou Steinberg, who with his wife Rachel, took him in after his father died. 1877-1936

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3: Manfred senior, his dad. 1879-1932

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4: Augusta Lindner, my dad’s grandmother. 1847-1930

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5: Erna Lindner, my dad’s sister, my aunt. 1913-2009

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6: Hannah Lindner*, my dad’s mother. 1881-1926

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7: Sigmund Lindner, my dad’s brother, my uncle. 1915-1975

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8: Rachel Steinberg, his aunt. 1879-1964 

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*During the Civil War, my dad’s grandfather (Hannah’s father) Jacob DeCosta, enlisted in Company A of the 91st Infantry Regiment from Albany NY on September 2nd, 1864. He fought at the Battle of Five Forks. On March 31st 1865, at 19 years old, he was wounded when a musket ball penetrated his left thigh at a site known as Gravelly Run (also as the Battle of White Oak Road). After several weeks in the hospital, he was honorably discharged from the Army on June 21, 1865. On July 25, 1886 he succumbed to an embolism following an operation for cancer, leaving his wife, Rayna, to raise their eight children, including my grandmother, Hannah. He was forty years of age at his death.

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I am SO PROUD to be my father’s and my mother’s son. I couldn’t have picked better parents.

LINDER’S MORNING

 When I woke up this morning, the outside temperature was 23°. Inside was 58°. I flicked on the furnace, grabbed a flashlight and went out the back door to get some cordwood from the woodpile.

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Just as I stepped off the top step, the motion-sensor light came on, and I noticed some movement—a shadow maybe, behind the rear wheel of the Javamobile. I crouched down, aimed the flashlight behind the wheel. Nothing. Must have just been my own shadow from the porch light.

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I grabbed three logs from the pile, walked back towards the house, and—there it was again! Only this time the movement went away from the Javamobile, towards the house. I aimed the flashlight at the back deck just in time to see a ringed tail disappear beneath the deck. Ah. Mr. and Mrs. Raccoon have come down from their nest in my tree to do a little scavenging.

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I put the wood down next to the truck, got down on one knee, pointed the flashlight under the deck, and I counted six pairs of glowing eyes looking back at me. Mom and Dad at each end of the lineup, with four pairs of eyes between them, bobbing up and down (noticeably closer together, meaning they were kits) than the two pair guarding them. They’re so damned cute, you’re tempted to reach out and pet one. But you’d probably pull back a fingerless pulp where your hand once was.

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I remember maybe 10-12 years ago, another family of raccoons had taken up residence under my deck. Live and let live. I don’t bother them and they don’t bother me. I’d like to think that one of the adults I saw this morning was a kit from that earlier family. Generations of Procyon living and dying at the hovel.

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I came back inside, made some coffee, built myself a nice toasty fire, then I went back outside with a bunch of red grapes and scattered them on the deck. Twenty minutes later, they were all gone. And I never heard a sound.

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When it warms up later this morning, I’m off to Lowe’s to buy some paint for my kitchen. Yep: blue. 🟦 

 

But my day thus far: 🦝 🦝 🦝 🦝 🦝 🦝 🍇 🪵 🔥 ☕️

LINDNER IN BOOK LAND ( HE NEEDS A TITLE)

 📣 🚨 📣 SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT 📣 🚨 📣

… 💥 … 💥… 💥… 💥… 💥… 💥… 💥… 💥… 💥

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Do I have your attention? 😬

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Here’s the scoop: for the past few months, I’ve been toiling away—scratch that—a very diligent and talented woman has been toiling away, editing and compiling hundreds of my recipes into a cookbook. You all know how I like to cook up weird and exotic shit, right? And how I post step-by-step pictures of each dish? Well, I’ve saved all of those recipes on my Mac. Some go back 15-20 years. Narratives and pictures too. There are some 400 recipes and probably 3,000 pictures on the hard drive.

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So I sorted through them and chose what I felt were the better 150 or so recipes (which includes some new stuff). My editor friend, who shall remain anonymous for now but you’ll be introduced to her soon enough, did the rest. She’s turned my snarky gibberish into an actual book. It will be published both as an e-book available via Amazon (Kindle), and as a hardbound book. I’ve looked over the digital version, and I’m delighted with it. She’s done a superb job. Pricing is as yet undetermined, but I should have a ballpark figure shortly.

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Both versions will be light on the graphics to keep costs down. Of the 3,000 or so pictures I’ve saved, you’ll probably only see a couple of dozen. Most were terrible anyway.

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Here comes the big BUT…………… 😫

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I can’t come up with a suitable title to save my life! That, and a few last minute tweaks are all that’s needed before the digital copy goes online. And that’s where yewz’all come in.

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I’m probably going to regret the way I’m doing this, but I’m asking you to help me come up with a fitting title for my cookbook.

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You all know me, you know how I like to cook weird, worldly oddities in a funky blue kitchen, on an antique stove, with comatose taste buds. I’m not suggesting you incorporate any of that into your ideas, but nothing’s off limits.

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The theme of the book (such as there is one), is a romp through international cuisines. In fact, it’s chaptered by region; North America, South America, India, Polynesia, Africa, Europe, Thailand, etc. You’ll find the occasional familiar American cuisine too, but it’s mostly dishes from far-flung locales.

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👉🏼👉🏼 But please; PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, I’m begging you… 🙏 don’t bury me with the first thoughts that enter your mind. I’m just one old fart, and there are a lot of you. If you limit your ideas to your absolute favorites, it will help keep the cacophony down to a gentle roar.

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So what’s in it for you if your title is chosen? An author’s copy of the book, autographed should you so desire, with *your* concept on the cover. And my eternal gratitude for your contribution to this shtick.

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One final request: I already struggle to keep up with the PMs folks send me, so please just post your idea in this thread. No one can “steal” an idea if it’s time-stamped before someone else’s, so don’t fret about that. And with hundreds of witnesses, I promise you’ll get the recognition you deserve. I’ll be sitting here on the sidelines jotting down the titles that pique my interest, along with the name of the person who came up with it.

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So that’s that. The cookbook is coming. And I’m asking 🫵 YOU 🫵 to help me over this final hurdle. So put your thinking caps on, and don’t give in to temptation to throw out the first thing that crosses your mind. Smartest beats fastest.

 

Whatch’ya think? 📕

LINDNER’S FIRST COLUMN FOR 2023

 On New Years Day 1963, while still living in Israel, our family was invited to spend the day with some American friends. They were a big Catholic family from Bethesda Maryland. They had a son my age, so we hung out together in school. They served up the traditional black eyed peas, which as far as I recall, I’d never heard of before then.

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They still had their Christmas tree up in the living room. The mother told me to go take a look; there was a present there for me. I unwrapped it to reveal a little toy steel truck exactly like this one, only it was red.

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That was 60 years ago TODAY.

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I have no idea whatever became of it, but I suspect we had to leave it behind when we headed East to Iran and India a few months later.

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Fast forward 40 years. During the late spring of 2003, I had just completed my final rounds of radiation a few weeks prior, and I wanted to celebrate beating the Big C. So I bought a blue 1963 Corvair Rampside pickup from a guy in Sacramento. (His wife had given him an ultimatum: either the truck goes or I go. Not sure he made the right choice, but whatevs).

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Now that I had an actual, authentic Rampside, I started wondering about that old toy. No model companies listed any online, so I started monitoring eBay. A few weeks later, this turquoise one popped up, so I snatched it.

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Fast forward once again, this time to August 2019. Some guy knocked on my back door. He wanted to know if my Corvair is for sale. I said “Which one? The Corsa coupe or the truck?”

 

“The Corsa. You have a Corvair truck too?” So I opened the garage door and showed him the Rampside. I had been neglecting both cars for years. Someone vandalized the Corsa maybe ten years earlier, and I just never got around to restoring it again. And the Rampside, well, it was still pristine, but I had been neglecting it too. And I could really use the garage space again.

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The guy told me his son flips old sixties cars, and he’d be interested in both of these, then he left. An hour later, father and son are back at my hovel. The son made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, and that was that. He bought them both. I used the money from that sale to remodel the interior of my hovel. New walls, ceilings, refinished hardwood floors, the works.

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Which leaves me with this relic. It’s the last vestige of my one-time passion for rear-engined cars. And it all began 60 years ago this very day.

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When the stores open later this morning, I’m gonna cruise up the street and grab me a package of black eyed peas. That should complete the circle. ⭕️ 

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Happy New Year, everyone. May you all stay happy and healthy, and may all your Chevys be air-cooled road oilers.