Moments in a Life

Moments in a Life

There is a story – the title is Pitching to Shay - that has made the rounds of the forwarded email circuit and which came to me recently. The tale is about a baseball game and how a group of youngsters embraced a disabled child as a valued member of their team.

The storyteller, the child’s father, offered that the perfection that he longed to see in his imperfect child could be seen in the perfection of others reacting to him.

It brings to mind a bible verse: Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

I am neither a biblical scholar nor a firm believer, but as a hopeful agnostic, I am struck by the many words in spiritual texts (i.e.  Do onto others, and As ye have done it to one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it to me.  etc.) that seem to be undeniably true when it comes to the question of how humans can live best.

For my money, this - kindness to others - is the closest we will come to the meaning of life. Opportunities like in the Pitching to Shay story, for people to extend gestures of kindness, are likely before us often, but only sometimes recognized. I’d like to think that they are “sent to us” by some divine eternal force, but when I try to think that way all I see is an empty implausible universe. Still the feeling of living correctly, when embracing such opportunities, is real.

Not sure if the following qualifies, but it felt like it was such a moment.

I was living in Chatham, NJ. It was a Friday night. I was in my mid-forties. I started out the evening by venturing toward a party that after walking up to the door and peering through the window – swinging singles, forty-year-olds, trying to act young. My insecurities kicked in and I opted out. I drove back home heading downtown to a restaurant named Charley’s Aunt with an intent to sit at the bar and brood.

Charley’s had a rule in those days – a jacket was required to get served. On the walk outside the bar were three young men that I judged to be day-laborers, landscapers, by their work-clothes attire. Regardless they appeared to be about my age and as I passed, I overheard their conversation about needing a jacket and offered my sympathy – “Dumb rule,” I said.

“We were just trying to buy a beer for the train ride home,” one said.

“You didn’t want to go in?” I said.

“No, we just wanted a six-pack to take out.”

“Wait here,” I said, and walked across the street to my car, opened the trunk and pulled a six-pack from the cooler that I’d planned on bringing to the party.

It was Hacker-Pschorr, the premium official German Oktoberfest beer that I first sampled in Washington, DC with some dear friends, on one magical Fall evening during what I like to call, my eternal years, when I was 29.

I have loved the beer ever since.

At the singles party that I backed away from, I intended to impress the guests with my taste for beer, and also knowledge about Oktoberfest - which was close to nothing - but which I surmised would go unchallenged. 

I would begin my Oktoberfest monologue as I opened a beer bottle with my new $5.95 Hacker-Pschorr bottle opener, with a hand painted wood handle sporting the bright H-P label. I was most proud of that. I had just purchased the opener earlier that afternoon.

When I returned to the trio waiting for the train, I handed them the ice-cold six-pack and the prized opener and said, “Enjoy.”

The men raced up to the station for the train, thanking me as they left. I went into Charley’s feeling a bit redeemed about the whole evening, and thanking the forces of the universe for the opportunity I was given.

 

It's Still the Same Old Story

 

It’s 8:30, the last day in the school year at Franklin School in Summit, NJ where daughter Ashley teaches - third grade, Special Education 

 Today I've been asked to pick up grandson Johnny at the school. He came to the school with his mom for an early morning play-date with one of Ashley’s students, Jason. It's a special last day favor for Jason.

"Don't be late," my daughter reminded me, the night before. 

 "Alarm set," I replied.

 I awake in plenty of time. 

 I leave my home at 9:20 toting two cups of coffee. The day is perfect – sunshine, humidity, temperature, all perfect. An old Sinatra CD is in the player. The song - "It Could Happen to You." The vegetation along the road is lush, the earth having broken the spell of a worrisome April drought. All windows are open; the air is crisp, cool on my face.

 “Someone drops a sigh, and down you tumble.”

Rolling through residential streets of Chatham, my cell phone rings. I have what is called a “Bluetooth” connection in my car. Like many high-tech terms, years went by before I learned what “Bluetooth” actually meant.  Still not certain, but I’m guessing it means talk through car speakers because a dashboard display says Bluetooth whenever the phone rings in the car. So Bluetooth, “phone in car” or “hands free talking,” either one.

The call is from my daughter. “Did you get any of my texts?” she says.

I remind Ashley that I’ve only recently abandoned my vow to make it through life without ever texting and so am not in the habit of looking for text messages. You know? 

“I’m almost at your school,” I say.

“Johnny’s not here,” she says.

“Oh?”

“But that’s OK, because I have Eddie’s bike in my car and he wants it to ride to the pool. So, you can take it back.”

“OK, great,” I say.

Ashley is waiting for me in the parking lot, standing next to the bike.

“Will this fit in your car?” she says.

I grab the bike, grunting as I hoist it up and into to my hatchback-like trunk, then shoving it, with some more effort, past the seat back, barely clearing the trunk's bottom lid. Did I hear a rip? Not sure. Definitely tore some upholstery, I think.

"Is it in?" Ashley says.

“No problem,” I say.

With bike packed, I head back to Ashley’s home. Passing through the streets of Summit, again, a warm feeling comes over me. The small city, with people up and about on a beautiful day. Kids on the street corner carrying ice coffee cups, straws poking out of dome lids (ice cream sundae in a cup), a serious jogger woman on the shoulder ahead, seemingly pulled by a dog on a leash, pre-teens on bikes they have outgrown, riding on sidewalks, two smiling grandparents together pushing a triplet baby stroller. 

Lucky them, I think to myself.

Just saying ... really feeling good today.

At my daughter’s house son-in-law Tom is in the driveway. "Got Eddie's bike." I announce.

“Eddie doesn't need it; he already left for the pool,” Tom tells me.

“He did?”

“He couldn’t wait. So, we found a spare bike at Grandma’s house. I drove over (ten minutes cross town) and got that one for him.”

“Wow,” I say, thinking, that was some work just to get Ed going a few minutes earlier.

Tom and I haul the, now unneeded, bike from my trunk.  

Eddie is 11. The reason he could not wait, I now suspect, is that two weeks ago, according to his mom, Ed sent a text message to a girl in his class asking if she would be his girlfriend. She said, “Yes,” and so began their fifth-grade courtship and, I might add, at least in my view, a bit of new urgency as it relates to some of Ed's summer activities ... like going to the town pool.  

The manner of children officially declaring affection has changed over the years. Today texting apparently does it. First, however, there is still that time honored school days tradition, which proceeds as follows: float the idea, not among the principals, but rather, among friends of principals, i.e. have Eddie’s friends ask Mary’s friends if Eddie asks Mary to be his girlfriend would Mary say yes? If the answer is affirmative, you pop the question - by texting of course.

As for the rest of the story, well …actually ... from my observation it seems that it's still the same old story – the fight for love and glory.

 

The Number One Movie in the World

“Papa, will you take me to see the Sponge Bob movie?”

“What’s that?” I say. 

I know full-well what that is. I’m trying to suppress my first reaction which is to say, “I’d rather stick needles in my eyes.”

But I'm struck by the sweet, innocent look of my grandson’s face.

“It’s the number one movie in the world,” Johnny, age 8, offers, looking up from his seat on the couch. Now, along with sweet and innocent, I see honesty and sincerity on his face. He’s trying to reassure me, that I'll enjoy it also.  

Darling boy.

Does he know, or remember, that in the not-too-distant past, I pushed for a family-wide ban on all Sponge Bob TV episodes? 

OK, when was that?

I can’t remember. Regardless, the ban didn’t work out. I should have known better.

Not important.

“Of course, I’ll take you,” I say to Johnny.

“It’s the number one movie,” John reiterates. More reassurance. I want to hug him. Does he know I hate Sponge Bob? OK, perhaps that is too strong.   

Whatever. 

I make a mental adjustment to my Saturday afternoon plans; I replace nothing with, movie theater, two hours.

Next, I head upstairs to inquire if older brother Eddie wants to go.

“Ed, we’re going to see the Sponge Bob movie Saturday. You want to go with us?”

“No,” Ed says in a tone that suggests an implied "That’s sooooo absurd."

This surprises me. I remember Eddie as the Sponger’s number one fan in his younger days. Ed is eleven currently.

“You don’t?” I say.

“No,” says Ed, this time a rhetorical Are you nuts? is implied.

I’ll try another time, I decide.

As Saturday approaches, I’m mildly shocked by the happiness I feel, knowing that I’m doing this, and honored that John felt that I was to one to ask.

In the theater, at the snack counter, I successfully talk John out of a five-dollar candy bar. More happiness. As we search for seats, I notice myriad wastebasket size buckets of popcorn ($8, as I recall) on various patron’s laps.

The movie lives up to its billing – i.e. my billing, not the “number one” billing. Regardless, I am nothing less than overjoyed throughout, especially when I glance over at John and notice his rapt attention. 

Beautiful is all I can say. 

Epilogue (of sorts): I have just begun a book by Daniel Klein, “Travels with Epicurus”. The subtitle is …in Search of a Fulfilled Life. My thought about a little help for a fulfilled life would be: Go see The Sponge Bob Movie with your grandson or granddaughter. 

Best if under ten of course.       

 

Always Smile at Old People

Yesterday I spoke to a woman I have known for many years. Not known really – seen or noticed for many years might be more appropriate.

 She was a crossing guard at an intersection that I passed on my daily commute from Madison, NJ to Teaneck. That was close to forty years ago (the mid-1970s) and she was middle-aged back then.

She still looked as immaculate in appearance as she did decades ago and these days, I see her from time to time at the YMCA where she rides the exercise bike. Her husband accompanies her as she is, today, obviously suffering from Parkinson’s disease.

I’d say she has been coming to the Y for a year or so now, but not really knowing her, I never spoke to her.

 Yesterday as I waited in hallway for my grandson to finish his basketball class, she came around the corner huddled over her walker, and we were face to face.

 I decided to say hello, “You know, I know you from many years ago. I used to pass you every morning as I drove to work. You were the crossing guard and I always thought that you looked so attractive and smartly dressed."

 She looked up; her face brightened. “Yes, I was a crossing guard,” she affirmed. Her voice was weak but there was a faint smile.

“Sometimes I’d see you going into your house, there on the corner, and I thought that, just like you, the house looked so neat and well maintained.”

“Thank you so much for saying all of that,” she said, smiling more now.

Her husband, standing within earshot, took a step toward us, “That was awfully nice of you,” he said.

“I see you exercising regularly now. So, keep up the good work,” I said. She was still beaming.

Just then, grandson Johnny, age six, bounced down the hall toward me. I reached for his hand. “Nice to talk to you,” I said to the woman as John and I turned to go.

“Thank you so much,” she repeated.

Walking out, I thought for just a second, “Who was happier about our short exchange, her or me?”

That chance encounter and our brief words certainly made me feel awfully good.

Then, seemingly without reason, a thought sifted through my mind about my youth, my bedroom in the house where I grew up. There was a mirror on the wall where I logged many hours training my pompadour. Wedged between the frame and the glass there were always three or four index cards upon which my mother would write words of wisdom – reminders of life lessons.

I remember two:

“I might have been rich if I'd wanted the gold instead of the friendships I've made,” E. A. Guest, my mom’s favorite poet.

And this one, “Always smile and say hello to old people.” This I believe was her favorite. She even passed it on to my two daughters and they mention it from time to time, citing their grandma. 

Thinking of you, mom.

 

                                Grandpa on Thin Ice

                                          (Skating with grand kids at the Madison, NJ pond)

 I am at the ice pond with grandson Eddie, age 6, and friend Steve, 8. Both are outfitted in official NHL caliber gear, full pads, hockey gloves, and helmet plus authentic NJ Devil jerseys. Needless to say, for my youthful hockey adventures at the village pond in Warwick, NY in the 1950s, we didn’t dress the part.

 Ed and Steve find a free spot where they slide around, pushing the puck and intermittently slapping it toward a makeshift goal - two sneakers spaced some five feet apart. Presumably the sneakers’ owner is around somewhere, but wearing skates. No matter. The boys celebrate each score – between the sneakers – by looping back with raised sticks.

 Eventually others drift into the fray - a boy and a girl, each with hockey sticks. No one asks anyone’s name or speaks even, but soon the newcomers blend in and the play continues. I kick the puck back with my skates whenever it drifts toward me. My better kicks are like passes, mostly to the girl so that she gets a shot. After several minutes I decide to call for a game - the girl and me, against the three boys. I feel quite confident that even without a stick we can hold our own. We’re talking seven-year-olds here, give or take a year.

 I demand introductions to start. The girl’s name is Caroline. She’s in figure skates, un-helmeted, wearing a tasseled blue knit hat. Not a problem. The new boy is Jack, age seven. Everyone stands around submissive-like as I demand that all say hello. They comply - barely.

The game begins.

Caroline and I, manage quite well. I kick the puck to her and block football style for her dashes toward the goal. I also play effective defense using more football techniques, some holding (illegal) and body bumping (gentle). We are not winning, but we’re doing OK.

I’m able to barrel around cleverly enough that Caroline actually gets some shots and when one goes in, through the two sneakers, I gush loud congratulations. Caroline seems pleased. We’re in mid-celebration when I hear someone shouting from the far side of the pond.  “Hold it,” I say.

“Do you want a stick?” a voice asks.

I squint into the glare. “Do you have one?”

“I’m Caroline’s mother; I live across the street. I’ll go get you one.”

"Too far," I protest, but mom scoots up the bank and minutes later returns with a stick. She obviously has an interest in this game. I thank her and dart back to the action like a NH-er returning from the penalty box. 

Our team is much better now that I have a stick. I fly around with impressive speed for a seventy-year-old - or so I think. I definitely turn it up a notch, given that we have an audience (Caroline's mom).

OK, presently I see the loose puck and I race after it. At 5’ 9” compared to my tallest opponent at 4’ 3’’, or thereabouts, I enjoy a considerable reach advantage, so if there is any stretching for the puck I win. I get it this time too and immediately envision a breakaway when I notice my teammate in my side vision. First, I must speed-skate to a clear pass lane. I turn on the jet engines. Wait a minute! Suddenly I observe that my sight lines have changed. Instead of ice, the puck or other players there is bright blue sky and white scattered clouds. I recognize immediately that somehow my feet have gone out from under me, that I am horizontal, face up, in mid-air.

I land with a thud, smack on my back, half breaking the fall with my right wrist. Flat, like a flounder on ice, I notice the worried face of my grandson standing over me. 

“Papa?” he says. 

I hear concern in his voice and I attempt to respond, but without air in my lungs no sound comes out. A thought occurs: When was the last time I had the wind knocked out of me? Age twelve maybe. I lay still for a good minute or two. The kids showing their concern, circle around me.

I hear a distant voice, a woman, “Are you OK?” Probably Caroline’s mom, I think. I raise my hand, wave weakly, without looking.  

Minutes pass.  

Finally, I get up. I shuffle toward the sidelines and collapse onto a grassy bank.

“You guys play,” I say to the children. No one protests.

Everyone says I broke a rib, because each deep breath brings a sharp pain. Regardless, there's no treatment, I’m told by friends who know such things. Also, it’ll take five weeks to heal. As for the immediate effects: I cannot turn over in bed, cannot raise myself from a chair, cannot run (trot) after anything. In other words – I’m done for - plus a sprained wrist. 

And yet, I definitely feel that it was all worth it, and more so.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Job, not a Career - circa 1970 

                   

Move to New Jersey -
            Myself, wife and year-old daughter moved to New Jersey after I separated from the Army on March 1, 1970.  We rented a small house in Madison. I was slated to begin work at Peat, Marwick, Mitchell and Co. (PMM&Co), the Co being, not Company, but Co-Partners.  I was just learning about the business world.  I was both enthusiastic and nervous because ... well ... because my job title was consultant and … what did I know about consulting, or anything? Very little. 

The Commute

            I caught the 7:16 train on my first day. Commuting fascinated me. Mostly men in suits lined up waiting in clusters on the station platform at forty-foot intervals. Aboard the train, jockeying for a seat, folding newspapers down to steno pad size, eyes straight ahead (no eye contact with those walking by lest someone think you're inviting them to take the open seat next to you), obsessing about being first off, then racing to be first to the next train, connecting with “the Tubes,” the Hoboken, NJ - NYC subway connection. The tubes arrive and leave Hoboken every twenty minutes, or so, which raises the possibility of every seasoned commuter’s nightmare – missing a connection by mere seconds, and watching a train -yours - doors closed and pulling out just as you arrive on the platform. Inside the subway car, it’s lunging for seats, speechless, eyes straight ahead, dazed.

                     
The Office, 345 Park Avenue - Cool

Eventually - miracle - I stepped up to the receptionist’s desk at nine on the dot, and asked for Frank Meyers, the personnel guy.  Standing with me, a pace or two back, was another newcomer, a rather stern fellow with neatly clipped hair. He was dressed in a finely pressed, navy pinstriped suit.  He wanted Meyers as well.  I immediately drew comparisons – navy pinstripes versus mine, what we called Glen Plaid, suggested experience and accomplishment whereas mine I now judged a trifle on the flashy side for business – first day and all. “Pin-striper” opened his briefcase and jotted a note in a rather impressive large, and well worn, leather covered, appointment book. My appointment book, in my pants pocket, was the size of a playing card. The cover was, un-leather, thin cardboard with the words “1970 - Pocket Pal.”

By Comparison

I assumed that the pin-striped guy had been a consultant for some years – evidence the appointment book.  I stole a glance into his briefcase and saw stacks of papers, no doubt the organized details of important facts related to his up-and-coming consulting assignments, for which he was hired. I had a briefcase, but it was not full. The one paper inside was today’s newspaper. I glanced at pin-stripe’s face and tried to warm my heart. He was probably a nice guy, a father, with kids, who plays catch yard, wears flannel shirts and old jeans, and lets his hair go dry on weekends (wet heads were out, among youth, in 1970).

            “How ya doing?” I said, trying to summon warmth.  

            “Good morning,” he replied.  

Not very businesslike - me. Hereafter “Good morning” would be my greeting of choice.

 

The Big Eight Conference

PMM was what was called a Big Eight Accounting firm.  I knew it was not a football conference, but had no real idea who or what the Big Eight was. Still, I put two and two together and surmised, correctly, that a Big Eight Accounting firm meant big deal.  As all large accounting firms, they had a consulting division or group as they called it.  I understood that the two vocations, accounting and consulting, went hand-in-hand, something like this: accountants looked over the books and when they found problems, they recommended consultants – very convenient that they had their own consultant group. 

Honestly, I felt apprehensive even calling myself a consultant.  This was at a time when consultant meant expert, unlike today where every freelancer – even the unemployed – was a consultant.  My business experience was limited to summer jobs.  I had two years Army experience where I pretended to be a computer programmer but, I had never actually written a computer program. My Army job title, called MOS (Military Occupation Specialty), was Systems Analyst, and it required no technical knowledge to speak of. 

 

Not an Expert

  Before the Army I was a graduate assistant football coach. I suspected that Frank Meyers knew I was no computer expert and, most likely, so did the nice guy - fellow in pin-stripes.  I could have looked like a young computer whiz-kid, except in those days kids of that ilk dressed more casual, being so smart that they could flaunt the dress code. Since I was far from that, I didn’t dare dress the part.


How's the House

 Just then Meyers showed up and greeted us both.  He knew my name at least. The pin-striper was Bill.  Meyers made more of a fuss about Bill.  “Did you find a house yet?” he asked Bill and Bill replied with a smile, that his wife was looking in Connecticut.  Meyers didn’t ask about my house hunt (we're renting, thanks, two bedroom cape, $250 / mo. … in New Jersey).  He didn’t know my wife either, nor if I was married, nor that my wife was very smart and extremely attractive, in my opinion. I was wishing that I could have brought her along for my first day – would have been nice and I bet he would have then made a bigger fuss about me/her. Obviously, Meyers knew little, and cared less, about me - unlike Bill. 
    

Harold and Me  

I was assigned to a cubicle with a guy named Harold. Harold went to Harvard, which I knew because Harold spent most of every day talking about squash or lunch, or both, and both were always at the Harvard Club. 

            I went to Lehigh. Good school, but no Lehigh Club in NY, that I knew of. 

            When Harold wasn't talking lunch or squash at The Club he was discussing a report that he was writing about the “cash and carry” business. I could see that this was Harold’s specialty – cash and carry. Wasn’t all business with products “cash and carry?” What was the alternative? Charge and carry - or ship maybe. See what I mean, when I say I didn’t know much about business? Well, it wouldn’t have taken a rocket scientist to guess that “cash and carry” meant pay cash and physically carry it out. No backlog of charges. No shipping. Still the phrase paralyzed me the way receivables and payables disarmed me, to say nothing of those computer terms like link editor or core dump. OK, don’t ask. I couldn’t understand why a “cash and carry” business needed an expert consultant – but who was I to question what PMM was doing.

               
Two Phones at Once

As I saw it, Harold’s greatest talent by far, was talking on two phones at once. Honestly, one in each ear, and sometimes, it seemed, about two different subjects. I suspected early on that the “cash and carry” business was somehow intertwined with the Harvard Club and the squash court, like business conducted on the golf course. Which was something I’d heard about. 

            Since I wasn't especially busy, I listened a lot to Harold’s phone conversations. One thing I picked up was that he never said “hello.”  When he answered a call, he said, “Harold Young,” and when he placed a call there was still no "hello." His first words when calling someone were invariably, “Is he there?”  That was it. I never managed to fully embrace business phone decorum but I guess it didn’t matter much because I didn’t make or receive that many calls.

               

Hello

I adopted a call answering style modeled after one of the secretaries who seemed to be bucking the trend by answering her phone with a simple “hello.”  Honestly it sounded so much more friendly – wasn’t that the aim? - that I was taken by it and thus followed her lead. I was mildly fearful that I would receive a reprimand for this but as I received so few (close to none) legitimate calls I escaped rebuke. 

               

             Of course, “bucking the trend” was not how to succeed in business. There were two factors related to my current view of the business world. 

 

            First: I had just finished reading “Up the Organization” and was presently half-way through “The Peter Principle.” Needless to say, these were not on the firm’s suggested reading list.  Each contained numerous examples of office absurdities and I delighted in spotting the many real-life examples at PMM.

 

             The second factor was that I met a new friend, a young man from the Bronx that shared my perceptions and whom I wanted to impress with my camaraderie and sense of humor. 

                 
Chargeable

 I quickly learned that the aim of all PMM consultants was to be what was called chargeable. Chargeable meant that PMM was not paying your salary, but rather the client was.

            Despite my non-expert status, I managed to be chargeable for most of my time at PMM. I functioned entirely as a worker bee. Other people, the real expert consultants, would meet with the executives of companies (clients) that wanted help and then these experts would call on me to do things. Nothing too complicated. The real consultants never told the company execs that I was not an expert. This worked best if the clients never saw me. 

  Flowcharting

My first project was drawing diagrams, flowcharts they called them, that illustrated in pictures (boxes, circles, triangles and arrows), the various office procedures related to manufacturing. For example, I had to go around and ask people – not the execs but the worker bees like myself - in the office or the plant exactly what they did when someone called in an order. They weren’t especially courteous. They would say something like, “I get out an order form and fill it out,” followed by an implied, Duh! Often I felt I was asking stupid question but I had to be sure I documented every step. So I would take out my Official IBM flowcharting template and tracing a small rectangle on the top of the page and inside it write, “Complete the Order Form.”

 

“What happens next?” I would ask.

          The response was, “It goes to shipping.” Another Duh! I'd draw a line with an arrow on the end, then another rectangle. Inside I'd write “Shipping.” The tone of the office workers often hinting disdain made me feel uncomfortable but I plugged along. I knew how to draw boxes and arrows, and how to inquire, “What happens next?” but honestly, I didn’t know much else about manufacturing other than it meant, to make things, which I think I learned in the fifth grade. “Bill of Materials,” a term I kept hearing, especially baffled me.

            Eventually I gained some comfort and what I felt was respect. People called the work I was doing, systems analysis.

 Working in Midtown

So, I survived, taking comfort in the fact that I was only thirty, that I was learning things and every day I dressed up in a suit, boarded the Erie Lackawanna train in Madison and rode to Hoboken where I caught the Path, to 33^rd Street then the F Train to Queens, getting off at Park Avenue. That whole process impressed me immensely. My business address was 345 Park Avenue which I loved telling people, adding that it was in “midtown.” How cool was I?

            Speaking of cool, I prided myself on being fashionable too. I got most of my clothes at Bloomingdales and if I went out after work in NYC for a beer or two, maybe to Brew’s on 34^th Street or to the upper east side, I thought I was way more cool. The sound of the words “upper east side” was even better than “midtown” and made me feel as if I had come a long way from childhood. 

 

Did I ever actually go out for cocktails after work? 

            Maybe twice – or once.   

 

 

 

 

 

  The princess has no sweatpants, circa 1985

 

             It is early on a school-day morning at my home. Daughter, Brett (age 16) is in the upstairs bedroom, getting ready. Younger sister, Ashley (age14), is calling from across town, from mom’s home.       

 

 I reach for the phone. It's 6:30. Could be only one person. “Hello,” I say.    

 “Let me talk to Brett,” the voice says.

 “Brett, Ashley wants you,” I shout. 
             No response.

“I think she’s got the hairdryer on,” I say.

“Get her,” Ash says, “It’s important.”

I sit up in bed and let out a neighborhood-awakening screech, “Brett!”

She answers. “What?

“She says what?” I say to Ash.

“I need a pair of sweatpants. Tell Brett to give you a pair, bring them when you pick me up.”

I relay the message, “Brett, Ash wants a pair of sweatpants.”

“She has them all,” Brett hollers back.

I don’t have to relay this message. Ash hears it and yells into the phone her disbelief, “I have none!”

My relay to Brett, “She says she has none.”

“I have none,” Brett counters.

 

OK, this makes me think of myself, and my sweatpants. I’m the one who has none. And yet I know I have purchased maybe a half dozen pairs of sweatpants in the recent years. Add to that the three or four pairs that I came home with from college and still had, fifteen years after graduation until they mysteriously vanished when my daughters approached their teens. So now I also have none. 

 

“Dad!” implores Ash, still on the phone.

“Yeah,” I say, then quickly add, “When do you need these sweatpants?” Of course I know the answer to this.

“Today, I need them for gym,” Ash says.

“And if you don’t have them?” I ask.

“I flunk gym. Then I get kicked out of school and I’ll never be able to go to …”

“Ash, bag it ... I get the picture, I’ll find you some sweatpants.” I should be able to dig up one pair of sweatpants from somewhere, so I think.

“I don’t want any ones that are not normal,” Ash says.

“Don’t worry,” I say and we hang up.  In my mind I think, I won’t get you any of those "not normal" ones - because sweatpants are all the same - normal.

 

I approach Brett, just to see if any further clarification will surface now that Ash is off the phone, “Brett, why don’t you give Ash a pair of sweatpants?”

“Dad, she has all of my sweatpants,” Brett says emphatically.

 

I can see that this is going nowhere. It’s one of those special child-parent junctures that has been reached here at 6:45 AM.  So I pause for a small reflection. This is not a big deal, I know. I’m not uptight about this. “But just this small point, if I may, could I please locate one pair of sweatpants” I think to myself. So, obviously I'm talking to God.  Ands so - obviously - it is a big deal. 

Whatever. 

OK, the facts are so: A half dozen pairs of sweatpants, purchased with family funds, have passed through the door of my house - on the way in. I know that. And it’s probably true that they were equally distributed, three to each daughter, and none to me.

 I know also, that my own three or four, original post-college pairs were not stolen directly from me, by an outside party - or person. In other words, they were first claimed by one of my daughters and subsequently made their way out of the country (read family), glaumed by so-called friends.

Nothing against the friends. Appropriating a friend's wardrobe is "fair game" in the teen world of today.  
But to continue ... I know now, one true thing: that today re. sweatpants, I have none.  I might add that I know one more final thing and that is that God himself knows the answer to all of this, i.e. where those sweatpants are, and I would so much appreciate Him/Her sharing it with me.   But that will never happen, and I don’t blame Him, or Her.”  

            I do have another wish though. I wish the world were different. I wish I could somehow magically summon both children to appear before me now and I could ask them specifically about all of the sweatpants. I would look them both in the eye with a serious face and I think then, I could get to the bottom of this - the truth. That’s what I want.  That would be nice, and interesting. Then we could move on.  No big deal.  Oh, and also, I’d like to be able to do this, for the purpose of this interrogation: I'd like to be able to change both girls back to a six-year-old mindset so they won’t be so smart and able to wiggle out of every question.

 

OK, back to real life. I don’t have both parties in front of me, and neither daughter is six again, so let’s make do with what I have. “Brett,” I say in a tone befitting a world peace negotiator, “can’t you just give Ash one pair.”

 

“Dad, I have none!” she says. “Ashley has the white pair that we got at the shore, she also has the pair I use for cheerleading, she has the pair that Mary Anne gave me, she has …”

 

“OK, OK, I get the picture."  I knew this wouldn’t work, I need them both here and they both have to be six, maybe five.

 

It is now 6:55 AM. I am in the attic fishing around in my old army-clothes box. I am on my hands and knees wearing only pajama shorts. It is dark in the attic and I am aware that there are bees in this attic and also that there are special areas of the floor, spaces between the boards that are so arranged to catch crawling burglars by having them fall through the floor into upstairs bedrooms. I am aware that either of these traps (bees or weak floors) might snare me as I inch my way toward where I think my military clothes have been stashed since 1970. 

I crawl on. I locate a box, reach in. Suddenly … I can't believe it - a miracle. 

I actually find the Army clothes box but am almost immediately overwhelmed with the feeling of haplessness that comes from being certain that I am about to be foiled again by the gods. I have made it this far but I know that those wonderful tan sweatpants that I got when I was in the service, with the number of the platoon or squad or something at the top of the left leg, with the brown drawstring, … I know they won’t be in this Army box where they should be.  I know this because I am sure that the Gods have now moved them somewhere else. They will be gone like all other sweatpants and they would have been perfect, Ash would have loved them.

Imagine my surprise and gratitude to the Gods when I actually find the sweatpants just where I thought they would be, after fifteen years no less. I crawl backwards out of the attic, careful as an Army Private avoiding land mines in a battlefield.  I close the attic door and come downstairs and proudly display the sweatpants to Brett.

Brett looks at them.  “I guess,” she says.

            Not a good appraisal I know but I am not swayed. “They’re great,” I say - end of discussion.

            I take the sweatpants downstairs and set them on the arm of the couch and put my keys on top of them. This way I won’t forget them when I go out the door. Smart huh?

            Brett is riding to school with friends today so with sweatpants in tow I drive to Donna’s (ex-wife) alone to get Ash. 

            Minutes later Ash bounces out of the front door and into the front seat. 

            I hold up the pants to show Ash in a manner befitting a fine haberdasher. “Nice huh?” I say. 

            “I guess,” Ash says. Same as Brett, exactly.

            I’m just not in the mood to go into a major campaign here, so I don’t say much, and I don’t get hyper. I say only this, and calmly too, “So what’s the problem?” I don’t say anything about the Army. This is 1986 not 1970.

“What’s that number?” Ash says. Ash doesn’t know what a platoon is and this is not the time for education about Army units and regardless, I forget that stuff myself, and besides, it could be that I made that up about the platoon number. Truthfully, I don’t know what the number is.

So I make up an answer, “It’s a locker number,” I say.  I don’t know why I say this.  Maybe I’ll say they’re from college if she inquires further. What does she know anyway?
          

 “Locker number?” Ash says, obviously suspicious.

            “Yeah, so? What difference does it make?”

            “Nothing,” Ash says.  I think she has likely rejected the sweatpants, but I’m not going to debate the issue. Anyway at least now I have a pair of sweatpants and I at least think they are cool.

             When we get to school Ash gets out of the car and says, “Thanks anyway Dad,” and she leaves the sweatpants on the front seat.

            “What about gym?” I say, calling after her.

            “Don’t worry about it,” she says turning back, with books gathered in her folded arms as she walks toward school.  As I watch her walk, I think how blessed I am and how much I love her and then I look at the sweatpants and think, who cares anyway?  But I wonder - really - what it was?  Was it the number?  Or was it the color?  They look great to me. My thoughts go back again to all of the original sweatpants that I have owned. 

            Where are they all?  Really, where?  They are most probably still alive, still solid cloth material, not disintegrated into gas, certainly not liquids. They’re still here, on earth somewhere, but where? Have any of them made it out of the state I wonder, the country perhaps?  Any made it to Europe, Asia?  Oh well.  I start the car and head for work, wishing that I could visualize each pair of sweatpants that I have ever owned, with a detailed note about their whereabouts and the journey they took to get there. Interesting, I surmise.

 

While driving I think to myself, you know, fifteen pairs, that’s a lot of money, and it’s not only sweatpants. The same thing happens to other things, tee shirts and sweatshirts especially. That’s even more money. While I’m thinking, I see that this is something that I should not think about because I cannot solve it. It’ll end soon enough and when it does I’ll wish that the old no-sweatpants days were back again. Forget it, I tell myself, be grateful for the blessings you have.  I put the thought of sweatpants out of my head and continue west on NJ Route 10, toward my work, feeling truly blessed.

 

Seven days later, Brett and I are at the breakfast table.  I’m eating oatmeal with rice milk, and Brett, to my dismay, is having Fruit Loops. I’m reading the paper and Brett says, “Tell Ash, when you pick her up (I’ll be picking up Ash in fifteen minutes, Brett is driving herself) that I want to borrow her sweatshirt, the one Marc gave her, so I can wear it in gym, else I’ll freeze.”

I recall quite well what happened just last week, with the sweatpants thing, but I don’t draw any comparisons. “OK,” I say.

 

“Tell her to leave it in her locker.” Apparently, Brett has a key to Ash’s locker, or combination or ... whatever.

            “Yeah, OK,” I say.

            I pick up Ash, and tell her immediately that Brett wants to borrow her sweatshirt, so go back and get it.  Ash looks at me like I just asked if Brett could borrow the shoes on her feet.  

            “What?” I say.

            “Dad!” Ash says.  

 

“What?” I say, again.

 

“Brett has that sweatshirt!” Ash says.

            OK, I get it. Should have known.  End of discussion. But just to finish the thought, I add at quick speed, “Brett needs it for gym, she says leave it in your locker.”  There. Done.

            Ash ignores me; she’s fishing under the seat for something. Now she stretches into the back and starts throwing things around.

“What are you looking for?”

            “Nothing,” she says. as she opens the glove compartment and looks around.

            “Tell me,” I say, “maybe I know where it is,”

            Apparently, this convinces her, “I’m looking for the Genesis tape,” she says.

            “You left it here?”

            “No, Brett stole mine. I told her it was mine and that I left it there on the desk, right where she found it, but she insisted that it was hers and she took it.” 

            “Yeah, I know, big brother John used to do stuff like that with me,” I say, trying to show sympathy for my youngest daughter and the fact that big sister, can control certain matters just because of age.

            For a thousand reasons, I want to hug Ashley. I don't because - well - she's fourteen and ... instead I pat her knee. "You're the greatest," I say.

            Ashley says nothing, just looks at me. "Can we go," she says.

 

John, Red Schoendienst and me

The headline was, “Red Schoendienst, Cardinals Star and Oldest Hall of Famer, dies at 95.”


When I read last week that Red Schoendienst, the St Louis Cardinals all-star second baseman, had died, I immediately wanted to call my brother John and talk about an incident that involved Schoendienst, John and myself.

But my brother, an avid Cardinal fan, died two years ago.

The situation with Red Schoendienst occurred during baseball season, in the early 1950s. We were at the Polo Grounds, a stadium in New York and home of the then New York Giants. The Giants were playing the St Louis Cardinals. 

We, our dad, John and myself, always arrived early, to watch warm-ups. Once through the gates, an energetic young man, took our tickets and led us to our seats, whereupon he wiped each seat with a large wool mitten. He then slid the tickets between his first two fingers and held out his hand, palm up. Dad tipped him and we sat down. After a few seconds John and I raced down the steps to the field level railing for a closer look at the players. Here, with other youngsters, we tried to get autographs, leaning over the fence, waving pencil and paper. I had a collection of almost fifty names, which today, somehow, has vanished.

One day, as we stood there, watching pepper games, Red Schoendienst emerged from the dugout carrying his bat. He walked toward us and when he reached the railing he suddenly handed me his bat. I looked up at him in disbelief.

Schoendienst's bat was like none I had ever held or seen before. It was big, probably 35 inches and shaped like a milk bottle, overly fat at the hitting end and a thick handle also. And it seemed light, especially for its size. Schoendienst's name was branded into the barrel.

John and I retreated to our seats with our prize. As a scrawny eleven year old, Red's bat was a bit large for me. John, however, was an adult size teenager and the starting second baseman on the Warwick (NY) high school varsity. He used the bat through much of the remainder of his season.

Over time the bat began to show signs of wear and tear. There were cracks, splinters in the handle and eventually it became a broken bat, but we didn't want to give it up. We examined it, surgeon-like, and decided that it needed "stitches," so we hammered small brad nails around the splits and finished the repairs by tightly wrapping the handle with black friction tape. The bat was weakened, had lost it's power, but it was still Red Schoendienst's bat.

Finally, after a few more surgeries the bat was taken out of the high school dugout. One might say, “sent down” to the minors - i.e. little brother’s sandlot league. Its varsity days were over.

Exactly when the bat was officially retired, I'm uncertain. Nor do I know where it ended up. Of course I wish we had saved it, but as children, with eternity before us, well - we didn't give much thought to the storage location of mementos, however cherished. If I had to guess, I’d blame my mother who likely spotted the aged lumber with Red’s script autograph on one end and unraveled tape at the other, in the back of the kitchen closet and thought, “there hasn’t been a baseball game in the backyard in years. So …"

Which is why I wanted to call my brother to discuss the bat, its life and times..

It's a feeling I have often, wanting to share moments from my childhood, with the only person who was there with me. 

 

In this case I would have said, "Did you hear about Red Schoendienst?" and then, immediately, I'd mention the bat: asking if he remembered it, what it looked like, how and when it broke, how long did he use it and finally what happened to it? That would take some time, and, of course, we'd keep going, drifting back in time and rehashing old baseball (Cardinals) lore that we remembered like, "Do you remember where Schoendienst batted in the order?" He batted second. Or we'd try to name who played each position on the Cardinals and where they stood in the batting order. We knew that Stan Musial batted third, but who batted clean-up in the 1950s? I'd say Enos Slaughter.

Things like that - Just one of a thousand reasons I miss my loving brother every day.

Of course, we never know what to say about death, but we often make up little stories to give us solace. My story is, "John probably met Red Schoendienst in heaven and right now they're talking about the bat he gave us at the Polo Grounds." I'd bet on it. Thanks Red

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Gift of Slime 

It is 7:45 AM. I am in my car, headed for my daughter’s home 2.6 miles away. 
Each morning I drive grandson Johnny (age 10) to school. It’s my favorite way to start the day.

Today is my birthday. I’m 77.

When I arrive, Johnny greets me at the door. “Here’s your birthday present,” he says, handing me a Tupperware container of what looks like Guacamole. I recognize it immediately as slime.

“Just what I wanted,” I tell a beaming Johnny  -  and it’s true.

If you haven’t heard of slime, you probably don’t hobnob with the pre-teen set and you’re also not employed at a store that sells Elmer’s glue - or Borax*.

Never heard of Borax either? OK, so you’re younger than 77.

What you also may not know is that “slime” is currently a national craze. According to USA Today, “Parents across the country are reporting a shortage of glue in stores and many are naming the simple, do-it-yourself "slime" as the culprit.”

During our ride to school Johnny gives me instructions on how to use my slime. “You can 'use it' for about a minute, then you should put it back for less than a minute, then you can 'use it' again.”

“What, exactly, do you mean when you say, use it?” I ask.

“Just squeeze it in your hand for a while, move it around,” he says.

“Got it,” I say.

Kid crazes in my day (1950s) were a far cry from those today, 2016. No internet hype for one thing. I remember two such crazes at my school back in the last century – 1950s: water pistols and yo-yos. Water pistol mania was halted prematurely by the authorities (school principal). As for yo-yos, they likely faded on their own.

The internet obviously helps crazes along. In the case of slime there are myriad broadcasts of new twists and turns such as varied ingredients, new colors and countless videos of nerdy - now world famous - children actually making the stuff.

Trust me, it’s riveting.

Johnny’s slime endeavors began a few weeks ago. He took things a step further when he and friends created a quasi commercial enterprise to manufacture and market slime, called Cameroon Bank. 
The name Cameroon, dreamed up in the halls of Brooklake Elementary School, apparently comes from a fellow executive and 5^th grader named Cameron. I’m told that he doesn’t make slime like other officers, but that he authored the Cameroon company song and … well ...

“He’s the king,” John says, “He doesn’t have to make slime.” 

The bank started with six charter members, all 5^th graders. Each - excepting Cameron - manufactures DIY slime at home from raw materials purchased by grandpas, parents and the like (no overhead). They market their product, neatly packaged globs of slime, almost exclusively at school. The first day John came home with over $10.

Needless to say, his parents were surprised. Aghast might be a better characterization.

Regardless, production hummed right along. Mornings before school, it was not unusual to see John stuffing varying amounts of folding money, along with containers of newly minted slime into his backpack.

Meanwhile, adults in the family were imploring John to return all profits. Not sure if that happened. Last I heard he claimed to have given it all to charity, but again, details are fuzzy. 

 

Finally, I was told that the school principal had banned slime sales. I’m assuming he banned in-school possession as well, but, honestly, you'd never know it from seeing the kitchen table most mornings: various sized containers filled with multi-colored pudding (slime), labeled with description and price. It seems that sales were still brisk - at least on the street. And I wouldn’t bet against on school grounds.

Meanwhile, along with my birthday container of green, beaded slime which, I’m told, retails for $5, I was officially appointed a Vice President of Cameroon Bank (after all I'm a major investor). I signed a contract, written on the back of my birthday card, and which the six officers of the Bank verified as binding (see below).

Needless to say, I'm honored.


* Borax: Prompted by the slime craze, I searched for and actually bought some Borax recently. Finding a store that carried it was a challenge, but I finally located two boxes on a shelf at CVS. The internet told me that Borax would discourage ants from coming in under my front door. Borax was the ant equivalent of a have-a-heart trap for mice. They’d smell it and turn back. I sprinkled the Borax on the floor inside my door and it worked – I think. I say "I think" because I also laid down a batch of cinnamon so can’t be sure which did the trick.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I'm a novelist - August 2010

 

                It is 9 AM, my phone rings. It’s daughter, Ashley, from four blocks away.
           
                "Dad, can you come over?"

                "Yeah, what?" I say.

                "I’ve got to go into the school and I don’t want to bring Johnny."

                  It is mid-August and my teacher daughter wants to get her classroom ready for September's  start of school. Johnny, age four, is known to be a bit of a thorn when there is work to do.

                "Yeah, OK, when? I’m busy at the moment."

                "What are you doing?"

                "Stuff!"

                "Like what?"

                 "Stuff," I repeat.

                  "What?" says Ash.

                "Ash," I say, "I’m a novelist."

                "Yes we know. Can you put it aside for an hour or so and come over?"

                And so it is that over the years I have settled on the quip "I’m a novelist" when questioned
by one of my daughters, "Are you busy?"  It brings a chuckle, something that is enjoyed by all, and it more or less answers the "busy" question: "Yes, I am busy, and I know that you don’t consider my "work" real or important but nevertheless – I am a novelist, so I’m busy." Ha ha.

                 As you may have guessed, and before you ask what I have written, let me say that I’m not really a novelist, despite being infatuated with writing for much of my adult life. Should I mention this to someone other than family they invariably ask, "Have you written anything?" They mean published anything.  It is only recently that I have settled on an answer, which is, "No, I just write as a hobby."

                 My hobby started some forty years ago, jotting observations, and thoughts that I wanted to keep, for later, when I might actually become a novelist. I wrote on odd slips of paper, grocery receipts, junk mail envelopes, napkins and the like, filing them in a manila folder labeled “Future.” Often there was an attempted every-man aspect to the observation, but how to express it or just what it was, I was unsure. What I would see was likely nothing more than the common sight of a man with lunch pail in hand and seemingly full of purpose, trudging off to work, hurrying across the railroad tracks before the gates came down, in Bethlehem, PA. There’s a story there I would think as I watched and I scribbled a note on the newspaper that lay on the passenger seat of my car – "man with lunch pail going to work at Bethlehem Steel Company." That newspaper was dated October 9, 1967.

                  Over time I accumulated many a note, and I subsequently lost many as well. It was years later that my newspaper note plus other jottings resurfaced in a mildewed box in my basement. Sitting there, on the basement floor, alone, with my thoughts, I gathered the pack of scribbles in my hands and looked at them again. It was like looking at a pile of old computer punch cards that had spilled off a truck and being asked to organize them into proper order. What I thought might one day yield a treasure of ideas I now saw as not that at all. I returned my writings to their time capsule and retraced my steps back to the real world, feeling more than a bit disappointed that my scribbles, saved all these years seemed to be worth nothing.

                 As time moved along I graduated from notes on newspapers and napkins to jottings in small spiral bound hand held notebooks, steno pad type. I misplaced or lost fewer of these, but the words, even the thoughts, seemed, sadly, to still lack poignancy, among other things. Later I went with bigger notebooks, 8-½ in. by 11 in., the black and white school days type. I told myself that when I filled one of these I would have written a book. I once read some encouraging words by Kurt Vonnegutt. Something to this effect: "Just write, don’t worry that it is not a masterpiece, write a bad book, but write." The big notebooks didn’t do the trick; they remained incomplete. I had yet to write my bad book.

                 It was the summer of 1981, when I filled my first seventy-two sheet University Notebook with generally unrelated drivel, but nevertheless, I felt a small sense of accomplishment. I told maybe one person about this and no one of course read it but me. It was something, but it didn’t rise to the level of the "bad book." Then I read a comment by renowned author Joseph Wambaugh that went something like this: "If you want to be a writer and you want to call yourself a writer, then you must write every day. Otherwise you just fool yourself." Wambaugh wrote a thousand words every day. He said that if you didn’t do something like that with a scheduled regularity, like daily, then you’re weren’t a writer." I got the message. I was not a writer, and not a novelist either.

                 But I persisted. In 1984 I graduated again to a new form, this time to those blank books that sold in stationary stores. I liked them. They looked like real books that one could place on a shelf. I thought that they gave credibility to the contents. I started with palm size and half filled a couple of them. Then during that summer, after school closed, I started a practice of going into a church every morning for meditation and prayer. At the same time I started to write into a larger, blank book - best-seller size - with a hard cover. Loosely applying the theme of the morning prayer, and searching for meaning of life.

                 Yes, I know. Don’t laugh.

                  I filled the two hundred and sixteen pages (approximately 75 typewritten I would guess) with hand printed words by summer’s end. When people asked what I did over the summer I ventured that I had written a journal. Not a book yet, but I was telling people that I had written. Sometimes they asked what it was about and I didn’t know what to say, so I said "The influence of poetry on my life." There were a few pages related to that subject and thankfully, most people were kind enough not to pry further.

 
                  It’s hard to believe that was fifteen years ago (now twenty-five), because I thought that was the beginning of a consistent writing effort. Obviously it was not to be. I had made it to another level but I was still on the first floor, even lower.

                  Today it is the computer era, which has been very helpful. No more blank books. Instead I have word-processing files. These are much more manageable for a writer like me.  I am back to Wambaugh’s advice now, in this year before the millennium. I am trying to write my one thousand words and in the last ten days have fared as follows:

 

Day 1 - 1,150 words
Day 2 - 1,037 words - after two days, I’m moving right along here
Day 3 - 0 words - mowed lawn, got ready for garage sale
Day 4 - 0 words - Prepare for Garage sale      
Day 5 - 721 words
Day 6 - 0 words - Worked on [daughter] Ashley’s application for grant
                related to teaching job
Day 7 - 0 words - Worked on Ashley’s application
Day 8 - 0 words - Worked on Ashley’s application
Day 9 - 422 words - still working on Ashley’s application
Day 10-300 words

                 Clearly there is still a need for discipline, especially when presented with other tasks, all the normal stuff that gets done around the normal house, including famous authors, but somehow doesn't interfere with the prioritized work (writing). Regardless, my problem with writing is not the interference of various household tasks, unless one considers daydreaming as a task. 

                  Regardless, my daughter has told me that I have too much junk around my house and that I need to have a garage sale. So I hop to it. I put the ad in the newspaper which commits me to a sale five days hence. "I don’t have time for this – garage sale. You know?" I say to my daughter, "being a novelist."
                  That excuse doesn’t work, but I used it, as mentioned above, when said daughter Ash asks for help composing a ten page application for some lottery-odds-teacher-of-the-year contest grant (see Day 6, 7, 8, 9 above).

                 "Come on Dad, you’re a writer," Ashley says.  I can’t say no. I give it four or five days. What I am is a slow writer.

                  This kind of thing happens to me at work also where I’m often called upon to write the words for various projects because most people now know that writing is my thing. I hate those projects and truthfully though I do bang out the words, more or less, they never seem to sound especially silken, and no one ever says, "That’s great, you’re a great writer." They just say thanks and more than a few times offer suggestions and spelling corrections.

                 Well I never said that I was a good writer. Remember I’m trying to write a bad book. I honestly don’t think that I am a good writer; I know I’m not in fact. I’m just like the guy who plays golf every day, never breaks a hundred, but still loves to play golf. He’s a duffer and he knows he's a duffer. I’m a duffer of a writer who wants to "play" every day, but doesn’t always get to it because well -life gets in the way sometimes. 

 

Plus, I think I have ADHD.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At the Orthopedic Office

 

It’s 9:30 AM. I’m at the local Orthopedic Center offices. 

 

I walk up to the counter to announce myself. The twenty-something receptionist looks up. “We have some paperwork for you to complete,” she says.

 

I reach for the clipboard, then turn around to find a seat. There are fifty plus chairs in this, very large, tennis court size, waiting room. Approximately 30 patients waiting. But there are 18 doctors. So ... ratio is good.

I complete the forms, claiming zero pre-existing conditions. I admit to taking two medications, a statin (5 mg dose) and a baby aspirin and furthermore claim (lie) that I drink just one glass of wine daily.

 

I give the forms back to the receptionist, return to my seat. I look around, noting a high percentage of senior souls sharing space with me this morning. The phrase “walking wounded” comes to mind.

 

I pick up a copy of the New Yorker.  I get through a page and a half of an article about fast food when I hear my name called.

 

“Edward?” 

I stand up.

“My name is Rachel,” says a young woman, “I’ll be leading you to your room.”

 

We go to Room 3. “Please remove your clothes and put on the hospital gown, open in the back,” says Rachel. She shuts the door and leaves.

 

Remove my clothes? It’s a shoulder injury. Rotator Cuff, I call it. I take off my shirt only. Slip into the hospital gown. I cannot come close to tying the back. Who designed these "gowns?" I sit in a chair and wait. I stare at the walls.

Solitary confinement comes to mind. Why didn’t I bring the magazine? I scan the room. No reading material. I stare some more at the wall. Nothing there. Minutes go by, five, ten ...  

 

Finally there’s a knock and the door opens. An athletic looking, fifty-ish man wearing a clean starched white coat with his name embroidered over the breast pocket enters.

 

“Did you bring a MRI CD?” he says.

 

“No,” I say

 

He gives me a frown. Not happy. 

 

Oh well. 

We exchange greetings.  "I have a report," I say, holding out the paper.

He reaches for it, looks at the MRI report. At least I remembered that. Actually, I remembered the CD as well, but, yesterday, after a day-long tear-apart-the-house search, and also a total car search, I concluded that I’d taken the CD to the physical therapist and that they forgot to return it, so I trucked over to the PT guy. They denied they had it, so I more or less gave up.

 

The Dr reads the report, then says, “I’ll explain the situation. Let me get a model.” He dashes out. 

 

He returns with a plastic replica of the human shoulder. He holds it in front of me, pointing out the various tendons and bones with a pencil. He details my injury.

 

Next, he goes over the surgery scenario: it's an outpatient procedure, 4 weeks in sling with no movement, no driving, 4 more weeks no activity. A high success rate, he says, then adds a but: moderate to severe pain.

 

“I’ll probably elect NOT,” I say.

 

 He seems OK with this, then asks, “Is there any activity you must do that you can’t do?”   

 

"Not really," I say.

“I elected NOT also,” he says. “Mine was an old college football injury.”

 

“I separated my shoulder playing college football,” I offer.

 

“Not related,” he says, cutting off my about-to-begin, mildly embellished, college football story. 
He moves right along.

 

He demos three rehab exercises. Then says, “I do them every day. It takes 11 minutes.  I live with it. No poles when snow skiing. No water skiing at all. No pitching to the kids. I don’t throw any kind of ball. I once had an arm like a Major League player. I could throw it a mile.”

 

“I was a pitcher in college,” I say. 

 

He doesn’t bite. Apparently, he's not interested. Instead, he offers, “Do the exercises every day. If you want surgery, I’ll be happy to do it.” His hand is on the door knob.

 

“Thank you so much for your advice,” I say feeling a need to flatter. He offers no reaction. 

 

“And thanks for letting me tell my football story,” I say. More flattery.

 

“What’s that?” he says, halfway out the door.

 

“You told yours, so I got a segue to mine.”

 

“Yes,” he says. There is the tiniest of chuckles, which I see as an opportunity to probe further.

 

“Where did you go to college?”

 

I expect Notre Dame, because he looks very athletic. He says, "Johns Hopkins."

 

Huh? 

Did Johns Hopkins even have a football team? (Answer: Yes I looked it up later at home). Their level, in 1962, was, perhaps, a step below us (Lehigh), but every bit, in our league, just not near Notre Dame, or Big Ten. Some of Johns Hopkins’ opponents were also our (lesser) opponents. Regardless, he actually looks like a real footballer, a six footer, and appearing muscular under the white coat, unlike me, currently, at 76, a body shrunk to 5’ 6” from a once 5’ 8 ¾’’ (honest) in stocking feet at 18.    

 

“I went to Lehigh,” I say.

 

He nods. “Anything else I might do, get in touch,” he says. He closes the door.

 

I slip off the hospital gown, thinking to myself, We definitely would have trounced Johns Hopkins.

                                   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Love Letters in the Sand

 

It’s early Monday morning, a June day, 2012, a little before eight. I'm in my driveway. 

 

I open the car and begin to clean things up so when granddaughter Emma, sixth grader, gets in a few minutes later she won’t wreck all my stuff.

Stuff?

Yesterday’s accumulated paraphernalia – a month old NY Times Book Review section, a library book – The Elements- Building Blocks of Our Universe (no comprendo), two baseball gloves, one “soft” vinyl covered baseball (always ready to play catch with the grand-kids), a white oxford long sleeve shirt (not sure why) , another book, French Dirt-The Story of a Garden in the South of France (… sounds like a journal I could write, someday I’ll get to it.), and a very old umbrella that, untouched, has a tendency to randomly spring open (must discard).  I stash the stuff out of the way, on the dashboard, filling the passenger side, which is, too often, how the car looks when I drive the kids to school – seats empty and clear, but the center of dashboard is cluttered with the prior day’s stuff. 

 

Here I pause.

 

Finally, I bite the bullet. I get out of the car, gather up the clutter from the dashboard and deposit it in the trunk. 

 

I feel better.

On this particular June Monday, I look up and notice a sprinkling of sand on the far, right side of the dashboard in front of the passenger seat. 

Huh? How did that get there I wonder?

Then I remember that on Saturday night, after a walk on the boardwalk we, A and I, jumped down onto a patch of sand heading back to the car, and A took her shoes off to walk through the sand. On the ride home her shoes were still in her hand and as we traveled on, she leaned back and put her feet up on the dashboard. Could that be it? I look at the sand again. Yes, had to be.

The sand – a thousand grains perhaps, concentrated toward a center, less so around the edges, a natural pattern, beautiful like fallen leaves under a tree. I look again, trying to see if there is anything like a footprint.  

Of course not. 

It is now Tuesday morning and the sand is still on the dash and – don’t know - but somehow, for some reason, seeing it there warms my heart. 

 

It's My Number

 

I am talking, by phone, with old friend from high school. We're both septuagenarians (that's Seven-Oh plus), so high school is what we'd call "way back."

I want to send him an email so I ask, "What's your email?"

"Bainie12@aol.com," he informs me, then adds, "It was my number."

I understand immediately. He was a quarterback. He played football. Twelve was his jersey number.

I correspond with several of my former football teammates. Please know that we were decidedly small time - but never mind - more than a few of us have put our numbers into our email address. As for me, my number is sprinkled throughout my many computer passwords. A lot of passwords require numbers and I get mine from old football jerseys.

Sometimes - more often than not - I make up passwords from ancient football plays. I think of this as quite clever. No joke.

For example: 108Lateral, 211Reverse, and LinePlunge17 (17 was my HS number when the "line plunge" was in fashion). Cool huh?

My personal favorite is: 17WB29SW19HB, which represents my three numbers, 17 as a wingback in high school, 29 as an "Single Wing" tailback in prep school and 19 when I was a halfback in college. So far in the three or so years that I have used this password, it has never failed to bring a warm feeling to my chest each time I type it.

I'm not making this up. Yes, I know. Nuts.

Regardless, here's what happened the other day.

I am at the gym. It's post workout. I walk into the locker room and notice a young man is using the locker right next to mine. As is the protocol, he apologizes for choosing a locker so close.

"No problem," I offer.

"It's my number," he says, "twenty-two." He gives me a sheepish grin, then goes on to describe his most recent athletic endeavor. "I just got back from Finland," he says.

"Really?" I say.

"I was playing professional hockey there. But they couldn't give me my number."

Hmmmm.

Of course, I recognize the story, a thinly disguised variation of my own I played football story collection. I give him my full attention.   

"They couldn't give me 22 in Finland. They said they only went up to 20. I could have either 2 or 20." 

"So which did you choose?" I ask.

As one who has told many a tall football tale, I oblige him with all due courtesy, plus I ask questions so he doesn't have to resort to speed-talking in run-on sentences, a common necessity, with seniors speaking to disinterested parties.

Needless to say, I get an ear full, which brings a feeling not unlike - my good deed for today.

FYI: He chose 20.

Walking out from the gym I chuckle to myself about the encounter and then get a bright idea. Next time I book a flight I'll reserve a seat in aisle 19. Then when I board, I'll stash my bags overhead, squeeze in, arrange the seat-belt, fiddle with my stuff (laptop, newspaper, neck cushion), settle in, get comfortable and exhale.  I'll look to my right (or left). I'll make eye contact.

"Ah ... aisle 19," I'll say. Eye to eye now. "It was my number." Blank stare. "Football number," I'll offer with a half-smile, slightly apologetic.

Actually, I wouldn't expect any real interest.  

 

But hey … I think the point is not that others hear the story. The point is that I hear it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Candles For Sale

I’m picking up my grandson, Johnny, after school. I spot him walking across the lawn, coming toward me with his friend, Ryan. Both are 8th graders.

They pile into the back seat. I notice each is carrying what looks like a magazine. “What’s that?” I ask pointing at the magazine.

“It’s a catalog,” Johnny says.

“May I see it?” I say reaching for the magazine.

I flip through it, noticing mostly glossy images of candles and prices. “We’re selling those.” John says. 
I pause, collecting my thoughts.

“John,” I say, “I only say this because I don’t want you to be disappointed, but nobody wants to buy these things.”

John replies, “It’s for the 8th grade dance.”

“I know all about it,” I offer in my know-it-all tone, then add, “tell you what, I’ll donate ten dollars to the dance, but you can keep the candles. How much do you make for each candle you sell?”

Ryan pipes in, “Twenty percent.”

“OK,” I say, “so if a candle is twenty dollars, you make four dollars. So I’ll give you twelve dollars. That’s like selling three candles.”

“We can’t do that,” John says.

“I know, I know,” I say, “but honestly, I don’t understand why you can’t do that. You’d make twelve dollars. Isn’t that the point?”

“We can’t,” Ryan says in a soft apologetic voice.

I’ve tried this strategy before, must be a hundred times, over the last forty years, beginning with my two daughters, selling candy bars mostly, but also oversized popcorn tins, and I think also, candles. Now it’s the grand-kids. Why are contributions not accepted? Don’t ask. It’s always a no. Somebody should change the rules, I think.

The boys are silent.

“So Ryan, you’re coming to John’s house?”

“Uh huh,” he responds.

Along the way, I notice a neighbor out on his front lawn. “Here,” I say, “why don’t we stop and ask this guy - what’s his name? - if he wants to buy a candle. That will prove my point. I just don’t want you to be disappointed.”  I say this in the nicest, most loving tone I can muster. 

No comment from the boys. Of course I really wasn’t going to stop.

Further along we pass a middle age man strolling down the sidewalk. He’s a familiar figure, always out walking about. “How about this guy,” I say.  Again, no comment.

I let the whole issue drop. I just hope they’re not disappointed, that’s all.

I pull into the driveway. The boys get out, go inside for some snacks. I stay in the car. Open my computer. I start to read the Times newspaper, online.

Time passes. I look up from the news. Gosh, almost an has hour gone by. A few minutes later I notice Johnny and Ryan walking up the driveway from the front sidewalk. They’re carrying their catalogs and some other papers. I immediately surmise that they were out selling candles. Poor kids, I think.

I surmise that the papers in their hands are order forms. Maybe they actually sold one, I think. 
I lean toward them and shout through the open car window. “Where were you guys?” I say.

“Selling candles,” they reply.

“How’d it go?” I ask. Doubtful they sold any.

“We sold fifteen candles,” John says, “almost two hundred dollars.”

Hmmmm. So much for grandpa’s wisdom.

As for the innocence and faith of youth, One word: beautiful. Oh and wiser than I.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Camping with Emma

My granddaughter, Emma, was six years old when her mommy, on a whim, bought a tent at Target.

I told Emma that we could “camp out” some night if she wanted to.

“OK,” she said.

A few days later I pitched the tent in the yard, eight steps off the back porch. Emma said she wanted to bring some of her puzzles, and some of her books, which we did.

Inside the tent, as darkness fell, I read the book, "Dora the Explorer", propping up a flashlight and shining it on the pages, which were fabric, not paper. Cute, I thought, as Emma crawled into the sleeping bag while I read.


Lying on her back, head peeping out of covers, she looked over at me. “I can’t go camping with you tomorrow,” she said, apologetically.

I said, “OK.”

“Cause I have to sleep over at Grammy’s for forty days,” she explained.

"That's OK sweetheart," I said. I made a note not to plan on tomorrow, or anytime soon thereafter, which likely was Emma's point.

I continued reading.

“If we are camping, we need some marshmallows, and wood,” Emma interrupted.

I explained that the stores were closed. Emma responded with tiny whine - soft and sweet.

“The next time, we camp we’ll get some,” I said. She whined again, a little louder, but just as sweet.

Emma fiddled with her other books, as I read on.

She asked me to take the berets out of her hair. I did this and she seemed to be getting sleepy. This is it I thought as I gently unfastened the berets. After all, we were "sleeping in the tent," so was that not the ultimate goal?

Then she said, “You know, papa, camping is not so much fun if you miss your mommy.”

I looked at her, she at me. “Do you want to go in and see mommy?” I said.

"I don't want anyone to see me talking to mommy."

“Why is that?” I said.

“Because they’ll laugh at me,” she said.

"Don't worry," I said as we crawled out of the tent.

Inside, I told her mommy that Emma wanted to speak with her alone.

After talking to her mommy, I took Emma up to her room. I sat on the bed as she got under the covers. I sang some songs like I used to do with my daughters, Brett and Ashley. “Golden Slumbers” and “Summertime” were my favorite bedtime songs to my children. The songs seemed to make Emma sleepy.

“Papa?” Emma said.

“What?”

“When are you going to go downstairs?”

“Are you sleepy,” I said.

“Uh huh.”

I kissed her goodnight.

The camping trip was officially completed. But that small experience is one of the most beautiful and memorable things I have ever done.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why Does the Sun Keep on Shining?

Monday March 19, 2018

 6:40 AM

Just out of bed. Knelling on floor, I do four back exercises, thinking of lifelong friend, Bill Rezak, who is now in heaven and who showed me the exercises forty years ago. 

Downstairs I make coffee, spooning grinds into re-usable Keurig cup. Proud of that. Re-usable. 

With brew in hand, I take up usual position on couch to read NY Times online.

An article from Books section catches my eye: 15 Remarkable Books by Women of the 21st Century. I jot two author names, Rachel Cusk and Jenny Offill,

7:00

Must get going, start the day. 

I leave for daughter Ashley's house to pick up two grand kids, Eddie (14) and Johnny (12), to bring them to middle school, along with car-pooling neighbor, Sara. 

Ride to school is quiet. Kids (boys) mostly on phone. Sara, without phone, has her eyes glued out the side window, 

When we pull up to the school and kids step out, I offer a, "Good bye, I love you." 

"Love you too," both say back.

I wait and watch them walk in. 

My heart warms.

7:40

Back home, I start reading the paper again. Soon it's almost 9 O’clock and again feel I should get moving. Get off the couch I tell myself - do something.

I go to Starbucks, with the intention of doing some writing. Inside I order, “A Dark please.” I hand over my Starbucks card.
  

I find a table, set up the laptop. Laptop screen says “Working on updates 30 % complete.”  

Hmmmm. Hate those updates. This could be a while, I think. I sip my coffee, look around the room. It's close to a full house, telling myself it’s not unlike a busy office with everyone on laptops. How the world has changed.

Finally update finishes. In a little less than an hour I write 187 words. Not bad, for me - attention challenged, wannabe-writer.

I take a breath, start writing again. Suddenly my thoughts are interrupted by the Starbucks sound system playing a melody that touches me.

I can’t make out all the words. I catch only “Why does the sun keep on shining ...” I stop my writing and begin a search for those lyrics in Google. The song is “The End of the World.” I click on Amazon and find a rendition by Julie London. I download the song.

I get up for a free coffee re-fill, say hello to Carol, “my barrister,” behind the counter.  Carol asks, “Still driving grand-kids all around?”

“My favorite thing to do,” I say.

“You’re wonderful,” she says handing me the re-fill. "Thanks," I say, smiling at her words. 

10:04

I drive to library, find Cusk and Offill books. I read four pages of Cusk when my phone buzzes. I whisper, “Hello,” as I walk out to the lobby. 

It’s daughter Brett calling from CA. She tells me Mike (age 16, home for spring break from prep school) wore his “Andover Hockey” jacket to local HS Lacrosse game last night. “So cute,” she says.

I get to tell my team jacket story, of being excited to wear my Lehigh University Varsity Football jacket, brown wool with tan leather sleeves, to Middletown-Port Jervis Thanksgiving football game in November 1962. 

Brett tells me she heard the story before.

Really!!?. Regardless, felt good to tell it again.

I leave library with two books.

 

10:52

Home again. I try to put the End of the World song on the phone. Not easy. I give up. Finally, I do a Google search for “phone location of transferred songs.” Answer is: This PC / Samsung-SM-J320A / Phone / ATT Mobile Transfer. Who knew?

I decide to move the song later.

11:30

I make breakfast: Trader Joe’s Oven Toasted Old Fashioned Organic Oats, Strawberries (not organic), Trader Joe’s Raw California Walnuts Halves & Pieces, plus 1% Low Fat Milk  

I eat the cereal, then finally transfer the Julie London song to phone.

12:20

I drive to daughter Ashley’s home to let dogs out. I grab Offill’s book to read at stop lights. I get through page one at the light at the end of my road.

A quote:

… all our stories ….
So why do they come back to me now? Now when I’m so weary of it all. 

Seems meant for me, I think. No?

At daughter's home, the dogs trot down the back steps. I talk to the dogs like so, “OK, let’s go,” I say, as they meander toward the grass and start sniffing. “Go.” I repeat, following Ashley’s advice that "Go" is the magic word, unless you want them sniffing for an hour

Tired of standing, I decide to watch dogs while sitting inside my car. Warm sun on my shoulder sends comfort feelings through me. With one eye on the dogs, I try to cycle through songs on the car’s “Bluetooth” thing-a-ma-gig, displayed on the dashboard. I'm looking for the new - “The End of the World” – song that I just copied to my phone.

Can’t find the song on car "Bluetooth."     

I play it on the phone. OK, it's there. That works. I try it again through the car speakers (Bluetooth?). A miracle. It now plays. 

Huh? 

Don't ask. I'm happy.

I coax the dogs back inside, then leave for home. Julie London’s soft voice is singing.

Why does the sun go on shining?
Why does the sea rush to shore?
Don't they know it's the end of the world
'Cause you don't love me anymore?

The words, the melody, her voice – all of it, touches me. Don’t know exactly why, but a happy feeling comes over me as I move up the street.

It seems that the words, "When you don’t love me anymore," are what triggers happy feelings. Why those words, I wonder ... because those words are, well, ... sad.

I can only think that it is because the words remind me of a time when I was a teenager and I experienced young love and it felt like love was center stage, a time when words like “you don’t love me anymore” were relevant. It seemed that, "you don’t love me anymore," happened every day to someone in our crowd. I attribute my warm feeling to having been there once. To have lived when young love happened, when it was common to feel and believe such things.

Like many thoughts, it's just a guess.

I play the song, over and over.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Airport Saga

 

Late August, 2015.

 

We are flying from NJ to CA, five passengers in our group: Anna 12, Emma 13, Mike 14, mother Brett 46, and grandpa 75. There is one stopover, in Chicago, a fifty minute window to change planes, and connect to LA.

 

Bad weather over Ohio causes a thirty-minute delay before takeoff from Newark so our connection time is now down to twenty minutes. Ten minutes exiting the plane and we'll have just ten remaining

 

I can only think, we'll never make the connection.

Off the plane at Chicago's O'Hare, I spot a nearby official. "Where is Terminal H?”
I ask as we bolt past.

 

“Straight ahead, then second left,” she says, pointing the way.

 

“How far?” I yell over my shoulder.

 

“A mile,” she says.

 

Perhaps thirty years back, circling a track in ideal weather and strong wind always at my back, I could cover a mile in 12 minutes, not sure really, but at 75, lugging an over-sized duffel bag with ten days’ worth of clothes plus a computer case slung around my neck and swinging side to side. - not likely.

 

Undeterred, we sprint onward. I lead the pack for maybe fifty yards, but then, despite feeling legitimately proud of my early speed, I give in and fall back like a NASCAR pace car. My new aim: just keep the leaders in sight.

 

I am dripping sweat and well behind the teenagers and their forty-six-year-old mom when we turn the corner into terminal H.  

 

At our gate, 12, the plane is just pulling out as we arrive. Not a soul in the boarding area.

 

My shoulders drop. I really thought we had a chance. Planes take off late all the time. Why not this one? 

 

Despondent, we shuffle over to United's departure board to check for possible later flights.  

 

Suddenly I notice that our flight number (1752 United) is actually listed as delayed for “mechanical problems” and it is leaving from another gate in an hour and forty minutes.

 

So, good news, we didn’t miss it. It was actually a different plane we saw pulling out. 

 

OK. Great!

 

And the bad news? Brett announces there was no way she is going to get on a plane with “mechanical problems.”

 

I let this pass. We have almost two hours. Things could change.

 

Brett doesn’t follow us to the new gate. She takes off for United’s customer service counter where she is told that they don’t know the exact problem, but it could be “something as simple as a broken light bulb.” 

 

“It doesn’t take two hours to replace a light bulb,” is Brett’s summation of her exchange with customer service. 

I spend the remaining hour trying to persuade Brett to get on board.  Between failed attempts I busy myself pretending to look for alternate methods to LA, car, train, bus, another flight etc. 

Emma dials up her dad in NJ. 

 

Son-in-law Tom calls me, saying that he has “hotel points” and can get us a room in Chicago (for five?) with his "airplane miles." That doesn’t really appeal to me. My position is to wait out the day. Perhaps, at nightfall, the thought of myself among five forlorn souls sleeping in the airport will motivate me, and others, towards an alternative. But not now.

Finally, they bring in our plane. 

 

Brett bad-mouths it, as she watches it roll up to the gate. "No way," she announces.

Then suddenly we see passengers coming through the exit tunnel. Apparently this (our plane) has flown here from somewhere, with passengers  … so … it can't be the one with “mechanical problems."

We accost the exiting passengers: "Did the plane fly OK?" (I’m not making this up). One or two, avoiding our gaze, nod affirmative. 

Brett finally agrees to get on. She is ultimately swayed because she notices two famous celebrities boarding ahead of us. She says it must be OK if they (Seth Rogan and a young woman singer, somebody named G) are on the plane.

So  – miracle - we take off and 4 hours later land safely in LA. All is well.

 

Clothes in a Haystack

I’m in Manhattan Beach (MB on bumper stickers), an upscale coastal town in Southern California (SoCal to West-Coasters).

Yesterday my two granddaughters, ages 13 and 14, rode their bikes to MB, 5 miles north on a bike path they call The Strand which runs along the beach like a cement boardwalk. The girls returned raving about a particular store they visited, that they referred to as L-F.

 

“Lif?” I said, pronouncing a word that sounded like if.

“L then F,” they shot back, giggling.

What did I know?

 Apparently Anna had spotted a “top” or two that she "definitely really, really" wanted.

“It’s their annual three day sale. Everything is 60% off,” she announced to all.

Daughter Brett, mother of Anna, was not impressed. As for L-F prices, “way up there” was Brett's  phrase, then adding, “Minus 60%, not even a drop in the bucket.”

Hmmmmm.
   

Anna pressed on. Her strategy was the tried and true, relentless persistence, until someone acquiesces and agrees to transport them to L-F ... and bring a credit card.

Who would that be? Credit card, I mean.

Brett still objected, but her tone softened as time wore on. I could see it was a done deal.

So, I was on board. I didn’t catch all of Anna’s accolades about L-F, but I caught enough to know that I'd be on the hook for an item or two. But, at 60% off, how bad could it be?     

We rode over the following afternoon.

On the way, I said, “I hope your tops are not gone.”

“I hid them.” Anna said.

“Where would that be?” I said, a bit skeptical.

“Under stuff.”

I far from convinced. I hoped she wouldn’t be disappointed.

Here’s what I saw when we walked in:

        

         

Let's just say, "Everything was under stuff."  I strolled around for a bit. 

 

"Just looking," I said to a clerk. 

 

Eventually, I went outside and stood by a parking meter. I was in and out - parking meter / just looking - for maybe an hour or more. Time passed. There was little doubt that Anna's search would be long and, in my opinion, doomed to fail.  

In case you haven’t figured it out as yet, twelve-year-olds are much more adept at various tasks than the guardian class (us). I don’t care if I had tied a radioactive isotope to each garment that Anna hid, then searched with a Geiger counter, I would never, NEVER, have found anything, much less what I was looking for in this "haystack" known as L-F. On every table, every rack, and shelf there were gigantic piles of clothes that resembled humongous laundromat loads of wet wash (see images above). I could only think, "needle in the haystack." In a word, hopeless.

To my amazement, Anna found all four items.

So that was it, the great L-F sale. Hmmm.

I couldn't believe this place, especially the whole laundromat mess, but then no one else seemed to mind. There were plenty of customers. What did I know?

Anna mercifully settled on just two items, both tops. Total price $102.02. Without the sale discount we’re talking a regular price tally of $255.05 for the two pieces, each with an approximate fabric mass of a handkerchief.

 The good news? I saved over $150.

 

 

New Jersey to Toronto on Amtrak

I was traveling to Toronto, Ontario, to meet daughter (Brett) and granddaughter (Anna, 11) who were flying in from California for a youth hockey tournament.

I was taking Amtrak, The Maple Leaf, Amtrak’s New York to Toronto train, departing daily at 7:15 AM; scheduled Toronto arrival 7:42 PM.

Despite being an Amtrak veteran, traveling alone to an unknown city, arriving after dark - maybe midnight if I know Amtrak - finding the hotel, several blocks away, on foot and the next day trying to rent a car (discouraging reviews there: Rent here if you love being misled … and another by far the worst place to rent a car from!), add to that, driving on strange roads from center city to the airport, possibly in the dark – let’s just say, at age 75, there was plenty of room for trouble.  

So, before leaving, I called my hotel, thinking I'd ask a local about rentals. “Can I rent a car from the hotel?” I said to the man on the line. 

He seemed evasive. He proceeded to read a list of rental locations in Toronto, but said nothing about proximity to the hotel, so not much help. “Are you at the hotel now?” I asked.  

“I’m based in India,” he said.

“Oh, … gee, OK, thanks,” I said.

On the day of departure I got into Penn Station at 6:30 AM. I immediately checked the main board for Maple Leaf track number. Nothing yet.

Why the concern?

Because if /when the track number does appear and you’re at the opposite end of the station you're obliged to book-it big-time (teen-talk for run fast), to the correct gate, down a long flight of stairs (sore knees), onto the boarding platform, budging past old people (oops, that’s me) then figure out the right car, and bolt in –all of that if you want a window seat, which I do - absolutely.

I circled the station looking for hints of the Maple Leaf gate. Finally, I spotted two lines, maybe a dozen people, plus baggage, in each and stringing back from a makeshift lectern. A paper Canadian Flag was taped to the front of the lectern. Had to be the Maple Leaf, I thought.

I tucked myself into the back of one line, behind a very tall elegant looking fellow in a designer-like warm-up suit and two, almost dishwasher-size luggage bags on wheels. 

“You going to Canada?” I said.

He’s really tall. He’s definitely a pro basketball player.

“That line's Canada,” he said pointing left.

I slid over to the other line. “So, you play pro basketball?” I said.

He nodded, smiled, said “uh huh.”

I gave him an I-knew-It-nod. “A center,” I said, another I-knew-It nod.

He nodded back.

“So, six eleven?” I asked, pointing to him.

“And three-quarters,” he corrected.

I raised my eyebrows.

“Five eight,” I said, thumb pointing at myself.

 He chuckled.

The Maple Leaf departed on time. And I got a window seat.

I was traveling “Business Class,” Amtrak’s name for the car with more leg room. Actually, Business Class was half of a car. The front half of our car was the café counter plus a half dozen café tables.

Thirty minutes out of New York the café car lady announced that our car was “first class.” She welcomed us and said that coffee and water were free. “On me,” she said with a hint of glee in her tone.  I settled back into my seat, enjoying my window seat view.

Thirteen hours to go I thought, as we headed north to Albany. After Albany it was due west across New York State, through Syracuse, Rochester and Buffalo.  

As nightfall approached, we rolled into Niagara Falls. The falls, unfortunately, were not in view. Next was the Canadian border where the customs protocol consumed almost an hour. I worried that I’d get Toronto after all restaurants were closed.

A few miles into Ontario a woman across the aisle asked if I wanted to help celebrate her husband’s birthday. They had treats spread out on their seat-back trays; wine, cheese and crackers, all of which they generously passed over to me, with an accompanying Happy Birthday napkin. We toasted husband John who seemed about my age.

The wife was a former high school French teacher so I tried out some my French, explaining that I could speak a tiny bit, but could not understand. "Petit peu" I said.  

She nodded, sampled a few of my fumbling sentences, then asked, in English, “Would you like some smoked oysters?”

“I’m eating all of your food,” I protested.

She waved me off and handed me a cracker with oysters, adding, “They keep very well traveling.”

Hmmm.

They told me about their travels, including a stay at an inn on the banks of some canal (Erie Canal ?) between Lake Ontario and Lake Erie where they watched giant ships move through the locks as they sipped wine on their deck. “John loves locks,” the wife said.

Sweet, I thought.

When we pulled into the Toronto station I was determined to help get the couple’s extra large suitcase down from the overhead rack. Hours ago, I had seen the woman put it up there, alone, with a bit of a struggle.

I jumped up as we rolled into the station. “I’ll get your luggage down,” I said.
I reached up and gave a tug. It was a bit heavier than I expected. I tugged again. The luggage fell toward me like a bag of cement. My knees buckled as I wobbled to brace myself, then quickly set the bag on the floor with a thud. “I can’t believe you lifted this up there by yourself,” I said.

She returned a knowing smile.

When we came to a stop, we exchanged goodbyes; (au revoirs) and I followed them off the train and through underground hallways somewhat like NYC subway corridors. I slowed down letting them get ahead because I wanted to explore the station, which it seemed that I was doing, until it became clear that I was actually lost in the Toronto underground.

Finally I relented. I asked someone for directions and was eventually able to wind my way upward to the main lobby at street level.

Outside and alone on the sidewalk, I looked up at a wall of skyscrapers. Toronto was Canada’s largest city, so I’d read. I started walking, looking for York Street – the hotel address. After a few blocks with no progress and feeling lost again, I noticed a bellhop from another hotel at the curb waving for a taxi. I approached him, “Do you know where the Strathconna Hotel is?”.

“See the sign?” he said, pointing. Only sign I saw was red neon letters, “Bardi’s Steak House.”

“Where?”

“There!”

“Bardi’s?”

“No, behind that.”

Actually, above the red “Bardi’s” sign were black block letters going down the grey concrete side:

Reading down, not across, definitely threw me off. 

I thanked the man.

At the hotel I dropped my bags in my room and headed to the hotel pub for dinner. “Down one flight” on the elevator,” the desk clerk said.

I had fish and chips, with two Canadian beers, in the cozy pub, crowded with jolly Canadians. All very nice, enjoyable, despite being solo.

The next morning, after breakfast, I confronted the challenge of renting a car, and then trying to find the route to the airport.  

The Hertz man at Union Station was very helpful, providing maps and drawing lines with a red pencil to guide me. “The car’s at the parking garage two blocks away,” he said, pointing to his local street map, moving his finger over my route. “It’ll be at level P3, in stall four.”

Wow, I thought, impressed with the details. 

So, I found the garage, found level P3, but no car in stall four.

I returned to Union Station. “There’s no car in stall four,” I told the Hertz man.

“Maybe they were filling the tank,” he said.  He called the garage. “It’s there now,” he said.

I thanked him and walked back to the garage. This time the car was there. I got in, laid a map on the seat next to me, turned the key and began circling inside the garage, following exit signs until I saw daylight. Outside, I had to question, now where was I?

I pulled over to the curb, checked the map, then slowly started again, crawling through city streets with one eye on the map, until I saw Gardinar Expressway west. I hopped on. Next was 427 North and voila - airport signs.

I wound my way through the airport “beltway” looking for terminal 3. Found it and parked at level P2, aisle 4. I made a mental note as I walked toward the terminal lounge.

Brett and Anna’s plane arrived early. I finally breathed easy when I saw “Landed” on the monitor next to “From Los Angeles.”

 

 

 

 

Third Street Promenade

 

Back to school - Fall 2014

 

I am tagging along with daughter Brett, age 45, and my two granddaughter cousins, Jersey-Girl Emma 13 and CALi-girl Anna 12, Brett’s daughter. The occasion is back-to-school shopping.

Mostly clothes today, the one exception being the annual backpack search.

We are in Santa Monica, CA, strolling up a walk-street referred to as Third Street Promenade.

 

The first store is Tilly’s. Never heard of it, but I'm told we purchased backpacks there last year.
OK, fine ... anyway ... backpacks ... if you don’t know, they are very serious fashion statements these days, especially for girls. 

 

But of course you know. 

 

Inside the store I adjust my mental state, preparing for the long haul.

Whoops, here's a miracle, the girls have already settled. They get identical packs. That was easy, I think.

 

A word about backpacks: I have fond memories of my school years and yes, backpacks existed a half a century ago, but mostly in the army. Never with school kids. We carried books in our hands. Girls  cradled them with both arms, against their tummy. Not sure why no one thought of backpacks for school kids. 

 

Different world in so many ways, I guess.

 

Regardless, with new backpacks now in hand, the girls want to browse a bit. Fine, I think.  As they wander about, I stray, ever so slightly, from the flock. Off on my own, I feel a trifle out of place. Where's the men's department?

A sales clerk spies me. Her look says, what’s-this-guy-doing-here. She says, "May I help you?” I hear “Are you lost?” 

 

I'm not making this up. But then it could be my septuagenarian imagination?

 

Regardless I survive, noting with interest a new style or two. Here’s one: sweatpants with ribbed pant leg bottoms.  Or maybe not. OK, whatever. I continue circling. 

 

Girls and Brett are still browsing. They hand me the backpacks. I gather that we'll be here a while. I diligently follow the crowd, keeping the girls on my radar. After a dozen or so racks, I’m yearning for a place to sit. 

 

Good luck.

 

Stores don’t want me, or anyone, to sit. They want all customers on their feet, visiting each display, touching the garments, holding them against their chin in front of the mirror, asking for opinions, murmuring “mmmmm,"  finally draping selections over an arm and moving on to the next item, or the register.

 

But, no sitting, period.  

Then I hear, "We're leaving Papa." Huh? 

I tag along, toward the next store, Urban Outfitters.

We arrive and I breeze in, scan the room. Wait, what's this? I spy a place to sit, a couch in the distance. I speed-walk over.

 

Figures ... all cushions occupied. Three wide eyed senior women, obviously strangers, but nevertheless shoulder to shoulder and staring straight ahead, pocketbooks on heir laps, as if riding a trolley.  

 

Disappointed I turn back. "I'll be outside," I tell the kids.

I head out to the pedestrian friendly promenade.  The nearest bench with a view of the door is occupied by a young man, well-dressed, and ... well ... he appears sane, that is, if one ignores the fact that he is holding a battery powered megaphone up to his face and shouting advice to the passing crowd on how God wants us all to live. “God doesn’t care about your money or your success,” he screams.   

I find another bench.

Fifteen minutes go by. The megaphone man shows no sign stopping for air. Impressive, in a way. A non-stop monologue about what God thinks. And without notes. Hmmmmm.

 

I return to the store.

 

Kids are putting things back on the rack. “We’ll come back,” they say.

 

Really? 

 

Whatever. We move on. Outside, the man with the megaphone is still going strong. We give him a wide berth. 

 

Next stop is Brandy Melville which is a store that the girls have been talking about.  I say, “I never heard of this place.”

 

Kids explain, “There are no Brandy Melville stores in New Jersey, just one in New York.”

They know everything.

  

Inside Brandy Melville the girls make rapid selections which they hand over to me as they glide about. Their enthusiasm is so positive that I feel that these items I'm holding Will not be put back. I am happy to be useful, to have a function. Before long I am cradling upwards to two dozen items in my arms, plus backpacks looped on my wrists. I resist the notion to see myself as silly grandpa, human clothes rack.

 

Eventually I’m given the signal to move up to the cashier. I unload the various items onto the counter separating them into two piles, Emma’s and Anna’s, because I may want to tally the costs of each girl.

 

Smart huh?

 

The young cashier girl is overly polite. I feel very accomplished cradling armfuls of clothing as I fish in my wallet for the credit card. “Go ahead, swipe,” the smiling cashier says. I do so with a billionaire’s nonchalance.  I’m handed the slip.  Now, still with my devil-may-care face, I speed sign a chicken scratch signature – my best MD-prescription-like scrawl.  

 

Outside I announce the totals for each girl. I'm proud like a talented accountant. The numbers don’t seem to register. No comment, so I let it drop. Nevertheless I feel good about a job well done and as we stroll down the pavement, looking for a spot to eat, I’m thinking, table with a view at a nice bistro. Reward for our successful venture. Sit and talk. Can't wait.

 

The girls choose Wetzel’s Pretzels.

 

Huh?

 

I wander across the street (promenade) to a kiosk- like eatery with wobbly aluminum tables the size of dinner plates. The girls join me. They put their pretzel bags on the table as I order sandwiches for Brett and me. Nothing to write home about, but at least we’re sitting.

 

Cleaning up, I gather the pretzel bags and Styrofoam plates. I notice a couple of pretzel “bites” in one bag. On my way to the garbage can, I reach inside the bag and fish out a small pig-in-a- pretzel-blanket type thingy. 

 

I take a bite.

 

Hmmmm, tasty. I toss the bags and plates in the can.

 

On the ride home the girls entertain us with a fashion presentation from the back seat.  I’m in stitches, the whole way, not wanting their comedy show to end. Late afternoon LA traffic cooperates, extending the trip by almost an hour. 

 

Ten miles in ninety minutes and, honestly, I enjoy all ninety.

Things to take to college - Starting in the year 2019

 

Grandson Mike, age 10, has already settled on his college of choice – Bowling Green.* Turns out it is the alma-mater of a number of NHL players. To this end Mike has compiled an impressive list of “necessities” to bring along – eight years down the line.  If the list seems a bit overblown, keep in mind that he claims that his three best friends will be accompanying him, enrolling in 2019 at BGSU as well:

 

 

1.       A disco ball and dance floor

2.       Air hockey table, pool table

3.       Fooze ball table

4.       Ping pong table

5.       3 flat screen TVs

6.       A 62 in. couch

7.       A Jacuzzi

8.       A pet dog

9.       Refrigerator

10.    A X box

11.    Play station 4 with controllers for each

12.    4 skate boards

13.    4 bikes

14.    4 pairs of roller skates

15.    4 laptops plus wifi (wireless)

16.    A car (just one???)

17.    4 I phones
18.    Colored spotlights

 

            College Stuff - 1959 Style
            My own cache of college necessities in the fall of 1959 was considerably pared down from that of my grandson's. I remember lugging a modest suitcase up the dorm steps and my mom carrying a pillow. Dad had my high school gym bag, with school supplies and toiletries.
           Most important, I recall, a small spiral-bound notepad, the dimensions of a credit card, tucked into my back pocket. I thought it might come in handy for jotting down important reminders that were bound to crop up now that I was in college - reminders like the half-dozen addresses I had recently scribbled in the beginning pages. The point was, I intended to write lots of letters while in college - to girls

                The world of letter writing, especially letter writing to girls, was just one of the new worldly realms I was about to enter. I already had a girlfriend that existed through letters only. She had recently moved from our New York state hometown environs to Florida - Orlando. As a girlfriend she was hanging by a thread, but since these were desperate times, people (me) jumping from the familiar to the unknown, the letters helped maintain the thread, albeit temporarily.

                PO Box 120
                In the weeks leading up to actual enrollment, my conversation with girls had always included mention of my college mailing address: Lehigh University, PO Box 120, Bethlehem, PA. I gave it to some girls in my town – Warwick, NY - plus to two girls at Greenwood Lake that were standing outside of the arcade, and to the cashier girl at the Middletown (NY) diner, and – believe it or not – to the long-distance operator in Asbury Park, NJ. Yes, I'd be writing lots of letters. I was thinking that there might even be a letter waiting for me at Box, number 120 when I arrived at Lehigh.

                But it didn’t matter. I’d start the flow of letters going soon enough. Walking into my dorm I reached back several times to pat my back pocket, checking that the notepad was still there. Of all things, I didn’t want to leave that behind. Still, by the day's standards, I was traveling light.

                This was not the case with my own daughters who arrived at college in the mid 1980s with enough paraphernalia to fill a North American Van Lines eighteen wheeler. Of course it was a girl thing to lug along the heavy baggage. Boys were still minimalists by comparison.

                I not sure what the future holds but if my grand kids are any indication it might be wise to invest in North American Van Lines a little before September of each year.

              

Epilogue:
Since Mike's "college list" I have prompted the other grandchildren to make a list. Here are Eddie's (age 7, 1st item - Max - is the family dog, plus much is heavily borrowed from Mike) and Emma's (age 9). John (4 1/2) simply said he was going to bring books - "big books like Papa has."

Precious.

 

 

 

 

Above: Ed's "Collage" list: 1. Max, 2. all my hockey pucks, 3. Pool table, 4. air hockey,

5. Wi, 6. XBox 360, 7. Play station

Above is Emma's (age 9) list:
1. Toothbrush, 2. the game of Life (a board game), 3. my pillow, 4. the Harry Potter series
5. Pajamas, 6. Suitcase, 7. chap stick, 8. hair brush, 9. bean bag, 10. Clothing, 11. journal
12. Pencils, 13. Backpack, 14. Gum, 15. Makeup, 16. hair beads, 17. XBox 360 / Harry Potter Legos ??, 18. Wii, 19. Wallet, 20. fuzzy socks / regular socks, 21. Calendar, 22. pictures
23. TV, 24. Snacks, 25. art supplies

 

Kids Baseball, New Jersey, early 21st Century

 

Ed, 8, above, demonstrates choosing sides.

 

Speaking of things - if parents today tried to raise their American children with the material possessions (sports equipment) of the 1950s they’d be reported to DYFS for child abuse (that’s Department of Youth and Family Services in NJ).

 

Think of two twenty-first century boys, my grandsons, approximate ages 8 and 6. And let's just take baseball as an example: Their garage today has two buckets filled with white baseballs and enough aluminum bats for a high school team. And gloves? Again, enough for a team including a catcher's mitts. 

In the 1950s, like the family car, there was, most likely, one baseball, but if there were two the second was definitely wrapped with black friction tape (frayed seams) that peeled off further with every hit. At the very least it was the color of cooked spinach – grass stains. A white baseball? Maybe at the Polo Grounds, but not in the pocket of my Rawlings Marty Marion mitt.

As for bats, back then they were made of wood - like the big leagues (Hillerich & Bradsby, Adirondack, Louisville Slugger) - and if there were two in the family (again unlikely) then one was definitely broken and the handle was wrapped with the same black tape as the baseball. Severe breaks required a nail or two in the handle, a futile attempt to mend the break. It never worked. Tap the handle on the ground and you'd hear the sound of a string instrument. 

 

Oh, and how did the bat get broken? The little brother did it. Just ask the big brother. “Cause he didn’t have the label up,” big brother will tell you - which was how bats got broken in the days before all were aluminum.

 

For pick-up games there was a time-honored tradition of choosing sides. Two "captains" were designated and team picking began by one captain gently tossing a bat to the other who grabs it somewhere on the handle. From there, each alternatively places his hand atop the other’s until there is not sufficient room between the last hand and the knob. Last full hand on the top gets to choose the first player. Unless, that is, you’re invoking the three-finger rule i.e. if you can fit three fingers above the top hand and knob, that counts – you win.

 

Another last chance is this: if you lose, you may twirl the bat, holding it above your head, with fingers only, by the knob, and the bat dangling like a wind-chime. Now twirl it three times about your noggin – without dropping it. Do that and you get the first choice. Invoking this rule was often a stretch, not fully ethical, it was thought. 

 

What brings all of this side-choosing to mind is a recent after-supper game in Ashley’s (daughter, age 40) backyard. 


It begins like so: Kids rushing out the back door, with papa (yours truly, age 70+) trailing. They race onto the yard, neatly lined with baselines, and a home plate batter’s box (I’m quite proud of this. A spay can of “Marking Paint" by Rustoleum did the trick). The children jump about, calling out teams. 


Ed, 8, protests, saying we must choose teams and proceeds to gather four bats and gloves placing them in a pile near second base. 

"What the heck?", I think.

He gets on his hands and knees, closes his eyes and feels for the items before him (see accompanying picture, above). When he touches one item he flings it to one side or the other. With eyes shut tight he continues, deliberately, and blindly rubbing his hands over the dirt feeling for another bat or glove. Despite some trouble locating the items, Ed persists, sightless and less than deft as he feels around. 

I'm curiously impressed.

 

Finally, having flung all items left or right, he stands up, opens his eyes and surveys the bats and gloves on each side of him. 


John shouts that he wants the teams to be him, papa and Emma against Eddie, three against one. Emma shouts louder, "Me and papa," she says.

Ed is silent - still looking over the flung bats and gloves. It seems obvious what he’s thinking; Should he try to explain that teams need to be assigned according to which (who’s) bat or glove landed where? 

Seconds pass. 

Suddenly he comes to a decision. Foregoing the glove/bat location scheme he grabs a bat and rushes toward home plate. “You pitch Papa,” he says. 

Emma and John protest that they should be first up.

I quickly lob a pitch to Ed. He hits a grounder which, thirty feet from home, is swallowed by a patch of pachysandra. "Lost ball," I think. 

“Next batter,” I call as Ed circles the bases. "Home run Ed," I shout. All seems settled. I keep pitching, now to Johnny. I reach for another ball. No problem, we have thirty.         

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

College: What is it Good for?

 
Over the years, somewhere around age forty, it came to me that college would have been a wonderful opportunity to explore my interests and talents.

Who knew?

Certainly by the end of my high school years I knew little about either. My interests were sports, girls and friends. And, honestly, those were pretty much my college goals. 

Yes, college was four years during which I could have researched areas of interest, intellectual growth (huh?) and vocation. So why didn't I take advantage of this? Well, for starters, remember, I was forty, almost two decades removed from campus life, when I figured this out.

So it was in later life that I got the bright idea that I would imbue this knowledge, about the purpose of college, to my offspring. The essence of my advice would be to take advantage of this wonderful opportunity to use your college years to, "explore everything," "find what you love" and "develop a skill to support yourself."

And what was my own college experience? In a word - great! - even better than I thought it would be. I made lifelong friends; I played on the football team, and the baseball team. I met girls. I laughed like I never laughed before. And those particulars – sports, friends, and girls - were the main reasons that I went to college. Find what you love? How about sports, friends and girls? Intellectual interest and vocation, not so much.

I actually voiced such opinions while enrolled, on the rare occasions when it seemed that the subject of interests was approached. When we registered for our next semester’s courses each mid-term, a dean assisted in the process (called advising) and often pointed out shortcomings (i.e., low grades, lack of direction). I had my excuse ready.

                Is College More than Academics?

 
“I’m getting more out of college than just grades,” I said to the Dean who seemed to be implying that I lacked direction and that I could do better. I doubt if my words had stumped him. He’d been around. He’d heard it before and likely knew that I was adamant and there was no sense wasting his breath. Getting a lot out of college – that was me.

Not really.

I was in college for ten years. I got three degrees. They weren't the wrong degrees, just not in subjects of great interest to me. Maybe I shouldn't complain. My life has been blessed - good job, two wonderful loving daughters and a permanent feeling of gratitude that follows me always.

Still I think that I wasted much of my college years because I didn't explore - my self and my interests. I could say I didn't think, but that may be too harsh. The best thing I did was to deduce that if I didn’t know what I wanted, then I should keep going to school. Get more degrees. I forged ahead - blindly. It was better than nothing. True. I got an another advanced degree in education to go with my Master’s in Teaching (Math) and undergraduate BA, (Education major, Math minor).

 

                 Rethink your High School Answers
 

So, what did I do wrong? For starters, I plodded along with the same recited goal that rose to the top during high school. At various times during my adolescence the question was asked: What do you want to do when you grow up? My answer was always the same:  teacher and coach. There - that was covered, now on with life - friends, girls and sports.

                 What's Your major Again?
 

Actually, my chosen area of study, education with math minor, might have been a clue. If you’re studying to be a teacher then find a field that you want to major in, and do that. It was definitely not Math in my case. Also, don’t necessarily major in Education - a minor there is sufficient for certification. An exception probably is Elementary Education where, my daughter, Special Ed teacher, assures me, much specialized knowledge is essential.  So, if high school or college teaching is your goal (me) you should major in the field you'll be teaching. Common sense, no?

 

                   What Do You Want to Do?
 

Here’s another issue. I ended up teaching for 27 years, and over the years have talked with countless 18, 19 year-old students about their course of study. Every semester I devoted the first class to giving advice about their approach to college; the kind of advice I never followed. 

I implored them to use their education to explore the wide range of opportunities related to their interests and intellect. My first question was always, “What is it that you want to do?”

By far the most prevalent answer was, “I don’t know what I want to do.” I expected that, so my next question was, “What do you enjoy? What are your hobbies? What do you read? Do you draw, build things, decorate things? If you have a part-time job, what do you like best about the job? Do you know a seemingly, vocationally happy parent or adult friend? What doe he or she do?”

They looked at me dumbfounded. Is this on the test?

The objective here was to find an interest and to study that. Explore was the operative word. For young adults one may have to dig deep for this. There was another objective, related to interest, and that was to develop a “skill,” one of some vocational value. A major in Education or communications are often too "general" to contribute to a job skill, An exception is if the general study of Education is truly your passion. Look for hints of your passions, i.e. courses you liked in high school, things you read about. Don't neglect vocation and future financial support. Try to come out with a skill that will contribute to your support.

 

And speaking of vocation. Many of you will have summer jobs, or even part-time jobs during the school year. Think about what you might want to do as a thirty-year-old and try to find an entry-level/part-time position in that area. 

 

Finally, use your college counseling offices to explore the work world

 

           Really, I Don't Know What I Want to Do
 

So, you say, “Hey, I seriously don’t know what I want to do so I’ll major in math and be a math teacher. I need a job. It’s better than nothing.” I would respond, “OK, that’s OK, great actually, but don’t give up your personal research project. Remember - explore. Keep questioning if your choice is your passion. You have four years of college with a wealth of opportunity at your disposal. Trust me, if you don’t turn over every stone you will one day say to yourself – "gee, I was there four years, why didn’t I do something? Learn a language, learn how to write better, play music, learn an actual skill etc." 

 

And again, the counseling services at your college would be happy to talk with you.

 

            Andy Rooney Didn't Want to be Culturally Deprived 
 

Andy Rooney said of his college experience, that he loved football, but didn’t want to “let the game dominate my life and become a culturally deprived jock, so I decided to take piano lessons.” That we should all have such maturity at age twenty. As for me, I was well aware of life’s priorities – there was football, baseball, girls, laughing with friends, beer and sleep in that order. Cultural deprivation, whatever that was, I’d make up for it later, if necessary, which I doubted. But seriously, back then I would have thought that the hour on the piano stool was cultural deprivation. How dumb!

I'll keep trying to drive the message home, next with the grandchildren.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

World Famous Turkey Burgers

Do you remember the day, years ago, early in our time together, we were driving around looking for a spot to have lunch? We saw a sign, something like Bob’s Diner or Kathy’s Kitchen. Another mile was another sign, then further on another, each more bold than before, and all bragging about “Famous Turkey Burgers.”

We finally came to the restaurant itself – “Home of the Turkey Burger,” it said, over the door.

We both ordered the turkey burgers.

You spit yours into the napkin. I forced down a few bites. 

Now what? we thought.

Fortunately, my sport coat had large side pockets. Discretely we cut up the burgers, moved small chunks around on our plates, picked at the rolls, and intermittently, carefully slipped the small burger parts into the pocket.

 

Full disclosure: I believe we were unfair taste-test subjects. We doubtless anticipated a beef burger taste sensation and thus were turned off. Today (2019) I'm actually a fan of "Turkey Burgers, or even better, "Veggie Burgers."

 
After a tenable number of minutes while we diligently pretended to chew our lunch – rolls and water - we got up and walked to the register to pay. A young man/boy in a flannel shirt and pin-striped suit pants ambled over from behind the counter. He was carrying two cups of coffee, obviously intended for the [only] other customers, a young couple in a booth a few tables behind us.

It was obvious to me that those customers were somehow connected to the diner. The woman had papers spread on the table before her like she might be paying bills or doing night school homework. The dad, sitting sideways in the booth watched his two children playing a modified version of hopscotch on the floor tiles. Had to be diner family, I thought.

 

The cashier/waiter guy set the coffee on top of the case next to the register.

“Take the coffee to your customers,” I said, “We’re in no hurry.”

  “You don’t mind?” the young man said.  

“Not at all.” 

As we waited, I noticed that on the top of the case, next to the cash register, there was a miniature roulette wheel. I speculated that perhaps the diner sold these, a side business of sorts, but looking below, inside the glass case, I saw only a half dozen loose packs of Juicy Fruit Gum, otherwise the selves were bare. No roulette wheels in stock.
     

My pity gene kicked in: pity for the owners of the diner, for the boy waiter / cashier (no customers = meager tip money), for the young mother doing her homework, for the instigator of the Turkey Burger idea (they were probably good, just ahead of their time) and anyone else that I thought was dependent on the diner’s success.

The cashier lad returned. He stepped behind the register and looked up at us. He seemed to pause as if he had forgotten something – perhaps cream for the coffee he’d just delivered – but he would now take care of us, he said.

“Spin the wheel,” he said pointing to the roulette wheel, “Land on ‘Jackpot’ and your dinner is on the house.”

No way was all I could think. I placed my hand on the roulette wheel, tempted, before spinning, to warn the young man about bad business practices – i.e. giving away the store, but I held back, figuring that landing on Jackpot was far-fetched. Me, who had never won anything.

You guessed it, I hit the jackpot.

I looked up at the cashier. He looked at me. “Your meal is free,” he said.  There was sadness in his eyes, doubtless in our eyes as well.

“No, we’re paying for the meal,” I said in an I-won’t-take-no-for-an-answer tone, “Plus could you give me some singles for the tip?’ Then I added, “But that is a nice game, thanks for letting us play it, but I wouldn’t think of not paying. Oh ... and the turkey burgers were really great.”

I over tipped, leaving five singles on the table. “You tip like a gangster,” you said.
  

“They need the money,” I said and you agreed. On the trip home we talked about the diner, speculating who the owners were (had to be the family doing homework and playing hop-scotch), who thought up the “Turkey Burger” idea, who’s recipe it was and various other scenarios about the diner’s family, and mostly the sad eyes of the cashier when we won at roulette.

“Do you think anyone ever won the free meal before?” you asked. We both decided that we were the first.

Then I said, “And you know that cashier guy went right into the kitchen immediately after we left and told the cook, "Another customer loved the Turkey Burgers."

 

“Yeah.”

“A shame.”

“Sad.”

“Yeah, but we were good Samaritans.”

“We were."

 

 

 

 

Anti-Aging Tips

 

Here are a few tips to make you feel young again.

Tip 1
Say you're walking through the parking lot to your office. It's early morning and you notice a puddle a few paces ahead.

Jump in it.

If it happens that you're walking with a co-worker, even better:  Jump in the puddle. Make a splash. The co-worker will wait, or he/she might to join in.

Oh ... if it's winter and all the puddles are frozen then, stomp on the ice, try to break the ice. If the ice won't break, step back a few paces, get a running start. Slide across the ice. Then resume your walk. Talk a little business with the co-worker.  

Tip 2
If, along the path that you are walking, you come across a low retaining wall of any sort, something like a high curb that follows a sidewalk, leave the sidewalk and walk on the wall.

One of the best places to find these balance beam-like structures is the bordering concrete that often runs up the side of cement stairs. Contractors and architects call it a “stringer.”

   

Never mind that; I had to look it up. Regardless, never take the stairs, take the stringer.

Tip 3
If you’re a commuter, waiting for the train to the city and an inch or more of fresh snow has fallen on the platform, scoop up a handful, eat it.

Tip 4
Snow, of course, presents numerous opportunities to combat aging. Think snow angels, forts, snowballs. My favorite is if the snow is still falling, big flakes, raise your eyes skyward, stick out your tongue, let the snow hit your tongue. Repeat this several times.

Tip 5
This tip is a bit deviant. If you're in someone's car and you notice some pocket change laying around, pick up the coins and try to put them into the various “coin slots” (aka heat vents) that automakers build into the dashboard. I call it the "random horn trick."

The coin slot for this “trick” is actually a secret coin slot. It is any opening in the hub of the steering wheel that allows one to send coins toward the steering wheel column.

 

I know about this because seven-year-old grandson Johnny found this particular coin slot in the steering wheel column and proceeded to perform this "random horn trick" to perfection - dumbfounded grandpa (yours truly) notwithstanding.

 

Here’s how it works. Try to shove a quarter in there. These coin slots may take only quarters, not sure, but the great thing about the steering wheel hub coin slot (Remember, it’s not your car) is that it will confound the driver no end. How? Because the horn will sound on a truly random basis (I'm guessing a short circuit of some sort) for as long as the quarter is in there jostling around. Everyone will be dumbfounded. When you pass people on the street and the random beep goes off, you may get a friendly wave, but if someone is crossing in front of you in a parking lot and the beep startles him/her – here you may get the finger.

All in good fun.

 

Tip 6
Also related to automobile travel is this: again, you're riding in someone else's car - immediately after sliding into the front seat, aka shotgun, turn on the radio and start pushing the selection buttons, frantic like.  Keep pushing buttons until music comes on, something you like. Turn up the sound. If it happens to be music that someone over thirty would like, go back to pushing the buttons, change the station.

If it’s music you don’t like (read: extra loud, generally incomprehensible lyrics) let it play for a while (give it 20 seconds) then start the button pushing again.  

Tip 7
Here's my favorite: Ask a child, or even better, another adult, to have a catch. Like this, “K’we have a catch?” Give your request a pleading tone. Then begin the catch, but don’t stop, ever. None of this:  “OK that’s it.” Or this “OK, enough, I’ve got to make a call,” or “Gotta go inside now,” or “OK, it’s getting late,” etc. NO! None of that. Just keep tossing the ball, or stuffed animal, or balled up sock, whatever. Keep it going, no stopping, the catch. I’m not sure if a real child will ever call a halt to a catch – I’ve never witnessed it, but that’s not your problem. You want to get younger right? Then keep playing catch.

If you're serious about anti-aging, playing catch with a child will do it. But it must be forever, or until the child says something like I'm bored. Trust me, it works.

1, 2, 3, 4 ... when you're dead, infinity - March 2010

 

With the grandchildren, as with my own children, I often feel overwhelmed with a feeling of love for them. I try to contain the feeling at times - don’t know exactly why - but more often let it go and say "I love you" whenever the mood strikes.

 

So invariably a few times per day I can be heard asking Johnny, “John – how much does papa love you?”

John varies his response. He either offers a number or recites the learned answer, “Too much.”

Today it’s the numbers.

“Ten,” he says.

“More than that,” I say.

“A hundred.”

“More than that.”

“A billion.”

“Nope more.”

“A thousand hundred.”

“Still more,” I say.

“When you’re dead?” he says.

 

John is four. In recent months he has asked when I would be dead. Mostly this was after we rode past the cemetery on Ridgedale Avenue. I think I responded with something like “A long time.” So I’m guessing that he figured that the answer to ‘when I’d be dead’ was something bigger than 70, which he knows is my age now. Then he put two and two together and calculated that “when I’d  be dead” was indeed a very big number, and therefore a good answer to “How much does papa love you?” Smart huh?

 

To John, the “when you’re dead” number is a real number, nothing imaginary like the square root of a negative number. I don’t know where it fits exactly in his counting sequence but just last week Johnny and I were in the grocery store and he pointed to some cookies that he wanted.

“Too much money,” I said.

“How much are they?” he said.

“Lots.”
"How much," he pleaded.
"Lots," I repeated. 

So, he guessed, “When you’re dead?”

 

There was a mother in the aisle with us and she let out a gasp, then laughter. “Did she get it?” I wondered. I’m not sure that, without our experience together, I would have connected the dots relative to John’s words but it seemed that the young mother did. Or perhaps she was only responding to the sound of the phrase itself. Four year old in the grocery store talking to old grandpa – he shouts, “When you’re dead.” Sort of funny. 

 

Gasp.  

 

 

A Be-In

It was a balmy Saturday morning in the spring of 1963 when I woke with the sun hitting my eyes and a strange sound, the gentle strumming of a string instrument, coming from outside the window.

 

We, girlfriend Donna and I, had stayed the night at Bud Allison’s apartment, the bottom floor of an historic stone structure in downtown Bethlehem, PA.

 

I got up first, squinting into the sun. Donna was still asleep when I took a first breath and caught a sweet scent, her perfume, gathering in the air next to me. I was not conscious of this but somewhere inside the cells of my body, as I inhaled, there was a sense that my blessings were many. 

 

We had come in late and the lone bed was, as Bud, told us, a couch that would convert to a cot-like-pallet given the proper rocking and shaking.

 

“You’ll hear a click,” Bud assured us, which was the essential –and only - detail of his instruction.  

It took the better part of a half hour, an effort not helped by fits of hysteria that finally ended with the couch miraculously unfolding into its intended flat berth, ostensibly room for two, and us collapsing on top. 

 

We slept like college kids.

 

I got up once, pre-dawn, wanting air. I opened a window eye level with the couch (bed) and inches from our heads. Like the college kids we were we had no plans to stir before noon. With the night air on my face and the melodic clanking of steel mills like music to my ears I fell back into a deep Saturday night sleep.

 

 

1963 be-in site. Grass lot foreground, and hotel background

As dawn came the dark curtain peeled back and sunlight rose above the two story buildings across Main Street, until at mid-morning it flooded the grass lot outside our window. The lot separated our building from the bustling Hotel Bethlehem which was filled with weekend guests. The guitar plunking sound that I heard was from this lot and as I looked now I saw that there was a crowd of sorts. I tried to think. What was this? What was the intention of this group – maybe twenty – mingling outside, on the grass?

 

The group had the look of a cocktail party and I immediately marked them as the leftovers from a declared frat-party-all-nighter. “All-nighters” were often announced in those days, just about always proffered at the height of the night’s intoxication with a raised fist and a room shaking shout for all ears – All-Nighter!!!  This brought a loud chorus of approval from every soul in the room – i.e. a bar.

 

But there was little clamor among this morning-after-gathering. Subdued might be a more apt description. The age or the crowd was ... well ... ours ... but a middle aged person or two (approaching 30) was also visible. I stepped lightly across the room to the door, careful not to awaken Donna. I slipped on my loafers – otherwise I was already dressed – and ventured outside.

 

 I drifted through the crowd, aimlessly, trying to appear like I belonged. Despite my anonymity I felt comfortable. I was, after all, an American college kid, and in my mind the owner of a permanent Ameri-pass. I saw myself as universally belonging – welcome everywhere by any and all. This was only fitting for one such as I, age twenty-three and naively - and precariously- perched along with all of my friends, at the very top of the world’s cultural pyramid. I moved fluidly over the lawn, brushing past others like a gentle wind, the dew's cool moisture against my ankles.

 

Finally I tendered a question.

 

“What’s going on?” I said to a girl next to me.

 

I thought the girl's attire was toga-like, or thereabouts, a loose white linen blouse and wheat colored jeans and bare feet. I immediately wondered, was this a toga party? *

 

Not

 

“It’s a be-in,” she said.    

 

I nodded as if this was my one-hundredth be-in this month. I was familiar with the phrase, of course; though, to my knowledge, I had never used it in a sentence.       

 

I saw here in a brief moment my special status - a man-child, frozen in time and welcomed everywhere, effortlessly stepping through the old culture into the new. Be-ins were doubtless old hat in New York or San Francisco, but here in the eastern end of Pennsylvania, on this bright spring morning they were new, and the fit was perfect.

 

I drew a be-in-style look of pleasant serenity onto my face as I eased my way among the crowd. People waltzed by. It was then that I looked up and saw Donna, the sun painting her hair, standing in the open doorway of the apartment. 

 

Had I been more astute I might have seen that I had never been happier than at this moment, nor perhaps, would I be again. Instead I allowed that this – the morning sun on glistening dew, the grinding sound of steel mills, the gentle murmur of people, the melodic string instruments, and the beautiful girlfriend – that this was all a part of life's timeless mosaic for me. I was a blessed child of the universe and I had no reason to think that I was not immortal.

 

 

* Toga parties were at the top of the fantasized sensual merriment scale in 1963. It is worth noting that, despite the existence of Playboy magazine and an occasional news note about loose morals, toga parties, in their dreamed up form, never materialized. The fantasy was sarong like sheets for clothing and scant undergarments. The reality was sheets draped over your everyday regular clothes. That's if there ever was a toga party, which, honestly, I cannot recall.       

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Johnny He's a Joker

From California, visiting daughter Brett, talking by phone with New Jersey daughter Ashley, she reported that “Johnny (6) asked Eddie (9), ‘Ed do I have money in the bank to go to college?’”

Ed said, “I don’t know – where do you want to go?”

John's answer: “Clown College.”

Eddie was in one of his mature moods. Other moods as they relate to little brother are "torment mood" and "ignore mood."  Mature mood, I also think of as sweet and loving.

 

Ed: “OK, that - probably yes.”

 

John: “Actually I don’t want to go there – I want to go to Brown.”

The family, with various oots in Rhode Island, once toured the Brown campus. Emma, 12 maintains that she and cousin Anna are going there. Go for it is all I can say.

 

Ed: “That’s a big difference.

John: "Why?"

Ed: "Brown costs a lot.”

 

John: “Can I get a scholarship?”

 

Ed: “No.” Practical Ed here.

 

John: “If I practice?”

 

Ed: “Practice what?”

 

John: “Basketball.”

 

Ed: “You better practice a lot.” Realistic Ed.

 

John: “When Papa comes home. I’ll practice 5 hours every day.”

 

Ed: “You've got to be smart too.” 

 

John: “I’m smart.”

 

I think it ended there, but the part I liked best was “When Papa comes home.” Happy they had not forgotten me. And I was also impressed with Ed's thoughtfulness. 

 

Bad Checks and Lollipops

First thing on the to-do list today is go to the bank - deposit a check.

Inside the bank five people are waiting in a ski-lift-like line. I slide in at the end. Two tellers, a woman helping a customer and a man helping at the drive-up window.

Finally, my turn. The man from the drive-up window is back. He is holding papers from the drive-up customer which he sets aside. He looks up, at me. “May I help you?” he says. I take a small step forward and hand him a deposit slip and a signed check.

You may be wondering, "Isn't the drive-up customer waiting?" OK, a moment here to explain something about banks?

The Two Things at Once Rule

The very fact that the drive-up customer does not have a live video of the goings on inside allows the bank to implement the famous “do two things at once” rule - applied as follows: Teller takes the drive-up papers, checks, deposit/withdrawal slips etc. then disappears from the drive-up window. The customer is happy. He thinks he’s being cared for. He’s humming an old melody, as he looks for things to do while waiting.  Ooops, spills some coffee reaching in the back for baby’s pacifier. OK got it. Now preening in the rear-view mirror. Still humming. Meanwhile the teller is working with the customer at the counter.

No harm done. The customer in the car thinks he is being cared for.

Back outside, the driver has just separated a rib cartilage reaching back for a CD of old love songs that had slid between the back seats. He now has other concerns, but not to worry, he knows he’s being taken care of. It’s the poor devils behind him that are saying, “Seriously – What could be taking this guy so long?” 
When they move up, all will be forgiven.  
That’s essentially the reasoning behind the “Two things …” rule. 

 

That's a Neat Machine           

 

Back to my teller - he runs my check through an automatic swipe machine. It slides along a U-shaped track as his fingers wait to pluck it from back end. He looks up at his computer screen. Appears befuddled. Seconds pass. Hmmmm. He sends the check through the swipe machine again. Fingers waiting, he looks at the screen.

I cannot see the computer screen but my guess is, it's bad news. A bit of a frown this time.
The teller reaches to his right for the papers of the drive-up customer, touches them gently, not looking at them, as if to prevent them from blowing away. Concern shows on his face.
                 
I also feel concern.

“Take care of the drive-up person,” I say, feeling empathy, “I’m in no rush at all.”

“Are you sure?’ he asks. His tone is doubtful, that I don’t really mean it, but he sounds grateful.

“Yes definitely,” I reiterate, “no rush whatsoever.”

He fiddles with the drive-up papers – sorts them, turns them over. He runs the drive-up check through the swipper machine. He waits. People behind me are, doubtless, fuming.

“The moment of truth,” I think to myself.

He looks at the screen. Crossed fingers I'm betting. More seconds pass.

Yes we know, some days those bank computers can be slow.

His shoulders drop. “Uh oh,” I think.

Then … a miracle … success! He straightens up - big inhale - some final keyboard activity and it’s back to the drive-up window. “Thank you – have a nice day,” I hear him say.

 

Thank you for your patience             

 

He rushes back to me. He asks the teller to his right if she would take the next drive-up customer. She trots back to the window. No more two things at once for him.

“Thank you for your patience,” he says to me. I feel it's genuine. His head is lowered, eyes concentrated on my papers.

“No problem,” I say, “Not easy doing two things at once.”

He gives a half smile, still looking down. I think kindly of him.

My check goes through the swipe machine a third time, out the other end. More staring - waiting. He appears exasperated. I am about to quip, “Guess it’s a bad check,” but this does not seem the time for frivolity.

That swipe didn’t work, so there is now yet another swipe and some more typing. I try to adopt an expressionless look suggesting that I am a Buddhist monk - currently meditating, couldn’t be more peaceful. He types some more, tapping furiously.

Seriously – what exactly is all of this typing?

 It’s a bank secret, that’s what. Don’t ask.

Still typing on. It's enough for a college application essay, I think. Finally he tears off a receipt for me and thanks me again.

“No problem,” I say. I truly was not rushed and, honestly, was somewhat entertained, albeit anxious for him at times.

 

How About a Lollipop?                         

 

As I turn to leave a young woman in jogging shorts and tank top steps toward the counter from the back of the line. What’s she doing? I think, Cutting ahead? She reaches her hand into a small decorative bucket (think Martha Stewart Living) at the end of the counter and fishes out a lollipop. Hmmmm! She rips off the paper and shoves it into her mouth, then retreats to the end of the waiting line (three deep now). I pass her on my way out.

I am tempted to tell her that she is over the age limit for the lollipop bucket, but pass on this joke even though I think it is funny.

I stay mum because there is, going through my mind, the image of a trying-to-be-funny old man (me) - someone who’s always telling quick one-liners because he thinks he's funny, or worse, clever …  ah … well … Let's just say it's not an image that I feel flatters me. That, plus her, pretty young woman in a tank top and all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

First Grade Field Trip - Spring 2011

 

Field Trip - Yea!!! Great
The school year is winding down. My assignment today is to accompany grandson Eddie on his first grade field trip to a local “U-Pick-'em” farm for a family picnic lunch, and hayride to the strawberry patch. Of note is that the forecast is for full sun, temperature in the high nineties, very humid. 

 

 Early Arrival
I arrive, around 10:20, a bit early. Kids, in school buses, are due shortly after 10:30. I find a spot on the matted grass lot with a view of the complex, a gift shop at the entrance, a half dozen party tents each shading picnic tables, separate fenced-off petting zoo areas for sheep, donkeys, horses, peacocks, and goats etc. Plus the fields - acres and acres of vegetables, fruit trees, and pumpkins, all in various states of blossom. The works - if only I were in first grade.

A handful of mothers gather about the tents, talking mother-speak. There is a grandparent couple – my generation – dressed in long pants and matching white golf shirts. They stand attention-like and apart from the mothers, squinting with a worried gaze fixed on the entryway, anxiously anticipating the bus arrival, but looking as if expecting a tornado.

 

I amble over. We are well acquainted, regulars at school pick-up. We trade friendly one-liners and gracious laughs. “The buses are a little late,” we say, our brows furrowed.

Finally the yellow school bus shows up. Kids file out directed by teachers and helping-mothers. 

Set the Table
The adults set out the packed lunches as children dash about on the grass. “Family picnic” is the designated starting activity. The eating begins. Kids finish in a jiffy and return to tag games. I sit with the grandparents. Hay wagons rumble by in my side view. Thirty minutes in and counting. Various groups scramble aboard and the wagons, pulled by tractors, chug away - dust in their wake - over a hill, out of site.  Finally it is our turn. Kids and parents march to a waiting wagon, climb up, squeezing into space on hay bale seats. I back away, watching from a safe distance. A few parents wave, beckoning me to come along. I wave them off. The tractor starts, and the loaded wagon inches ahead, kicking up dust. Grandson Ed is on board.  I wait for the wagon to get along, then step out on the same road, hiking solo. I decide not to trail the wagon exactly and I notice some riders looking back at me, laughing. When the wagon turns to the right, goes over a small hill and then out of sight, I continue straight ahead and soon I am alone on an empty road, corn on my left, tomatoes to the right. The farm fields stretch out ahead - like what looks like forever. 


I'm Forest Gump
I am feeling very Forest-Gump-like, no humans in view, just green vegetation and the dusty road. Is this legal? I wonder - walking without official escort. The horizon looms straight ahead. I plod along, feeling smaller with each step. Over the hill more fields appear. I finally spot the hay wagon again, far off in the distance and still moving away, matchbox car size.

Where'd Everyone Go?

I consider that my route may not lead to the strawberry field after all and that possibly I will never meet up with the children. This troubles me. I try to keep the shrinking wagon in view, hoping it doesn’t vanish again. I am feeling decidedly trespasser-like. I breathe some relief as I suddenly notice that the tractor has stopped. Ok, if that is so, I must make a right turn somewhere to reach them. I look for a road, or path, but see none. What to do? Turn back? Continue straight – south? To Kentucky - so it seems. 


As the Crow Flies
I decide instead to route myself as the crow flies - through the vegetables patches. This is risky, but I forge on, trying to stay between the rows to avoid trampling plants - a sin punishable by jail I'm certain. It is hard going, very uneven ground, plus now I am a definite felon. I have no choice but to continue. I only hope that I reach the wagon before the return trip begins. How humiliating would that be – passing the wagon - me, senior hiker dressed like a Florida retiree? 

I plod ahead, eyes on the dirt below. I look up. It is still some distance - like miles - to the wagon though the good news is that people are emptying out – or off. Head down again – one foot in front of the other. I look up. Closer now. I can see the kids fanning out into the berry field. More plodding on. At last I arrive. I see that each child holds a pint cardboard box for their berries. I locate Eddie and help with the picking. We fill his box. I look up. No one seems ready to leave. 


Do We Pay for This?
I grab another box; tell Ed to fill it up. Picking continues in full swing. I hear a mother inquire, “Do we pay for these?”

I was wondering that too. Are two boxes permitted?

Answer, “It’s all built in to the trip.”

“Cool”

The strawberries look delicious. I eat more than a few. “Has to be legal,” I think.

Finally the hay wagon director – a college girl, farm employee – barks at us to finish our picking. Every adult quits immediately and starts walking toward the wagon. Enough already. 

Kids ignore her words; stay bent over the berry patch. Another shout to wrap it up. This time helping-moms echo the call and eventually the wagon loading begins. I am one of the first on. I pick out an empty hay bale.

Hay Rides - and My World Record Kiss

The ride back begins. 

May I say something? Hay rides are immensely over rated. 

For one thing there is never enough hay. Today there is no loose hay, only hay bales as seats. Better than nothing. But then I’m expecting nothing. This is not 1952. Nor is it a nocturnal hayride along the country roads of Orange County, NY. Further, I am not twelve and am not sitting next to Nancy Langlitz when, halfway into the trip I raised my arm and draped it over her shoulder. It was just as we passed Brady’s farm. I had vowed to friends that I would kiss Nancy on this ride and heard from same friends that she was OK with it. So we kissed, which was wonderful, but then it seems  - somehow something happened.

So we kissed
I don’t know who decided this; obviously it was either Nancy or myself. The thing was, neither of us knew much about kissing that was not related to a spin-the-bottle game. So, again, someone, Nancy or yours truly, decided that our kiss should never end. So we kissed, lips pressed together all the way down Brady Mountain (4 miles) into the village of Warwick, through town right up to the Village Hall entrance where the ride began and now would end and where Nancy Langlitz and I ended our world record kiss.

“Was this how big people kiss,” I thought.

 

OK, where was I? Oh - hay rides – correct? Yes, 2011

We, parents and field-trippers, made our way slowly back to the original picnic area amid considerable dust and zero shade. Had to be over100 degrees.

On the trip home, I crank up the air conditioning. A mother hitches a ride with me. She had come out on the bus, without air conditioning and tells me I saved her life.
In all – one fine day. 

Retirement duties - 2011

 

A Pensioner Enjoying Life

I retired from a teaching career, now seven years, and have been gainfully employed since by my daughter. My title is personal assistant, which is a fancy word for a pick-up, delivery and babysitting service that revolves around her three – Emma (9), Eddie (7) and John (4.5).

 

Today I am savoring life. It is a little before ten AM. I have just pulled into a great parking space (always a joy) at Home Depot. I'm here to pick up some Spackle. The wallboard is peeling in my bedroom and having a small container of Spackle sitting on my dresser will go a long way toward relieving my anxiety about the wallboard. I’m not really planning on using the Spackle today. I’ll just set it on the dresser; maybe put a Spackle knife next to it. Then later - not sure when - I’ll do the Spackling.

 

The Cell Phone Rings

But for now, I’m going to enjoy this bright fall morning. I lean back into the car seat and let the sun warm me. I pick up the newspaper, thinking that I could actually take an hour right here in the Home Depot parking lot, watch the people go in and out and read the paper plus drink some coffee which is right at my side, a full cup still warm in the holder. “I don’t need much to make me happy,” is the thought that occurs to me, and it pleases me.

 

Ooops – there goes my cell phone. It must be daughter Ashley calling to remind me about something. I fumble for the phone. We seniors do this. The vibration stops, ringer starts. I undo the seat belt, fling it at the door. There! I’m still fishing for the phone. It’s still ringing. These jean pockets are tight. I’ll never … OK got it.  

 

“Hello.” I say – thinking it’s probably too late.

 

“This is Mrs. DeFranco from Holy Family School.”

 

“Yes hi, I guess my daughter is ... anyway you got the grandfather. Did you want my daughter’s number?”

 

Mrs. DeFranco doesn’t want my daughter. She explains to me that Johnny (my grandson, age 4.5) has just announced that he has to go to the bathroom – poopy – and that he will not go unless papa (that’s me) is here to wipe him.”

 

“OK, but I’m out at Home Depot, now.” I say this in a tone that suggests that I am actually in Home Depot, pushing a cart of stacked two-by-fours, a pencil in my ear, making mental measurements for construction of a new dormer. 

 

Mrs DeFranco is undeterred. “We’re afraid he will go in his pants.”

 

“OK,” I say, “I’d say, take him to the bathroom and tell him that I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

 

“OK, please hurry.”

 

I make the six miles in twelve minutes. I ring the security bell and am let in, no questions asked.

 

A harried looking administrator greets me in the hall. “He’s in there,” she says pointing to the door-less boy’s room.

 

I Already Did Poopy

“John,” I say.

 

“Papa?” he answers. He’s in a stall.

 

I tug on the door. It’s latched. “OK, John, unlock the door.”

 

“Papa, I’m on the toilet.”

 

“I know, get off and come unlock the door.”

 

“I can’t I already did poopy.”

 

OK, wasn’t expecting this. I make several more pleas, but John doesn’t relent. I step back and think. I gauge the space underneath the stall door.

 

I glance out into the hall. There is no one there. No one to whom I might explain what I am about to do. So I kneel down and place my hands stretched out on the floor ahead of me. From there I flatten out face down before proceeding to roll onto my back. I then stretch out, turn my head once more toward the hall - still no one. Pressing the heels of my hands against the floor for traction, I push down and away, inching my way backward, my body sliding on the tile floor. This is a Catholic grade school, not a turnpike restroom I think as my head passes under the door. How dirty can the floor be? After my ribs clear the door, I try to raise myself into a half sit-up position, and reach my hand upward, stretching for the latch. I have trouble with this. I strain a bit more. I roll up my eyes up and tilt my head backward, so that I glimpse the outline of Johnnie sitting on the toilet behind me. He is silent, offering no comment about my actions, but clearly seems to be watching with interest. Finally, the Gods are with me. I reach the latch, my legs still visible protruding beneath the door .

 

May I Help You?

“Do you need help?”  It is an adult female voice from the hall.

 

“My grandson locked himself in here ... I'm OK,” I say. I assume that the questioner sees my shoes and pant legs and perhaps wonders, “Is he trying to get out? In? Or what?” Regardless she obviously hears my sincere voice and thinks better about coming to my aid. I hope that she goes on her way, which she does.

 

With much effort, I manage to slide the latch and pry the door. I struggle to come upright with considerable effort, as might be expected for any seventy year old attempting to gracefully rise from back-on-the-floor-prone to upright within a toilet stall in a Catholic grade school.

 

Finally I stand and listen for voices in the hall. Nothing. Thank God, the Pope, and the archdiocese.

 

“OK, John, let’s get to it here, are you done?”

 

“Yes,” John says and I do the job I was called for.

 

I don’t go back to Home Depot. I move the laundry basket in front of the peeling wallboard. I vow to get the Spackle downtown at the local hardware store.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Houses for Sale

 

I have decided to sell my house. Anxiety has settled in, telling me I need to free up money for other pursuits.

Other pursuits? 

 

OK the grand-kids. Hockey lessons for one thing, plus train trips and plane trips and car trips - to and from CA where two of my five grandchildren live. Trips aside, there are other sports as well: soccer, swimming, basketball, and baseball. And, as for college costs eight years ahead? Don't ask.

Trust me, youth sports aren't free like the old days (1950s). They cost big-time, and me, like a good number of parents (actually I’m a grandparent), am convinced that my progeny will either play professional sports or, at the very least, be sifting through college scholarship offers as he or she romps toward early adult life with both mind and body in decathlete-like fitness prior to settling on his or her MD in training residency location. OK - that's a joke, but something like that.

 

Somewhere along this continuum the progeny will fall in love with a self-assured, attractive mate of equal or better intellect and I will move toward a re-classification - that of great grandfather ... and living perhaps ... where? I don't know, think "King of Queens," the TV show where grandpa abides, let's just say, in quarters, that are below the ground floor. 

 

House will be long sold by then and my power and influence will have diminished as well.

Oh ... and I'll be living ... oh, I don't know ... Kansas maybe.

 

 Epilogue-1

 

My Madison, NJ house finally sold, closing date 1/31/2013. New address is the sun-porch of daughter Ashley’s home in Florham Park, NJ, a few blocks north.

 

Just before the house sale, I traveled to Washington, DC by car to celebrate Obama’s inauguration with a dear friend. We spent the overnight in Annapolis, MD then drove to DC the next morning for the main event. I bought a Washington Post at Starbucks and we relaxed with coffee before moving on to a pub in Georgetown where we watched the day's events on TV, which was secretly my preference all along. Just wanted to be in the middle of the capitol on this day.

 

Came home through a late-night blizzard, that began lightly on the NJ Turnpike, but became severely more treacherous later, as the car shifted and slid in snow ruts on the unplowed Garden State Parkway. 

 

Good news is that I lived to tell it.

 

With the house closing approaching, I began the moving process - gathering things, tossing things, and packing things in two dozen Staples file boxes. The contents of these boxes were mainly old writing notes and thousands of photographs from a time before phone cameras and saving pictures on the computer. I had ten days to lug everything to either Ashley's garage (storage for perpetuity) or my tool shed sun-porch room inside her house. For the heavy items, the last to go, I enlisted help from nephew Bobby, twenty years my junior.

 

That finished, I made my usual solemn vow, "I'm never moving again."  

 

OK, solemn? 

 

Frivolous would be a better adjective. Why? Because, among other things, I seem to be an addicted mover that should have long ago joined "movers-anonymous." Not sure if I hold the world record, but with thirteen moves since exiting the US Army in 1970, I think I'm up there. One of those moves was especially cherished as I returned to the same home that I occupied forty-five years prior, 9 Lee Avenue in Madison, NJ. Another was to the same condo complex, same unit. A third was next door to a former home in a development with all same homes. So same home, just next door.

 

No doubt my frequent home moves say something about me. Not sure exactly what. or if it's something good ... or not.   

 

Hmmm.

 

With the house closing behind me, I took off for California on Thurs 2/7, where I stayed with west-coast daughter and family for six weeks. 

 

Upon return I began a new life as tenet in the home of my New Jersey daughter. The NJ living space is a first-floor sun-porch. It's bright and cozy, with, again, dimensions approximating that of a medium-size tool shed.

 

I am happy about it, honest.

 

Once settled, I resumed my perpetual post-move ritual of searching for lost items. Minor success there, but then again, it’s a work in progress? 

 

 

Epilogue-2

 

 In April 2020 I returned for a second tour in my daughter's sun-porch. Very happy about it. I feel it's the last move.

 

 

 

 

Remembering a Swing and a Miss - or two

If this tale ever made it into print there would likely be a reader or two that would remember a fellow named Matt Bolger. He was an accomplished man in my view, a baseball and football coach at Rutgers University in New Jersey. I knew him from high school visits to Rutgers in the late 1950s.

I think often of Mr. Bolger because of a weak ground ball out that I hit against his team, with a man on third. Yes, sorry to say, but that hit (or miss) tops my list of memories. It's not in a “bad memories only” list because it leads all memories. As for the “bad only” list? - I’m not going there.

But quickly – “the hit” is a notch above the dropped pass at Princeton, the misdirected run against Delaware, the 3 sprained ankles, the separated shoulder, the horrible five point basketball game against Cornwall NY High School, that fast ball that should have been a change-up, should have never happened because the pitch before was strike three but the ump called it a ball – anyway, you name it. As one might guess the aforementioned are events in a very small-time sports life that through another’s prism could be seen as OK, good even, that contained more pluses than minuses and yet  - what is it that stays in the mind after five decades?  - the negatives, specifically those noted above, though I’m sure that I could find more if I tried.
  

No need to try for more, however. These mementos show up automatically, and mostly at night, before sleep, when I’m staring at the ceiling. That’s when the baseball coach comes to mind. It starts with him sitting in the dugout. It's 1962. I’m pitching for the other team. I offer a change-up to a left handed hitter and the batter hits it over the fence which ties the game at 3 – 3, and that’s how it is after nine innings as I’m still pitching. But the home run - as the ball sails skyward the coach shouts in a bellowing and uncharacteristically unkind razing-like voice, “Oh Ed.” What can I say? Thanks for the memory.

In this game I was still pitching in the 14^th inning and that is when I could have won the game with a hit. So what did I do? Chopped a grounder to second base and the other team ended up winning in the fifteenth inning. I pitched all fifteen innings. We (Lehigh) lost 6-5. It’s something I’d like to forget. although, the dearest of all friends, a teammate, Walter, said to me once, "I'll never forget when you pitched those fifteen innings against Rutgers."

 

OK, That was nice. Walter was like that, but the point is, clearly, he was not haunted by the game, or at least not by my failures. Walter thought my pitching was great. We were both in our seventies when he mentioned that game to me. So, it was fifty years after the fact.

Is anyone else alive that remembers that game? A few perhaps, but they are, they’re not thinking of my performance. They’ve all forgotten, if they ever remembered, my specific flops in that game, or any game. I know that makes sense.  They've got flops of their own. When I go to heaven, my troubled memories will go with me. Thank goodness.

 

As I've said, there are other memories, aside from sports, that are troubling. What comes to mind most is girlfriends – in other words, forgive me, love and various instances thereof.

Examples?  … let me think … OK lack of empathy, shallowness, general stupidity etc. The main thought there centers on wishing that I had been more mature, wiser, and more able to recognize and express how much I cherished each and every relationship that I experienced.

 

In other words, the old cliché - wishing that I knew then, what I know now.

 

The truth is, of all the joys (many) and mental torment (few) that have visited me over seven decades of a blessed and healthful existence, when, in the dark of night I stare at the black ceiling from the comfort of my room and try to coax sleep, the agonies of sport and “love” top the list.

For a time, it concerned me. I wondered why. But recently, I’ve accepted, somewhat, that it was because they were important, so worry comes with the territory.

 

Good night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Take on Aging

None of us know what made us what we are, and when we have to say something, we make up a good story. From “My Genome, My Self”   By STEVEN PINKER

The above disclaimer aside, what follows is my take on aging.

 

First another disclaimer: there is aging and then there is extreme aging. Aging can be good - new viewpoints, new opportunities etc. As for extreme aging (feeble of body, bad health, poverty, isolation) often difficult, far from good.

 

My thoughts here pertain to “regular” aging. Extreme aging, not much to say. Just attend to the struggles at hand. 

 

My reflections on aging are from a vantage point of a blessed life.  Among other things, I have the luxury of idle thought.

Here's a question: “Do we change as we age?” Answer? Yes and no. No in the sense that I still, as always, long to be well thought of and loved by others. Change relates to my behavior. As I move through life it seems that I, behave, plot and act out various strategies, given the ever shifting rules of the “game” for one my age. Strategies change with age, but it seems that the goals, love and respect, remain.

 

My view is that I have come through many transformations. From wanting to be an athlete, a friend, a boy-friend, a husband, a loving father, a boy-friend again, and finally, one who simply tries to do no harm. Each of these goals can be seen as motivated by that original desire  - giving, acquiring and accepting love and respect. 

It seems evident to me that as I grow, my thoughts and behavior change, not only as I age, but also because I age.  It is hard to deny that age is strongly intertwined with the character of my life. I may be still longing for love but I go about it differently.

 

I don’t remember much about the first five years of life but shortly thereafter I wholeheartedly embraced a stage of life that had as its goal “become a good athlete.” Around my teen years the athlete effort merged comfortably with another goal, “establish a community of friends and find a girlfriend,” and from there I commenced to sail toward adulthood with dual goals, both seemingly linked with the natural laws of the universe. All was well for immortal souls like me.

 

College, at its culmination, brought first thoughts of career as a third stage of life – a minor blip as I viewed it from what was now a new starting line. There were three or four false starts before, at age 40, I settled on my career: teaching at a NJ community college. By this time, I was a father of two daughters, and a divorced father at that.

 

Divorce resurrected the old “find a girlfriend” goal, but now with added difficulty. The landscape was new, marked by the absence of an entourage of college friends and, no less important, the cool-guy-athlete identity had vanished. No one knew I was that guy, unless I brought it up, which sounded stupid and surprisingly irrelevant.

 

It was here that the world turned for me. If I wasn't cool-guy-athlete anymore. who was I? The overriding goal of my life, my bedrock, became “become a loving father.” 

That goal, expanded to “become a kind-hearted person,” has remained over the years – my raison d'être. Having written that, I want to take it back because there are so many evident failures and petty desires that have taken hold and obscured the kind and good. Still the goal, however blurred, has stayed. 

 

Around age forty I began to express to others that age, for me, was a major factor of influence. My awareness and behavior were different now that I had aged.

Some of my contemporaries would have none of it. I saw their inclination to go bar-hopping, or drive a sports car as somehow misguided, failing to act their age. I was wrong. Looking deeper as I’ve aged, I admit, we all wanted the same thing. We just went about it differently.

 

Perhaps what bothered me most was the comment: “Why are you always talking about age?”

 

I thought that thinking about and recognizing age was a good, mature thing, that the most attractive people, most grounded people, were those that both acted their age and looked their age. But no – again. People differ. If they are doing no harm, they qualify as both good and wise.

 

My defensiveness about bringing up age was the immature response.

 

I don’t know exactly when I noticed that I was actually aging. Certainly, it was not in college where everyone was the same age – young - and would remain so forever. Ditto for my early working life, with stints as a young college assistant coach, an Army captain, and finally a job with a real business company. I was thirty by this time. Other beginners were in their twenties but we were all "junior execs" – all the same – and all markedly distinct from that other world, a world that aged. For the likes of us there were drinks after work, young couple friends, basketball at the NYAC at noon, and much laughter, dominant still. I was holding my own. I could still call it the eternal years.

 

Perhaps aging became real during my second round of “find a girlfriend.” This time my idea of a girlfriend was something like a zestful European woman, a ballet dancer maybe. We’d go through the continent together, café au lait in Paris, ale in London pubs, meet others our age, friends for life – two for the road.

 

I never met anyone who was a dancer – ballet or otherwise. But looking back, the lonely spots, crushing at the time, now seem small, and the friendships, both men and women, were many - true blessings.

Somehow I aged regardless. Was it gracefully? No more than others, is my opinion. I think I've acted my age. I kept my old cars, fancying mostly station wagons to transport the gang of kids. When I offered to a new acquaintance that my car of choice was a station wagon she replied, “You’re not gay are you?” I considered it a compliment, implying sensitivity. 

 

I feel that my greatest achievements have been as a father. For example, when my daughter was a cheerleader for the Jr. High basketball team, I attended every game. Two games stood out because I was the only spectator in the stands, not counting the bus driver. Pride, like the bible says, is not a great attribute, but it swelled in me, as I sat alone, solitary spectator in the bleachers.  

 

Otherwise, I am most grateful for such accomplishments as putting together the basketball goals in the NJ driveway and on the California patio, building a backyard ice rink going on five consecutive years now, setting up and lining the backyard soccer fields, the baseball diamonds, teaching bike riding, swimming and finally for my continuous urging – modified regularly so as not to offend - for all grandchildren to eat healthy and exercise regularly.

 

Sweet Eddie, age 4, gliding on the backyard rink, under Papa’s watchful eye.

 

Yes, there are faults aplenty - plenty - but deep within is love - to and from.

 

So that is me - the aging, living self. My self.

It has been said, one should try to play down the self.  I agree, and yet I am so conscious of the self. Call it vanity. It is the self that walks about daily wanting to be swept up by transcendent forces of good, hoping that there are such things and yet at the same time doubting. Thankfully, so far, the doubt does not fully overwhelm what I may deceive myself into thinking is progress. 

 

Progress toward what? Why, the meaning of life of course. Never mind that no one, neither the great minds, nor the devoutly spiritual have, to my knowledge, found answers with any certainty.

 

As a 73-year-old New Jersey man, I plod ahead, thinking, beyond reason perhaps, that meaning might just as likely be found at the intersection of NJ Route 10 and Ridgedale Avenue, as hiking the Alps. I am like a young man or woman believing in “true love”, that one day I will find it, despite evidence to the contrary. Alive and therefore still trying with a permanent kernel of hope lodged in my brain - still. Call it a blessing.   

 

A final thought: All of us have lost love or a friendship, have thoughts of paths not taken, opportunities missed: what we are and the ever present - what might have been.

 

Gratitude and yet longing still. We are incomplete, but continue, hopeful and wistful. 

 

Somehow that seems like a summation.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Backyard Pepper Game *

Eddie called about 5 PM and left this message: “Papa, can you come over and play baseball with me, bye.” All in one breath. Then he hung up.

I drove over when I returned home. We set up the bases, home plate and the backstop, located the balls and two bats. I pitched to Ed. He hit good, much improved over last year.  I chased the ball down and tried to tag him, always managing to just miss, causing him to giggle uncontrollably as he dashed around the bases. 

Backyard ball field - Spring 2012

Johnny came out and picked up the bat and Ed tried to pry it from him. Failing that, he offered him the other bat.  Johnny would have none of it.

“Johnny’s turn,” I said and he stood on home plate, the bat on his shoulder. I pitched, trying to hit his bat. He swung and to my surprise hit it, or rather, I hit the bat. “Run Johnny,” everyone yelled and Johnny ran, but carried the bat in his hand (he's 4). On the way to first he noticed his John Deere go-cart car sitting idle in foul territory and he re-routed himself. He climbed into the front seat. 

Short attention span was my take.

Soon Emma appeared. She too was an able slugger, hitting my pitches and adjusting her swing, low or high. Everyone had several turns and with each hit I scurried after the ball and pretended to try to tag the runners. There was much laughter and high pitched squeals and it reminded me of the days in the backyard with my dad, never wanting the game to end even as dusk turned to night. It baffled me that my dad, having so much fun, and always enthusiastic and happy throughout, was actually willing to eventually call it a night.

Another aspect of the game today was that Ashley watched the action from the deck just as my mom used to watch dad with John and me from the back porch steps. Ash had a smile on her face, which pleased me. After about twenty minutes she stood up and said, “Let’s go children.”

“Where to?” I said.

“The neighbors,” she said, “for a barbeque.”

I thought about the children. Were they thinking, “Poor papa, had to stop the game. He must be sad.”  I was OK with it. Eddie probably wondered why I didn’t protest more.

*pepper (from MLB.com) -- Pepper is a common pre-game exercise where one player bunts brisk grounders and line drives to a group of fielders who are standing about 20 feet away. The fielders try to throw it back as quickly as possible. The batter hits the return throw. (Pepper games are not prevalent today as they once were. In the 1950s, and before, pepper games were the requisite pre-game ritual in all major league parks, every game ).

See the following link for info re. the history of pepper games in Major League baseball
http://www.sptimes.com/2003/07/26/Rays/Once_a_revered_ritual.shtml

also
 http://www.baseballlibrary.com/excerpts/excerpt.php?book=house_of_david&page=14

                                     Who am I?

 

At the Bank today I explain to the teller, “I need to withdraw some money in order to deposit it in my daughter’s account in another bank.”

It is a harmless lie, frivolous really.

But the question is, why do I see fit to lie? A silly thought goes through my mind. I don’t want the teller of TD Bank to feel slighted that I am taking money from his bank and I , me, am putting it in another bank where my checking account is located. So, I make up the story about my daughter needing money.

Seriously? That's weird.

A Normal Person

 

Who am I? Actually, I feel that I am a normal person. People seem to think so at least. They see me on the street; they say hello, smile maybe. Why? Because people are friendly. 

 

And I'm normal.

However, I do have a strange trait or two. For example, I like to save impractical things. High on the list are the remnants of do-it-yourself tasks: the worn out headlamp that I replaced in my VW, the replaced lock mechanism from the back door. A scribbled “to do” list. From weeks ago. Really? Am I a hoarder? 

 

Tuesday Morning

 

Now it is 7:30 AM, a Tuesday.  Hoarder is sleeping. I hear the front door rattling. A morning visitor? Still in bed, I guess that a child is staying home from school, which means early duty for me.

I throw off the covers, stumble to the door. Daughter Ashley is already in the living room with Johnny, 5, in tow. Ashley positions Johnny on the couch, turns on the TV. Finds the cartoon channel. "Hello John," I say. 

 

No answer. Ash turns to leave for work.

“He may not eat,” she says as she goes out. “Try to give him something.”

That’s it for instructions, except for this final word, “I don’t think he’s really sick.”

No comment from me. I shout, “Have a good one,” as she drives away.

I fetch a blanket and cover John on the couch. He’s fixated on the TV.

I go about my morning routine, coffee and newspaper. After a half hour or so John makes a request.

Playing Store

“Do you have a cash register?” he says, “and some bills?”

Cash register? Bills?

I think I actually saw a toy cash register somewhere in the last few days. Had to be in the playroom in the basement I tell myself. I trudge down the cellar stairs.

Voila! The gods are with me. "This is why I save things," I tell myself. I cart the plastic cash register up the stairs. Halfway up a voice startles me. The voice says, “Welcome back.”

Huh?

It's the cash register speaking. Sounds female I think, guessing that I pressed something to trigger a recorded greeting. I take a moment to see if I pressed a button.

Forget it. Toys, talking toys, are weird these days.

I hand the register over to John. “Do you have credit cards, “John asks, “and bills?”

 

I give him old cards, a file folder of paper scraps (bills I explain) and a coffee can filled with saved coins. He busies himself for an hour, opening and closing the register, putting coins in the drawer, coloring and applying duct tape to the file folder.

The morning passes. I make lunch. We head for the library. Soon it’s pick-up time for the others, Eddie and Emma. The afternoon glides by.  

Straightening up that evening at home I survey the living room. It’s a mess. I arrange the “play store” paraphernalia - papers, coins, crayons, the cash register and a roll of duct tape – more neatly as one might clean up a work desk at the end of the day, except that I merely shift these items around, leaving them on the floor, at the foot of an easy chair. I think of Johnny playing there all morning which brings a smile. I decide to leave the toys in their spot, on the rug by the chair.   

 

Toys on the Floor
A week later, the toys are still on the rug, waiting for the next visit from John. Or so I pretend. I like the toys there, which makes me wonder – why is that? But then, I know why.

 

                             

A Meatball Recipe

Late last night, under the influence of a single glass of red wine, I forced myself up from the couch and into the kitchen. The cupboard was bare but for one cupcake size container of Chef Boyardee Mini-Bites.

Hmm. Beggars can’t be choosy.

Full disclosure: I didn't actually purchase the Mini-Bites (never!). They were leftover, by my daughter, from a grandchild's visit. FYI: The subtext of "Mini-Bites," is Spaghetti Rings & Meatballs.

I popped the contents into the microwave and 60 seconds later proceeded to down the whole thing - without leaving the kitchen counter.

The following day, I felt compelled to check the ingredients for the meatballs. I confess, I feared the worst.

Here are the ingredients (most prevalent items are listed first):

It starts with beef and pork. OK so far - except for me. I claim to be a vegetarian.

I blame the wine.

Then there's water, cracker-meal, a few vitamins (niacin, iron and thiamine mononitrate, riboflavin and folic acid) added to counter anti-nutrition claims, I'm sure. Finally, there is Soy protein, (Concentrate they call it). Fine.

So nothing lethal, I guess. I conclude I'm not going to succumb to a Mini-Bite overdose after all.

But the next ingredient surprises me. It's caramel coloring and it's listed ahead of, and thus in larger proportion than, “flavorings.”  Flavorings are a secret so your guess is a good as mine. I'd wish otherwise but assume that food laws say it's OK. So be it. Anyway, the last thing is soybean oil. All together not bad for a "prepared food."

But I said that the caramel coloring surprised me. I don't know why it's necessary. For the life of me I can't recall any complaints about the coloring of any homemade meatballs over the years - never. And I'd bet loads that no homemade version has caramel coloring, Still it pops up frequently in numerous food products.

Ice tea in a bottle is a prime example. Why? Is all I can say.

Seriously, does anyone have caramel coloring in their cupboard?

OK - Chef Boyardee - or ConAgra Foods, the parent corporation - whichever you prefer - it is their label that is the source of the above ingredients and Chef Boyardee spaghetti was a favorite of mine as a kid. Chef B named products are still around but I'd wager the caramel coloring wasn’t in there during my childhood in the late 1940s. I could be wrong, but I, for one, never thought about the meatball color? Maybe because it was always such a nice caramel color. Oh well.

Go to the link below to view an original 1940s Chef Boyardee TV commercial on YouTube:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vx9KzBx4nNc

 

Below is a comment about the YouTube clip:

Yes, there was a real "Chef Boy-ar-dee". His name was Ettore "Hector" Boiardi, and he operated a successful Italian restaurant in Cleveland during the 1920s and '30s. His customers liked his spaghetti sauce SO much, he began giving it to them "on the side" (eventually, with grated cheese and uncooked spaghetti) - then, he sold a "complete spaghetti dinner" in packages, with other canned products, and concentrated on that business. By the end of the '40s, American Home Products bought him out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

          A Halyomorpha Halys Visitor

 https://www.blogger.com/Last Thursday evening, while sitting on my couch in a mild vegetative state, I heard a soft pop sound to my right. I looked up, thought for some seconds, then turned my head toward the lamp on the end table. A dark spot the size of a lima bean came into view on the lampshade. I immediately suspected Halyomorpha halys.

Ever consciousness of avoiding offensive language I’m going with the Latin here. The slang is stink bug (no caps and, yes, somewhat disrespectful). It is the equivalent, in my view, of referring, to police-officers as “the fuzz.”  So, I'll avoid it. Also a bit offensive is the non-Latin acronym BMSB (i.e., brown marmorated stink bug).

OK, ... marmorated?

 

From Wikipedia: The term "marmorated" means variegated or veined, like marble, which refers to the markings unique to this species, includes alternating light-colored bands on the antennae and alternating dark bands on the thin outer edge of the abdomen.

Anyway ... I am familiar with these characters and they do fall under my “no kill shelter” policy for all in-home insects that, for me, has been in effect since childhood.

So, I get up and head to the Kitchen for a water glass (my capture tool of choice). On my return I pluck an unopened envelope from my desk, a credit-card-come-on from Capital One Bank.

Fine.

Tools in hand I approach the H. halys. These guys don’t require sneaking up. They are slow movers.

 

Still, I move slowly and place the open end of the glass against the lampshade surrounding the H. halys with glass. I slip the Capital One envelope under his (or her) feet.

Voila – I now have the tumbler, capped by the envelope, with BMSB inside. I proceed through the front door and set the glass, sans envelope, on a chair on the front porch.

The next morning, stepping out for the newspaper, I see that the BMSB has departed the water glass. Mission accomplished is my thought.

Two days later I am vacuuming the living room and notice another brownish-gray lima-bean-size  object on the floor. I stop my cleaning to inspect.

Another H. halys.

I move closer, nudge the insect with my finger. He doesn’t stir. Again a nudge. Again no reaction. I assume he has passed on and think maybe I’ll add the guy to my collection of bugs. For the past year I've kept a bottle full of little creatures for the grandkids to view under a microscope. I got the scope two years ago but they have yet to use it and it's still in the unopened case. Someday maybe. Meanwhile I'm saving bugs that have passed away of natural causes, under my watch.

For some reason, when I restart the vacuum, I circle around the expired BMSB and decide to leave it on the floor. This act, or non-act, is extremely perplexing to me, and I am fully aware that it may suggest mild derangement - but I let that pass.

I get on with life.

Now another day has gone by. I am reading the newspaper when the deceased H. halys on the floor comes to mind. I decide to put him/her into my jar of saved insects (see above), so I proceed to the spot where I left him.

You guessed it – good old H. halys has “flown the coop.”

That night I strip my bed, inspecting as I go. I do this because a H. halys brethren was in fact discovered on my mattress just a fortnight ago, so I am aware that bed covers are possibly a favorite destination for these creatures. Why not?

 

Anyway, all is clear today. I put on new sheets, blankets etc. and fall asleep thinking respectful thoughts of my BMSB housemate and how I fell for the oldest trick in the book – the playing-dead-for-humans-trick. Just before nodding off, I vow that if I find what’s-his-name I will give him a good home for the winter – perhaps in the garage.

Tomorrow, I'll search the couch, but I am secretly hoping that he turns himself in first.

 

P.S. A month later he's still missing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Snow Day in Jersey

 

 

                                                                                                           

                    
I let the snow – our first of the winter (not counting the October blast) - accumulate outside for a time (newspaper and coffee first) before venturing out with the shovel.

 

It is close to 11 when I take my last sip and put the paper down. It's the life of a pensioner. With daughter’s family and grand kids away, I've got the day to myself.

 

Stepping on my porch I squint at the snow and guess that shoveling the light dry snow will be an easy go. Moments later, my assessment is correct as I happily lift shovelfuls while moving down the driveway.

 

Two doors away a neighbor is out as well. It is one of the many benefits of snow – neighborly chats. He is pushing a homemade double wide shovel contraption and seems deservedly proud of his ingenuity (fastening two actual shovels together and bracketing the handles). 

 

I meander down. “You’ll make short work of the walkway with a tool like that,” I offer, intending praise.

 

He smiles. “Yeah, this works pretty good,” he says with modesty, then provides a demo by plowing a few feet from his driveway.  It’s a bit more of a struggle with the driveway snow, packed from passing plows. He looks up; draws a deep breath.

 

“Easy as pie,” I remark.

 

He nods without dispute and we chat some more, about the weather, local sleigh-riding hills, and my daughter’s family who are his contemporaries.  The air is crisp, not at all bone chilling. Like a soprano’s perfect pitch, the day itself is perfectly invigorating with the silent snow still falling and the intermittent pleasant sounds of shovels scraping the nearby sidewalks.

 Across the street another neighbor is pushing a wheelbarrow full of firewood from backyard to his front porch, struggling just a bit through a yard of snow. “Should have done that yesterday,” we suggest – neighborly-like.

 

“You said it,” is the happy reply.

 

A third neighbor appears. He steps into the snow and onto the driveway which he attacks with a beginner’s eager-beaver vengeance. His house is directly across from mine and when his first burst of energy has reached its end, he straightens up and walks over.

 

‘We’re going away for a few days,” he tells me, catching his breath.

 

“I’ll keep an eye on the house,” I respond.

 

He thanks me; offers that his newspaper will be stopped, but tomorrow it will still come. “We’ll be gone; could you pick it up?” he says.

 

This fills me with glee – a free Sunday NY Times. “Don’t worry, I’ll save it for you," I say. Then add a joke, "But I might read it.” 

 

He gets it.

 

FYI: My own NY Times is limited to Monday through Friday. Cannot resist plugging myself as a bona fide NY Times reader, albeit 5 days only. A pensioner’s budget is my justification. Silly man.*   

 

But the snow: Yes – I do love the snow – especially days like today. Perfect.

Plus the free paper.

 

 

* It seems that, as far as I can recollect, there has not been a Sunday, as yet, that I have failed to separately purchase the Sunday NY Times.

 

Thinking on that, I remember as a child, still in grade school, always reading the family newspaper, the Times, in the front seat of the car as mother drove me to school. The main reason I read the paper in those days was to check the baseball scores and Stan Musial’s batting average. Classmates laughed at me because, they said my face was always hidden behind the paper when we pulled up to the school. For some reason, I took it as a compliment.

 

We bought the paper in those days, 1940s, at Heiblim’s and like other regular newspaper customers, we simply approached the counter and asked for “Winchester’s paper,” whereupon Mini or Harry Heiblim would fetch the day’s paper from the pile.

 

      

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Throwing High Pops - May 1982

 

It’s after school on a Monday, a bright afternoon in early May. Of course, for me, age 42 now, it is no longer “after school”. For me it is “after work” though I presume for many of my contemporaries it is just beyond mid-day. As I have done on occasion in the work world, today I have found a way to leave work early - one of my learned skills as a corporate worker-bee. 

             The time of year is now well into the baseball season for the two junior high school teams gathered before me. My daughter’s school, the Falcons, is pitted against the Cougars, who now occupy the field, ostensibly warming up. 


              The Falcons are loosely gathered about their team bench, three twelve-foot board planks along the first baseline. Their coach, a youngish PE-type peers out at the field, toward the opposition, squinting into the afternoon sun. The collection of twelve to thirteen year old boys in his charge squirm on the bench behind him, emitting familiar adolescent banter. Much of their talk is for the benefit of a thin strand of their contemporaries, six in number, standing in a line approximately three paces from the bench. This string of six is of female gender and my daughter is among them.

 

I catch parts of the girl talk that seem like repeated versions of “No way - Call me tonight,” then “What time?” then “I don’t care.”

 

As for the Falcons, uniformed in away-gray (they're playing at home) polyester with green script F-A-L-C-O-N-S on their chests, they are, at the moment, neither studying the opposition, nor collecting themselves into a game face mentality. Nor do they mimic big leaguers. Instead they mimic themselves at recess, except for the fact that they are now confined to the bench area by apparent invisible fencing. Their noises seem not so much related to verbs or nouns. Predominate is a sound that I think would be spelled like “Shuuump.” It is often paired with a feigned punch to the eye or a karate-like chop to the neck. The “Shuuump” mixes with bewildering word formations (sometimes) and spasmodic gestures (always). 

        For example, apparently imitating an opponent during batting practice, one Falcon assumes a batting stance, then suddenly throws up both hands and yells, “Whoa!” Next is a backwards stagger (spasmodic) which prompts sharp laughter from teammates. The demonstrator then recovers from his stagger, pokes jab-like at a nearby mate’s eye and says, “Shuuump!” The mate winces, then breaks into an adolescent strut. And so it goes.

 
         I watch and listen, pretending indifference, which come to think of it is what the Falcons and the string of six are doing as well. The Cougars, in the field, provide background music - timeless sandlot chatter.

 

Soon the game begins and the string of six immediately executes, if I remember my military experience, a quite precise right face maneuver followed by a forward march parallel to the foul line. They pass first base and shift to a flank formation and walk six a breast in foul territory, toward the school building, shedding self-consciousness with each step removed from the playing area. Finally they disappear into a school doorway. 

 

Apparently, the actual game did not interest them.

 

Next to the doorway I notice a familiar sight, what I would call an incarnation of myself. It is a small boy pitching a rubber ball against the school wall. I watch, remembering days when I found joy and the best of dreams while throwing a ball against a wall. For the moment I forget about the official game before me and heed a pull to the boy at the wall.

 

“Let me throw you a high one,” I say, remembering the thrill of chasing a ball that moved against the sky, settling beneath it and then letting it sink into my glove.

 

“Throw it here,” I say.

 

The kid flips the ball to me and quickly drops into fielder’s stance - a dog ready to fetch.

 

“All set?" I say.

 

He just looks at me, his eyes wide. 

 

Just then the string of six re-emerges from the school. “Dad!” Brett shouts at me.

 

“What,” I say, ball in hand.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Playing catch,” I say.

 

“Dad, that’s Tom’s brother.” That would be Tom, the Falcon.

 

“Oh yeah,” I say remembering now the last name of my incarnation. “Roger, right?” I say. Roger doesn’t answer. He stays in the wide eye ready stance.

 

“You’re crazy Dad.” I take it as a compliment, but I know that interacting with "Tom's brother" is a no-no. 

Regardless, I turn toward Roger, “O.K.!” I say and take one hop and then arching myself backward fling the ball straight up into the air, aiming it as best I can so that it might descend in the general proximity of my ready fielder. I remember my father here - him throwing, and me watching the shrinking ball against the sky delighted and amazed at the same time, at the height of the throw. Then camping under the ball, and aware of the uneven slope of our Cottage Street yard under my feet, and then catching it.

 

 Somewhere along the line of time in a boy’s life is a point at which catching a ball in the air becomes easy for one accustomed to such games. As I watch this ball sail skyward I wonder if I have correctly gauged Roger’s place in this baseball skill spectrum. I do not want the ball to hit on his forehead instead of his glove. For that reason I didn’t throw this first ball too high. But Roger catches the ball with ease and so I throw another and another, each higher than before until my arm, at age 42, grows weak.

 

The fielder however was shows no sign of tiring. On the contrary, he appears even more enthusiastic. Just as I remember it – so well. 

 

I remember too, something else about playing baseball with my father. The game we played was that I would pitch the ball to him and he would tap out flies and grounders in my direction. Always brother John would be in the outfield a few paces behind me. My mother would sit on the back porch steps, a box seat, watching it all and from time to time exclaiming how amazing it was that dad never missed hitting a pitch. 


Officially this game had a name. It was called Pepper and big-leaguers played it to warm up before games. But what I remember most about our baseball games was that I never wanted them to end which was the thought that came to mind as I looked at Roger after pitching approximately a dozen high ones for him to field. I could easily have called it quits here, but for the look in Roger’s eye. Let’s just say, I’ve been there. That was the thing I could never understand as a child. Why didn’t my dad want to play baseball every single night - forever? Now of course I know, but back then, no clue.   

 

                Anyway, having had enough of throwing high pops, I walk toward Roger and say, “So what’s the game you play against the wall?” Sure as you bet there is a game that Roger plays with the ball and the wall. I’m guessing that it’s his own version of what might be labeled dream-ball, with special rules and all; no doubt. I wonder what it is exactly but I know I’ll never get it out of him.

 

                “I dunno,” he says.

 

                I look at the wall, a large patch of flat brick with no windows. Ideal, I think. Two stories in height, and set down onto a flat blacktop lot. Even at age forty I see the possibilities for many dream-ball-like games.

 

“Here, lemme show you something,” I say walking toward the wall. Another nice feature of this wall I now see is that it has a decorative like ledge about six feet from the ground. The concrete shelf of this ledge slants up about forty-five degrees from the front edge. Perfect I think.  

 

                “Here’s the deal,” I say. Roger is silent. “O.K. you throw the ball against the wall, I mean, I’ll throw it. If you catch it and it’s a grounder you’ve got to throw it to me to get the out at first. If it’s a fly, you got to catch it or it’s extra bases. Now see this ledge? If I hit the edge of the ledge, the corner, the ball will sail over your head. Then it’s a home run if it goes past the blacktop.”

 

                “Yeah,” Roger says. I don’t think he’s got it all but I’ll explain as I go.

 

                “All right, you ready?” I look at Roger and come to a pitcher’s stretch position. Roger is ready. “Shift over a little,” I say.  Roger slides, three hops to the left. In my stretch position I see from the corner of my eye that the Falcon game is in full swing. I hear loud shrieks, shouting, cheering, and notice fans jumping up and down, players running around the bases.

 

Back to dream-ball.  “O.K here comes the pitch.” I am both pitcher and announcer for this game of dream-ball. All dream-ball games require an announcer, someone that calls the game and shouts with utter amazement at the wondrous and sparkling play of the star player – in this case – Roger. *

 

I fire the ball at an upward angle so the rebound is an arching fly ball. Then I announce, “There’s a high fly to left, Roger moves back, he’s under it, makes the grab.” All of this actually happens. “Alright, one down, O.K., Roger, what’s your last name?” I figure that announcers can’t be calling the center fielder by first name over the radio.

“Benson,” Roger says.

 

So I put Benson into the game and just as I played for the Cardinals in my dream-ball games. Roger Benson plays centerfield for the Yankees. He follows Winfield in the order, batting fourth. As fielder, I give Roger an assortment of grounders, flies, and line drives, and pop-ups. Roger manages pretty well for a ten-year old. I see that he doesn’t want the game to end. But I grow tired, as adults do, and after ten or fifteen minutes of firing the tennis ball at the wall I announce that this is now the last inning and the bases are loaded and Benson steps up to the plate. Roger, in the field, takes the identity of the Red Sox outfielder.

 

“Alright, here’s Benson, he already has three hits on the day and at the plate now he has a chance to win this game for the Yankees if he can get a hold of one here.” I try to bounce the ball off the edge of the ledge but I miss so the ball comes back to me. “Ball one,” I announce. Roger understands what’s happening here. Anything that doesn’t result in a direct hit on the edge I call a ball, or called strike or foul ball. Finally I get one that strikes the sharp edge and it sails high into the air and over the Red Sox fielder’s head and I launch into my game-ending announcement. “Oh my gosh, Benson has done it again, that ball is gone! What a shot! It’s far, far over the center fielder’s head! All runner’s are going to score and Benson has again won the game for the Yankees.”   

 

Roger high-tails-it after the ball, scoops it into his glove and walks back across the blacktop. I say “Nice game, Benson, you did it again. You won the game.” He looks at me with still wide eyes. “You hit the game winning home run,” I say.

“I know,” Roger says.

 

“Dad!” It's someone calling me. It’s the string of six again, heading back toward the school.

 

“Where are you going?” I say.

 

“For a drink.” But I knew that.

 

“Who’s winning?” I say.

 

“What are you doing?” Brett says suspiciously.

 

“We’re playing a game,” I say. “Who’s winning?” I say again.

 

  They all look at each other, without talking. As if passing the question on down the line, does anyone know the score?                

 

“Don’t know,” comes the reply. 

 

 

* When playing alone, as is most common, dream-ball players function in both roles, as announcer and player, which, for obvious reasons is often, both necessary and better. 

 

 

 

 

Best Child Care Tip for Grandparents

Easy Does It
A definite benefit of grand-parent child care duty (aka babysitting) is that you are never have to be rushed. Nev-er! When "baby sitting", you want nothing more than to occupy yourself so that time passes at a good clip. 

OK, first of all, let me say, on the record, babysitting is not distasteful duty. It's a labor of love, just not as enchanting as, say, teen-age infatuation. With babysitting, the "sitter" generally, wants time to move along and one of the best ways to accomplish that is to be distracted.

As a consequence, you do everything in your power to go in slow motion during all distractions (aka - life in general). In other words, waste time, at every opportunity - always. Everyone knows that time goes faster when you're doing something and wasting time, is still doing something, so taking three times as long to do every task, makes the day (the babysitting) go faster. You're occupied, so time moves quicker. Makes sense. 

What I have just begun to understand is that wasting time while babysitting, not only doesn't make you anxious like wasting time in “real life”, but it can also be very relaxing and provide a rare advantage to assert control over the normal hyper-aware-dominant-species in your charge (the children), mainly because they don’t know you’re doing it.

It is in the car that this advantage manifests itself best. The pre-K crowd has no clue whatsoever that you are wasting time when you drive around the block. If they protest you can even say, “Just wasting time,” - almost sing it, like the song, “Sittin' on the dock of the bay, wastin' time.” - and they still won’t get it.

No response, no whining - just one of the facts of life when riding in a car.  The only weapon that they have is the famous “how much longer?” complaint which they seem to have learned not to ask of the baby sitter on local excursions. 

A caveat: Things might be different with kids older than eight.

 

OK, Place Your Orders

Regardless, by my calculation today, a parent will appear sometime after 4:30. Presently it is 11:30 so plenty of time to waste – ha ha. 

I am downtown, Madison, NJ, parked illegally in front of a Sabrett Hot Dog Cart. The three characters that I've been trucking around are seated on a sidewalk bench eating a hot dog, each with catsup and mustard. I had insisted that each place his own order. Stand in front of the man, tell him what you want, trimmings and all, hand over the money ($2), bring me the change (25 cents). They do all of this without objection. It takes a good number of minutes (the point), after which I direct them to the bench.

I lean up against a Garden State Parkway sign and watch. It is a picture-perfect scene. Three innocent five-year-olds sitting on a bench eating a hot dog. Beautiful. 

Johnny, a quick eater - takes after grandpa - requests another.

“Anyone else want another?” I inquire.

Dumb question. Both Val and Francis raise their hands, despite the fact that they’re still nursing their first. “Yo, all of you,” I say, “when you’re done, come tell the man how you want your next hot dog.” They look at me. I know what they are thinking – “You tell him. Ask us what we want, but you tell him.” 

Sorry children, no dice.

 

Sorry Folks

I lean back against the Parkway sign. No rush.

Ooops, am I blocking drivers' view of the Parkway sign? I should slide over. OK, that’s better - Parkway straight ahead, folks. Sorry. 

 A parking spot opens in front of me. I dash to my car, roll it off of the illegal yellow line marked spot and into the legal spot. 

 When I get back out of the car, I get a brilliant idea. I announce that we’re going to take a walk to the train station. It’s a couple of blocks away.

 The kids stand up. “No, no, finish your food first,” I say, "no rush." I go back to the Parkway sign. Everything in due course.

 

 Hey! Slow Down

Finally we take off, walking. I mosey along but it seems that the kids want to run. Fine, but five year olds don’t always stop at corners so I have to yell a lot – mostly the words, “Wait, wait.”

This works but it is embarrassingly loud on the Main Street at lunch time. There’s a bit of a harried feeling when we reach the station. Let's just say, it was not a pleasant stroll. 

“I’ve got to look at the train schedules upstairs,” I tell the children. It’s an obvious lie, but what do they know? They're five. Still, there is the running – pounding up the stairs, through the waiting room and out to the platform where trains fly by. This is not working out. I grab the two ring-leaders, John and Val.

“You two have to walk next to me – got that?” They shake their heads, nod agreement.

I don’t succeed much in controlling the pace here. Guess that’s another point – unless they’re on a leash - they more or less dictate the clip.

Watching the Clock

OK, fine. Eventually we get back to the car. What time is it? 12:30, not bad. “Everybody buckled? Take your time, buckle up - no rush." 

They have no clue.

The plan for the afternoon is play in John’s backyard. That’s four hours, which is long. I spot a library book on the front seat next to me. “I just have to return this library book before we go to John’s,” I say.

No problem. They really are nice kids.

At the library, I request that kids deliver the book to the outside return slot. An argument ensues. They all want to put the book into the slot. “OK, look,” I say, thinking of an adult type of solution, “Val, you carry the book up the walk. John, you open the slot. Francis, you put it in the slot. OK?” 

This doesn’t fly, at least not with John and Val. 

Francis gets my vote as most agreeable. I remind myself to tell his mother that he is “best behaved. The other two seem to be still debating the book return procedure as they trudge up the walk. Seemingly in discussion, they dilly-dally in front of the book deposit slot. No problem, take your time, boys. They’re out of earshot so I don’t care about their disagreements. I watch the drama from the car.  

Eventually, the library business is accomplished and I pull onto the street of my daughter’s house. It’s normally a two minute ride from town, which I have expanded to over ten minutes, so it is now almost 1 PM. “Not bad,” I think, “I’m more or less a pro at this.”

 

 

 

 

 

What we did last summer - 2010

 Summer 2010 involved four cross-country treks, beginning 6/28 on US Airways with granddaughter Emma, age 8, at my side. We were headed for Los Angeles to visit daughter Brett, husband Kevin and California cousins, my grandchildren, Mike (9) and Anna (7).

Hermosa Beach, CA July 2010

We were in the LA suburb, Hermosa Beach, for seven days. Weather was chilly, 60 degrees (NJ was reportedly boiling). Daily CA activities included numerous visits to Target and the grocery store, kids’ hockey practice (yes, in July), strolls downtown, gazing at the ocean, drinking coffee and talking, reading newspapers and watching kids eat doughnuts. At home, children played a video game, something called guitar hero, which, from my perception, involved singing along - incessantly, the same song, named Mercy. Never heard of it, the song, or the game. 

 Other highlights - kickball games, hide the flag (also new to me), bike riding, plus board games which youngsters loved – adults not that much. 

Postcard home said, “Having great fun.”    

Amtrak Southwest Chief - LA to Chicago to NY

On 7/5 we boarded the Amtrak Southwest Chief train, LA to Chicago. We had two rooms, one small, called a roomette, grandpa's sleeping quarters and a larger room for everyone else - daughter Brett and three children. The kids seemed delighted with their room, especially with the challenge of inventing different methods to hoist themselves onto the top bunk, around which they draped blankets, thus constructing various “forts.” 

Outside of our room, the highlight was mealtime in the dining car, good food plus a great view of the countryside sliding by (AZ, NM, CO, KA, and IL). Another plus was the dark starlit quiet late-nights in my roomette.  

We changed trains in Chicago - a pleasant four hour overlay, that always involved lunch at Berghoff's a Chicago landmark that was just a short walk from Union Station. Berghoff's was suggested to us on a previous trip by a fellow traveler, named Ed Ryan, a sprightly lad, age 95, who, at the time, said he was en-route to Mexico to buy vanilla for a "lady friend. 

Ed was from Pennsylvania, where, he explained, vanilla didn't grow on trees.

Seeing my puzzled look, Ed explained that the best vanilla in the world came from Mexico. 

OK, that was something I had not known.

The Lake Shore Limited left Chicago on schedule. The overnight took us through Indiana, Ohio and Pennsylvania, The next day, after Buffalo, we crawled behind a freight train (an Amtrak specialty) across NY state which made us two hours late into Albany and then to Croton, NY where we met son-in-law Tom and Emma’s brothers, Ed (age 6) and John (4). Watching the cousins race to hug each other was the highlight of the trip.

 Jersey Kids

We had three weeks in New Jersey, many days at the local pool, also there was a hockey camp (4 days, for Mike, Ann, and Ed, all future NHLers), two day-trips to NJ shore, two to NYC, and one memorable night when the girls modeled vintage prom dresses once worn by their now fortyish mothers - back in the 1980s, and saved by Grandma for just such a day. 

1980s? Wasn’t that just yesterday? 

Heading West Again

Time went fast. Before we knew it Brett and I (plus her two) were rolling west on Interstate 80 in a Hertz Camry pointing for overnight in Bowling Green, Ohio. Next day was a quick visit to the BGSU campus for hockey tee-shirts, then it was off to Madison, WI via Notre Dame University campus (more tee-shirts), and finally heading north veering by Chicago, we stalled in rush hour traffic. Bad route choice here. My thinking was a change of scenery, “anything but more cornfields,” and besides, “how bad can it be?”  Result was a three hour view of Chicago’s skyline.  See the 2011 version - Day 2 – Ann Arbor to Chicago Yacht Club posted 8/9/2011.

 Madison, WI

We reached friends Mel and Sally Rosen’s Wisconsin home at 10 PM. We stayed two nights in Madison, a delightful college-town city, dominated by U of WI and surrounded by lakes and farm country. Mel gave us a tour of the city and surrounding countryside that rivaled a National Geographic Special. 

After Madison, it was off to the Minneapolis-St Paul to meet son-in-law Kevin at Twin-Cities airport.

Next morning was a 2 hour drive to northern MN, Deerwood, the idyllic home of Heartland Hockey Camp for NHLers, Mike and Annie. We dropped off Kevin and kids at the camp, then Brett and I backtracked to St. Paul to meet Amtrak. We had a pleasant dinner and short tour of the U of M campus, just before dark.

Amtrak redux

Pulling into the Amtrak station around 9:30, we dropped off the Hertz car, and the two of us sat on a bench on the platform watching freight trains pass - my cup of tea. Our train was on time from Chicago and at daybreak we were well into ND, and later MT. Surprisingly boring here (endless wheat fields, flat as rugs, albeit beautiful - at first). The topography changed at the very western part of Montana and Glacier Park, which we reached, unfortunately, after dark. Thus we missed what Amtrak says are Glacier Park’s 50 “living” glaciers and 9,000-10,466 ft. mountains, trestles, impressive timbered lodges etc. - which sounded more like the Montana I expected.

We rolled into Spokane at daybreak and the subsequent ride to Portland, along the picturesque Columbia River, was beautiful scenery throughout. 

We stayed one overnight in Portland, a nice city - clean and scenic, plus very pedestrian friendly. Great dinner at an outside table on the river promenade.     

 Amtrak’s Coast Starlight

The next day’s departure was on Amtrak’s Coast Starlight train through Oregon and down the CA coast, all very scenic, especially the mountain passes, but by the time we reached the ocean views we’d had enough of roomette living and were anxious for home. At the LA station at 9 PM we fetched our checked bags (a miracle because we had shipped them on a prior day’s train from Portland) and trekked - lugging all - across three dark LA blocks to LAPD heliport parking lot, where we met up with son-in-law’s Ford pick-up. We heaved our bags onto the truck-bed and barreled our way home on freeway roads referred to by Brett as “the 110” and “the 5,” my hands shaking on the wheel. We pulled into the home driveway at 10 PM, unscathed - another miracle.

The kids, and dad. returned from MN hockey camp, at 8 PM Saturday, into LAX, safe and sound. I gave a sigh of relief. 

 

Flight to Philly

I still had a flight to Philadelphia, four days hence. I opted out of the connecting flight to Newark (fear of flying) and caught a SEPTA train (very easy) from Philly airport to 30th Street Station and then climbed aboard  Amtrak’s Pennsylvanian (2 stops, 50 minutes, $44) to Newark, and eventually home on NJ Transit to Madison.

I waited fourteen days for Amtrak to mail me my driver’s license, which, apparently, I had decided to leave on the counter in Philadelphia when I bought my last train ticket. Why not? 

Finally I gave up waiting, and drove  west on NJ Rout 10 to the Randolph, NJ DMV for a duplicate license. I saluted my former employer, CCM (County College of Morris), as I passed. I was happy that I brought my laptop to the DMV because it gave me something to do as I waited for the "new license" line to wind down. 

When I returned home there was a phone message from the DMV. Hmmm, what could that be?

The message was, “I believe that you left your computer here; you may pick it up at window #9.” 

I drove back to Randolph, gave CCM a second salute.

In a couple of days school would start, both for the kids and daughter Ashley, who teaches Special Ed. in Summit, NJ. When she starts, my "retirement" job, pick-up/delivery/babysitting etc., begins as well. That "family" job has hours that are equivalent to my former college teaching work at CCM, just that there is no overload pay ... or any pay for that matter. But there is a monetary reward (significant money saved, not paid out to babysitters). It is truly "extra money", just not something that is reflected in the GDP. 

Regardless, it's a labor of love.

 

 

 

Day 2 – Ann Arbor to Yacht Club

 

                  Chicago or Indiana Interstate
We headed south on I-94 out of Ann Arbor, intent on avoiding the Chicago jam that we dove into last year. In 2010 it was a Friday afternoon, late. This year we’d hit Chicago around noon. “Probably won’t be as much traffic at this time of day,” I told Brett.

 

We hugged the Lake Michigan shore – albeit no sight of actual water - as I-94 dipped south then came the decision point, just east of Gary, IN: 

1. Branch off to 80 west avoiding the windy city altogether or ...

2. Head through Chicago but I-90 instead of last year’s I-94.

 

As with the year before we were hungering for a cityscape and so couldn’t resist settling on option 2. A bit chancy I thought but hey - I repeated one of our travel mantras, “We only do this once.” We flew onto I-90 pointing toward mid-city.  It was when we passed The White Sox stadium that I realized we were actually on the same jammed road that we traveled a year ago. My second mistake was the prediction of light traffic. It was standstill at noon.

                            Let's Get Outta Here

“OK, why don’t we get out of here and head up one of the city streets, just keep going north – keep the sun at our backs.” I looked up for the sun. I was famous for this.

 

“Eyes on the road,” Brett warned.

 

“No problem,” I said as I rolled down the exit ramp onto, “What’s this street?”

 

“Thirty first,” my navigator said.

 

“OK head east – right? – where’s the sun?” We crawled east on 31^st.

 

Miracle of miracles, Lake Michigan came into view as 31^st Street ended. “Cool,” I said.

                 Bathroom Break at the Yacht Club

The kids needed a bathroom so I pulled into a cul-de-sac next to what looked to be a yacht-club-like building – definitely a members-only-type, I thought.  Lake Michigan glistened before us. The parking lot was $19 per hour (steep for a bathroom break) which caused me to reason that we’ll be chased out of here in a “New York (Chicago) minute”, but nature’s needs prevailed so I pulled up to a yellow curb near the water’s edge, waited in the car as kids and mom trudged with held hands toward the yacht club.

 

Their silhouette was so touching that I felt that the club might offer them a membership along with unlimited bathroom privileges.

 

I waited – illegally parked – anticipating sirens any minute.

                        

 

 

        Special Privileges 

The sirens never came and Brett, upon return, reported – not a yacht club after all, so I decided to venture in myself. I left B and kids, advising her to tell any officials that “Grampa with prostate problems needed a bathroom.” This made me chuckle, but not them, as off I went.

 

I noticed a store-like room on the right side of the building and feeling emboldened strolled in. Two public-service employee types stared at me. “Did I look so un-yacht-like?”

 

I put on my best natural smile and soon we hit it off. They offered me directions and suggestions for walk-about activities up the road and I complimented them on their beautiful store, building, park, yacht club etc. My praise was a bit exaggerated but I was sincere and they seemed to buy it. They told me there was a better bathroom outside to the left. We bid goodbye and although I’d already used the “bad” bathroom I couldn’t resist exercising my new privilege. The bathroom to the left was nice, more suitable for yachting types – me.

 

Back in the car, I reported details of my excursion to all, got behind the wheel and pointed the car north, thinking about the kids dipping their toes in Lake Michigan.   

 
Day 2 continued ... Chicago City Tour

 

The yacht guys said there was meter parking up the road. Of course, we couldn’t find it. We settled on the parking garage.

$16 the sign said. “That’s expensive,” said Brett.

“Hey, we’re only here once,” I muttered as we rolled into underground parking. We swirled around and down finally to a spot at level 3. A little walk, feeling our way, and we found the entrance – exit – where we marched toward daylight.

                                   

Hey Maryland!

 

I heard someone shouting, “Hey Maryland! “Not that way, Maryland!!!”

It hit me that the rental car license plate was Maryland. I turned my head.

“Can’t walk out there Maryland.” It was a security guard.

“OK. Hold up guys," I said. 

“I saw you drive in - Maryland right?”

“Actually New Jersey,” I said, “It’s a rental.”

The guard, a good-natured soul, directed us to the pedestrian exit, one floor up. Outside on soft grass we exhaled and headed for the banks of Lake Michigan. 

It was a people friendly “park”, mainly wide open lawns with bike paths, walking trails and the endless Lake shoreline.

Anna and I walked along the roomy concrete tiers, roman coliseum-like, abutting the lake at the north side of the park.

                                   

 

Our TV Debut

 

Suddenly I heard a voice, “Would you mind talking to us about the Great Lakes for a TV show we’re filming?”
Huh?
A shopping mall questionnaire came to mind. I was about to refuse but then looked up at what had to be three of the most quintessential faces of youthful beauty in … Michigan - Illinois?

“No problem,” I said then pointing to Anna, “just keep the camera on the photogenic one.”

They asked questions about pollution and endangered species in the lakes. My learned responses surprised me – really. I related tales of boyhood swimming in Greenwood Lake, NY, and its later necessary dredging. “I grew up in lake country in NY State,” I gushed. They smiled approvingly.

 

Truthfully I couldn’t imagine anyone that knew where the remote was not using it by ten seconds into my interview. Regardless, a successful debut, I reasoned. The film crew thanked Anna and me profusely.

 

“We’ll be on TV,” I said to Anna as we walked away.

“Really?” she said.

“Probably,” I said, but I didn’t elaborate.

               

May I See Your Badges Please

 

We strolled on, leisurely circling the grounds when suddenly around a bend we spotted a small beach.

 

“Probably six bucks per to get on,” I offered as we trudged over.

I approached a woman seated on a chair with a shade umbrella at the entryway steps. I recognized the type from Point Pleasant, NJ.

“Are you taking tickets, or checking badges?” I said.
She looked at me like I was from New Jersey. “You’re not?” I said. 

 

“It’s free,” she said.

We (kids) raced to the water where they jumped and splashed for thirty minutes. 

 

                           It's Sea Glass   

                                                       

Walking back from the water Mike spotted a piece of glass the size of a corn flake. “Sea glass!” he screamed, seemingly to all of Chicago. He rolled it through his fingers like a prospector with a gold nugget. But as luck would have it the nugget slipped through those fingers as we were walking to the car.  With treasure lost, the whole family dropped to the ground and combed the grass. Many minutes went by. Pleas from Brett to “Let it go,” went unheeded.  Cars rushed by on Lake Shore Drive. Chicago rush hour, Friday PM was in full swing. We hunted on.

“Look over there; they must have dropped a diamond ring.”

“Probably.”

 

“OK, that’s it,” Brett said, finality in her voice.

“No,” Mike pleaded.

This exchange repeated itself several times. I was tempted to say that commuters seeing us initially were now home enjoying cocktails, but that would be a trifle overstating. Just say that we searched long and hard. Finally Brett told Mike that the glass must have fallen out earlier on our walk - not here. Mike swore that it didn’t. We continued combing. I mean – it was sea glass!

The three hour trip to Madison, WI took us six. We traveled the scenic route.

 

 

more Day 2 ... Scenic Route to Madison

 

Back in the car, and refreshed – kind of - after our beach excursion I announced “Might as well head straight north, up Lake Shore Drive – we’re right here.” 

“Go for it,” Brett said. Not exactly a vote of confidence.

Kids were in the back, fixated on their hand-held game “machines.”

                       Mike, Anna. Look.

It was the kind of “scenic” that Brett and I liked, cityscapes, neighborhoods, beautiful homes, and moving traffic. We implored the children to see the sights. “Look at that building – park – beach etc.”  They grunted, barely lifting their heads. “You’re missing everything!” Brett said.

“We’re not,” the kids responded. Again the raised heads, maybe two seconds.

 Lake Shore Drive ultimately became Sheridan Road, also lakeside and northbound albeit not a speedway. Sheridan brought us through well kept neighborhoods, the campus of Loyola University and then Northwestern in Evanston. We gushed over the architecture and landscape declaring every so many blocks, “I could live here.”

 No reaction from the kids.

                                 This Road is Great

Not familiar with the road I was anxious about a possible disaster – dilapidated buildings, standstill traffic and window washers plying their trade. But Sheridan kept rolling, snaking its way north through small towns, through country woodlands and from time to time a peek at the Lake.

Sometimes it (Sheridan street signs) vanished (Where’d it go?) or changed names and just when we panicked, it would reappear, Sheridan Road once more - still pointing north. “This road is great,” I declared.

                                 Military Only

 We passed the Great Lake Naval Training Center in North Chicago, slicing right through the base. Squads of uniformed sailors were out on the walks. Eventually the people thinned out it and it was just tan barracks-like buildings, then finally nothing. It was here the road widened, like a parking lot, deserted blacktop that appeared to have been hit with a wrecking ball. Was this a weapons test site?

“Better get out of here,” Brett said.     

“Yeah,” I said, but I resisted. I slowed down, barely rolling.  With 3000 plus miles still to go, turning back had zero appeal. “Forward only” was our motto, but any moment I was expecting a warning: “Military Personnel ONLY Beyond this Point.”  

 

I checked the rear-view mirror. Kids were still otherwise engaged. Torpedoes could have sailed by for all they knew.

But then the test site gradually faded. The surroundings slowly changed and we found ourselves squinting suspiciously at a line of warehouses (storage for torpedoes?). Then a miracle, an actual conventional street emerged  – Sheridan Road - believe it or not.

 

                           Where’s the Interstate?

 The Sheridan odyssey ultimately ended just across the Wisconsin border where we opted to take a chance on a due-west tilt. “We’re bound to hit the highway sooner or later – just head into the sun,”   I said, not at all sure.

 The gods were with us though; soon we ran into our old friend I-94.

 

                       “Oh my God, it’s Pettit, the training center”

We were sailing now, northbound, then bending west at Milwaukee, where we got a nice view of the city, then passing the baseball stadium, its lot jammed for tonight’s game. “County Stadium” was my recollection of the Milwaukee Braves’ home field in the 1950s; now it’s the Brewers and Miller Stadium the sign said. "Makes sense," I thought.

 

But the highlight of the day was passing the Pettit National Ice Center - U.S. Olympic Training Facility just west of the stadium. Brett abruptly went into hockey mom mode (the kids are future NHLers) and proceeded to rattle on about the Ice Center for most of the next 100 miles. Not really sure about all she said but I wasn’t about to say, “What’s the big deal?” Not when she's in hockey mom mode. 

Next ... Day 3, 4, 5 - Wisconsin, Iowa, and the Rockies

 

 

 

Day 3, 4, 5 - Wisconsin to the Rockies      

                      

Into Madison

We entered Madison, WI around 8 PM and immediately looked for Capital Square, our landmark from last year’s visit. We were tired from twelve hours on the road, and hungry.

I spotted a Hilton Hotel a couple of blocks from the square and said, “How about if I go in there?” 

“Too expensive,” Brett said.

“Maybe they’re full; so then I’ll ask for a recommendation,” I said.

“Don’t count on it,” Brett said.

In I went. “Do you have a room for tonight?”

“Unfortunately we’re full.”
 I feigned disappointment.

* I later saw that it was not too expensive so my subsequent disappointment was real. Maybe next time.

Armed with a recommendation we found a room at a Sheraton, checked in, then returned to town for dinner. Long waiting lines - over an hour - sent us back to the hotel “grill.”

“Sorry, only appetizers after 9,” the grill waiter told us. We settled on nachos and salsa, plus fried cheese.

Minneapolis, a Small Detour, then Des Moines

Saturday morning - a MacDonald’s egg on a biscuit, a quick gas-up and we were off to Minneapolis to meet Kevin at the airport.

After the overnight it was two hours to Deerwood in northern Minnesota. Our car was a bulging suitcase, five stuffed people, plus bags, and four newly purchased pillows all competing for breathing room. Peering over the pillows the beautiful lake country scenery was crisp and, at times, captivating.

Following the hockey camp drop-off Brett and I retraced our morning drive, then locked onto the interstate south through Minnesota and Iowa. All cornfields all the time, once beyond reach of the Twin Cities.

Lonely Road Paranoia

The night before I’d read about Ames, Iowa – ranked third, in all of USA, in a list of best places to live. I booked a reservation at a Hampton Inn. 

Ames seemed to be forever coming.

Rolling endlessly on a middle-America interstate can play with the mind - anxiety mainly. It was scary lonely out here, unless you were a cornstalk. Perhaps a crop-dusting plane every two hours. That was it.

What would we possibly do if we broke down?"

There was no town in site - ever.  Just bare exit roads, and a lone green sign with a fake town name. Fake because looking left and right, far into the distance there was no town, not a single building, nothing - "Fake out.”  A glance in the rearview mirror revealed more emptiness, miles of straight concrete ribbon, not even a following car.

Call AAA? OK, but waiting through the overnight for the tow-truck - should we sleep in the field or the car? 

Finally there was a sign for Ames.

The hotel was right off the interstate.  On the access road a man with a deeply sunburned face and a plastic bag over his shoulder watched us roll in. He was not especially well dressed. Brett immediately labeled him a killer.

Apparently the lonely road paranoia was still in force.

“No way,” said Brett as we inched our way into the hotel lot.

I went in and told the clerk that – change of plans – we must now meet my other daughter in Des Moines, so we’re getting back on the road.

 

Five Stars for Des Moines 

“Only thirty miles to Des Moines,” I announced cheerfully.

At the city limits Brett, less than cheery, proclaimed “down and out.” It was her name for dilapidated and dangerous. Once into the downtown proper, however, things brightened. The Embassy Suites Hotel was exquisite. It was bordered by a park on the banks of the Des Moines River; there were railroad whistles and visible trains within earshot (a good thing) and restaurant row, just a block away, was quaint and attractive. In short, a magnificent evening – food, wine and afterward a lingering walk across the river bridge.

So five stars for Des Moines.

Monday it was off to points west. Where exactly, we knew not. It was a hundred-plus miles to the Nebraska border, then close to four hundred more to Colorado. We spotted Omaha and Lincoln so there are people in Nebraska – not just corn. The fact is - Ashley and I had enjoyed a stay in Lincoln a decade ago.

 When You’ve Only Got a Hundred Years to Live

Somewhere in the middle of the great cornfield that comprises most of America – actually western Nebraska in this case - a song came on the radio.

The wind was whipping through the windows drowning out the music so Brett upped the volume. Then she picked up on the words – with exuberance.  Unlike me, she can sing. I recognized the song.

“Five for Fighting.” Brett informed me.

Huh?

“The group, not the song,” she said.

Brett points out, that “Five for Fighting,” means that, in hockey, there is a five minute penalty for fighting, hence “Five for Fighting.”

“Get it?” she says, then adds, “They’re a Canadian group.”

Hmmm. Who knew?  I had heard the song before – 100 Years - but didn't know all the words. 

Brett knew the words and the tune and her singing filled the car, rising above the blasting wind and mixing into the entire scene – the breeze, the hypnotic fields whizzing by, the hum of our rolling tires with our car shooting through the plains, and most of all, the earnest melodic sound of my daughter’s voice: 

Another blink of an eye
Sixty-seven is gone
The sun is getting high
We're moving on... 

It brought a tickle to my nose and water to my eyelids.

Travelers Haven

We spent the night in Colorado Springs, pushing ourselves, as darkness neared, beyond Denver to what we called a “travelers haven” those now common interstate "cities" with all travel essentials - gas, food, and lodging – just outside of the USAF Academy grounds at the foothills of the Rockies.  

Just a final word. We ate a late dinner at a "travelers haven" chain eatery. Baked potato and veggie burger for me, Brett, some pasta. It was not crowded at this hour. As I sipped a beer, I could feel the tension slowly drain away. I looked at my daughter. Her smile was relaxed too and had that brightness of youth. - visible to me at seventy. A blessing of my age.

In my comfort I had to ask again - what did I ever do to deserve such blessings? 

Next ... on to New Mexico

 

 

 

Day 6 Cross-Country - Colorado, New Mexico 

 

Campus Tour 

In the morning of day six we headed for the USAF Academy to embark on our version of a campus tour: the book store, the athletic fields, and hockey rink on foot, but the rest by car seeking a quick “college campus” panorama. Then it’s done.

The resplendent Academy grounds, set against the foothills of the majestic Rocky Mountains were compelling. They were pristine and manicured in a manner fitting of a national landmark with a defense department budget. 

 
I Should Work-Out More
“School” was not in session, but there were a number of “cadets” moving about on the various fields, courts and rinks. As I watched them it made me want to exercise more, plus it triggered my usual old man’s awe for the beauty of youth. No, it didn’t make me sad. On the contrary, I felt happy – for them, for me and the abundant blessings of this beautiful earth.

Looking at the grandeur of the mountains, the lush lands as well as the bright faces walking about, it was easy to forget that a significant product of this establishment was bombs dropped from the sky. I preferred to think of the young troopers as stewards of our land, akin to CCC or Peace Corps cadets.

 

Westward Ho
After our tour it was onward - further west into Colorado Springs proper, which I was looking forward to.

We managed to find the “town center” in our predictable hit or miss fashion.

“Turn down this street.” 

“You think so?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Eventually we pulled the Toyota into a parking spot around the town green.

We saw immediately that the midday character of the city was offset by small but noticeable collection of homeless-hippie-beggar-types scattered around the green – often a characteristic of beautiful western American cities. 

Whether they were homeless, I was uncertain, but by the looks of their sunburned faces and rolled blankets in overstuffed backpacks, they appeared to be spending much time in the outdoors. Plus staking out positions in the middle of the sidewalk indicated that they wanted to engage the everyday passerby, especially tourists.

OK, I often give to beggars, usually even, but a gift here seemed unwise. Engaging one unfortunate street person, maybe, but getting involved with a group, no.

 

 

Lightening Bolts

So, Brett and I were careful as we negotiated our way through the downtown streets. We purchased a cup of coffee and got back into the car and hit the road (interstate) pointing for Santa Fe, NM.

The route had us aiming for black storm clouds and menacing, but beautiful, daggers of lightening much of the way into Santa Fe. I stayed on the interstate rather than risk an auto-trek through the mountain pass trails to our right. Guess I've wised up at 70 despite seeing it work on TV with those off-road Jeeps, mud splattered, with rugged cowpokes at the wheel. Plus I was still carrying precious cargo – daughter Brett. 

 With our entrance into the Santa Fe city limits came the usual questions – how to find the downtown area and where to stay for a reasonable price?

Shark Attack
We spotted the Santa Fe Hilton a block from the town square. I put it this way to the pleasant young lad behind the desk, 

“Would my daughter and I be able to afford to stay here?”

“I can give you two double beds for $169,” he said.

“Sold,” I said.

“Hold on,” he said as he handed me a registration form. He had a phone call. 

“What?!!” he exclaimed into the phone. “A shark attack? Where? OK I’ll send someone. Bye” He hung up.

He got back to us, started to pencil in our reservation then looked up at our puzzled faces. “Shark attack is a clogged toilet,” he said.

Who knew?

“Not your room,” he assured.

We had a nice dinner, a good sleep (thanks to a barbiturate or two, in my case) and breakfast on the town green. Then it was off to Winslow, AZ - the surprise highlight of our trip.

 

 

 

 

Day 7 Santa Fe to Winslow, AZ

We left Santa Fe after breakfast, heading ultimately for Winslow, AZ. We had a reservation at La Posada, a reportedly famous historic hotel built by a man named Fred Harvey.* I had read about La Posada, over the years and was enticed, not the least, by the promise of the Burlington Northern - Santa Fe railroad tracks running "just outside your window" as one reviewer put it.

El Rancho Hotel
We traveled south out of Santa Fe pointing toward Gallup, NM. where we re-filled the gas tank. Next to the gas station was the historic El Rancho Hotel
The El Rancho Hotel has been the home for numerous Movie Stars while filming in the area including John Wayne, Katherine Hepburn, Spencer Tracy, Errol Flynn, Kirk Douglas, Gregory Peck, Humphrey Bogart and numerous others.
In addition to Movie Stars, numerous Political Figures have stayed at the El Rancho including two Presidents: President Reagan and President Eisenhower.
El Rancho was advertised on various billboards approaching Gallup as a historic gem, a destination of the famous from a bygone era: John Wayne, Katherine Hepburn, Spencer Tracy, Errol Flynn, and even politicians like Reagan and Eisenhower.

The billboards piqued my curiosity but I was still a bit apprehensive about going in and asking to look around. I forced myself, remembering "we're only here once." Approaching the front desk, I settled on, "We’d like to stay here on our return trip, so do you mind if we look around?"
"Of course not," was the reply, so Brett and I wandered upstairs. Maids were making up some rooms and we peeked in smiling and saying we were thinking of staying here. Everyone was most gracious.
My assessment? Wonderful, but perhaps not for the modern upscale traveler. Authentic history buffs, yes. Clean, safe and comfortable, just not updated to modern ways. But nicely maintained and truly historic.

 Route 66 to Winslow
From Gallup we got back on US 40, which closely parallels, and at times coincides with, historic Route 66. We finally rolled into Winslow. I was excited about Winslow. In addition to La Posada was my liking for the Eagles’ song, "Take It Easy," which begins with the words, "Standing on a corner in Winslow Arizona… "

I figured that a particular "corner" in Winslow would be memorialized and I was correct. It stood out with sign and a lone eagle perched on a window sill. But, that was it – a bit of a letdown.
We rolled slowly through the in-town Route 66, inching our way eastward anticipating at any moment an abundance of quaint southwest architecture properly fitting for a spot so immortalized in song.  But quaint never appeared.  Instead the style was a bit on the strip-mall-like side.

The Magnificent La Posada
Brett labeled Winslow, "Down and out." I too was disappointed and as we pulled into the paved La Posada lot, we both had apprehensions. It didn’t help that directly across the street was an empty warehouse looking structure with open-air windows. A group of teenage boys stood beneath one of the windows tossing their backpacks through, before hoisting themselves up and in, head and shoulders and finally their feet, disappearing inside.
Though the boys appeared young, the idea that came to my mind was "Crack den." I kept the thought to myself lest we repeated our Ames, Iowa experience. See 2011 Wisconsin to Rockies
The hotel looked fine from the lot but I feared the worst. A couple was walking toward us heading for their car.
I risked a question, "How’s the hotel?"
"Great," they said.
I was doubtful.

Within minutes, our fears were allayed. Brett and I wandered the inside first marveling at the exquisite restoration of authentic southwest architecture. The room was even better, spacious, pristine, magnificently restored. Perfect.
Restaurant and bar. Perfect. The back lawn and garden? Perfect.  And the BNSF railroad tracks at the edge of the back lawn – a train watcher’s dream.
We walked around inside and outside for an hour finally admitting that the hotel was so marvelous that we both agreed that La Posada was the kind of place that was, in itself, a desirable destination.

Our dinner was wonderful with a window looking out at the railroad tracks where the promise was that the Amtrak Southwest Chief would be stopping around 10 PM. We strolled around the grounds for an hour after dinner, then sat on the patio chatting with the restaurant manager as BNSF freight trains rumbled by. I was in heaven.

Close Encounters of the 3rd Kind
As we talked, an unusual looking passenger train pulled in, not the normal Amtrak look.
We were told by a reputable source that this train was filled entirely with BNSF "bigwigs." With few exceptions, the window shades were drawn and no passengers peered out at us or at La Posada. Nor did anyone get off. The train remained stationary, going on an hour now. Of the few glimpses into the windows we could see exercise equipment. Gymnasium car I supposed.
Still no visible passengers. I suspected there were none on board. We were assured otherwise and we were also assured that this train stop like this was extremely rare and therefore most exciting.
Not really. Aliens from outer space was my guess. Like the famous Roswell UFO Incident, circa 1970s, this was the 2011 Winslow Alien Train Incident, witnessed by just three people, a NJ man and his daughter plus an unknown mysterious man who has never come forward.
But we’ll never know the truth because Brett and I finally gave up and went inside to sleep.

The next day it was across the California desert, a 400 plus mile section, of the day’s 550 total.
We were home before dark.

A trip to Jenny Craig, 2/22/2010

 

Today I went to the Jenny Craig Weight Loss Center on Route 10, to purchase a gift certificate for my forty-year-old daughter.

 

I opened the door and walked in – a bit more briskly than normal. A thought flashed into my mind from a decade ago: me chuckling at my mom, at age ninety as she walked up to the door of her adult day care, straightening herself, throwing her shoulders back and then striding ahead, full of pep - not unlike me going in to Jenny Craig’s – wanting to look fit and spry - an obvious non-customer.

 

There were three others in the Jenny Craig waiting room, all women, in various stages of weight loss I assumed. They looked good. They didn’t look like the needed weight-loss, I thought.  But the feeling as I entered was definitely that of a waiting room for a shrink - eye contact avoided at all costs.

 

I strolled across the room and stepped up to the counter. 

 

“Your name?” they said, which made me flinch. I sucked in my stomach. I would have liked an announcement, something on the order of, “This person is here on an errand for someone. He is not here for weight loss for himself, as is evident,” but understandably, no such words were forthcoming, so I explained my mission. I wanted a gift certificate for someone else.

 

I noticed that the employees, unlike those waiting, seemed quite high spirited as they went about their business of fetching food packets from a bay of fridges, which I could see in the back, beyond the counter. They were filling food plan items, perhaps for a week or so, into white plastic bags. As they scurried about, they called out the names of out-of-stock items with a barking tone like a chef at a NY Deli. A nice touch, I thought, but not sure exactly why, or who was listening.  

 

With gift certificate in hand, I turned to leave. I wanted to tell the ladies waiting that they looked good or keep up the good work or something like that, but then thought better of it, you know, me being seventy, and all – and then again - not really being here for weight loss for myself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Life's debt, circa 2009

 

Real life began for me the day my first child was born and the second child, two years later, multiplied the joy. We (wife Donna) had two daughters and the youngest will turn forty this year. As a twentieth century man born to the fortunate circumstances of a middle class American, I have lived a life of many blessings. My two children and their five offspring are healthy, and so my mantra, “As long as your children are healthy, you have all of the world’s blessings,” applies to me daily. My other stock phrase is, “All we ask for is health. Then we have a fighting chance.” 

 

So as far as real problems go, I have none.

 

Still it would be foolish to think that somehow I have been specially blessed.  I am reminded of a call, a few years back from my daughter Brett who was working as a nurse at a hospital in Los Angles. She had worked a 12 hr. shift on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving and toward the end of her shift she was called upon to draw blood from an eleven year old child who was suffering from cancer and was in the Pediatrics ICU. The blood work had to be done every hour so she had to wake the child if he was asleep, as was the case this time. Groggy and in constant pain the young boy moaned faintly to Brett as she awakened him to take his blood for the umpteenth time , “Oh,” he said weakly, “I’ve got so many problems.”

 

She said that nurses are taught to work focusing on the tasks at hand but at this moment the soft anguish of this young boy broke her heart into a thousand pieces right there. I listened to the story, and immediately was struck with the comparison of this boy’s life to my own and to my daughters. Sadly, the story of the suffering child is not unique or unusual. Thousands of similar pleas are sounded all over the earth each new day. And yet, I wander about this earth, forgetting the very dumb luck that somehow has applied to me.

   

And so it is with the reminder of the small boy in the Los Angeles hospital that I begin again my daily effort to live an undistracted life. I am not sure what this means, except that the concept feels right, even sacred. To me it means don’t waste a healthy life. In other words, any good that I may do let me do it now …. Nice words. Essentially, to clarify, Do unto others ... period. 

 

Susan Sontag was said to have felt that she was somehow “special” when it came to beating the cancer that had ravaged her body over the course of a decade. She fought on gallantly, but ultimately succumbed. I don’t know why there are those of us that are allowed to avoid the many acute and unspeakable sufferings of the world. I cannot believe that it is because we have been singled out, as special, but I do know this: that living as best one can is the least one can do, to honor those that have had so much less. In my case I will think of that young boy in the hospital, and try again, and again.

 

And so, what to do in the face of so much suffering and so many lives cut short? The one thing that surfaces is that although you may escape severe pain, your own life will be short as well?  Do not squander your good fortune, I tell myself. Even ninety years, a respectable, but largely unreasonable, outer limit, is well within my own view now, at age seventy.

 

Must our destiny be like that felt by Joan Didion’s husband quoted by the author from her book, “The Year of Magical Thinking”? I refer to John Dunne’s remarks to Joan upon returning from the hospital where his daughter was critically ill, “Everything [he had done] was worthless," wrote Didion, "a novel he had written, a review for the New Yorker, all worthless.”

 

Dunne is not alone. The “everything is worthless” notion has risen to the top of practically every thinking head, at one time or another. Me? I am left with only this: that this life of freedom, freedom from pain and suffering, however fleeting, comes with a debt. And to live honorably, that debt must be paid.

 

While I may fail miserably at this, I vow to forever try, try, try - again and again.   

 

"Vow to forever try?" Sounds a bit less than candid. 

 

The reason is that, sadly, I've found that  … to actually "do that" … well … many things get it the way. Life, for one thing. Turns out that, though, objectively, do unto others was easy to do – well not really: forgiveness, for one thing was not easy. The point is, the easy version of “do unto others” was also easy to forget about. Not that there were obstacles, but acting on the golden rule wasn't built into my automatic pilot mentality. My auto-pilot, that which I acted upon on a daily basis, was ego gratification, pure and simple: trying to make others think highly of me. And living on that “automatic pilot” was a hard habit to break.

 

I can only say, "Keep trying."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Selling a Nine Year Old Car

 

It's early November, 2011.

 

I'm off to the used car lot to see the guy who, two weeks ago, said he’d give me $1300 for my 2002 Jetta. I doubt that the offer is still on. Too good to be true, I think. Regardless, I rehearse my lines: “Hi. Remember me? I’m the guy with the Jetta. You said you’d buy it for $1300.” 

 

I'm expecting the worst? Something like, “We don’t need it anymore. Plus your car's a wreck. We’ll give you $300.”

 

The car lot office is wood-shed size, two rooms. In the front room a man sits behind a desk, twirling a pencil. He looks up at me. The word shyster comes to mind. I greet him, tell him my business – see above - and ask for Sam. He gestures toward the far wall where three generations of an adorable family (they’re speaking Italian, I believe) are squeezed onto a bench.

 

“When they’re done,” he says, pointing the pencil.

 

"I’ll wait outside," I say. He nods.

 

I go to my car, read the newspaper. Thirty minutes go by. A car pulls in the lot behind me. A man gets out, rushes inside the shed. I decide to go back in.

 

The desk guy says, “I called Sam, he’ll be here in twenty minutes.” I go back to my car, somewhat doubtful about Sam. Who was that guy that raced in?

 

Minutes pass. Sam actually shows up. I go back inside. The family is shaking hands with Sam. “Larry needs to sign the check,” desk guy says to me, "He’s on his way.”

Larry? Who’s Larry? They're obviously stalling, I think.

 

I go back outside, Next to my car the Italian family is climbing into a tan Honda. “Good car,” I tell the mom. She smiles. Sam (?) watches as they drive off. 

 

I hope Sam appreciates my endorsement.    

 

I re-read my newspaper. Another car pulls in and another man races in. What’s the hurry? Maybe this is the real Sam. OK, truth, I forget what Sam looks like. I saunter back inside.

 

The desk guy asks for my car title. I sign my name, meant to verify the current mileage, but I forget to enter the mileage. Clueless, I hand over the title. I ask if he wants the registration. “No,” he says, then, “Yes, we better take it.” I hand that over also. He wants a copy of my insurance card. He Xeroxes it. Hands it back. Fine

 

Sam (or Larry) comes out of the back room, hands me a check. “We’ll give you a ride home,” he says. My mind races. Ride home? In my old car - the one I just sold to them? No way. I think breakdown for sure.

 

“No thanks,” I say, “I’m meeting someone up the street,” I lie.

 

I sprint out, check in hand, hotfooting it, like an escaped felon, the two blocks to the train station, ignoring my arthritic knees. The 12:31 train pulls in. I hop aboard and exhale. “Tickets,” the conductor says.

 

“I’ll have to buy it here,” I say. I mention nothing about a felony.

 

“There’s a penalty,” he tells me. Don’t I know! The conductor opens a small book, checking fares. “Fifteen dollars,” he says.

 

“Steep,” I think, but then do the math: $1300 – $15 = $1285. OK, fine.

 

“Senior citizen,” I offer.

 

Again the book. “Two dollars,” he says. Wow! This makes my day. Me - convict and all.

I get off the train in Madison. My bank is a block away. As I walk, I look at the check. The signature resembles a Nike logo swoop, drawn by a five year old. No actual letters are evident. Definitely a forgery, I think.

 

In the bank I hand over the check to the clerk. She runs it through the machine and types what I assume is the following: It is 12:56, Monday November 7, 2011. A man matching the description of a recent escaped felon has just handed me a check signed with a scratch, like a Nike logo. I am not looking at him as I don't want to arouse suspicion, but would like police officers to come to the front door. I will try to delay him.

 

I look up. The teller appears concerned. “Hmmmm,” she says.

 

“What?”

 

“There’s a problem with this check,” she says.

I knew it, I think, bracing for the handcuffs.

 

“The date says December 7^th,” she says, "today is 11/7 not 12/7." 

 

Exuding fake calm I say, “Oh sorry, I’ll take it back to the company. Get the date changed.”

 

Company, that was smart. How about shyster?

“Sorry,” she says.

 

I bolt the bank - walk the four blocks to my home where I find a pen with same color ink and change the 12 (December) to 11. Not easy, but for an experienced forger like me, no big deal.

 

Now I get in my car, the new car, and drive to the bank – a different branch of course. I consider the automatic teller machine, but settle on the real teller.

 

I hand over the check. The teller slides it through the machine. “Is there anything else I may help you with?” she says, handing me a deposit receipt. 

 

“No, thank you very much,” I say and slip out the front door.

I don't sleep well that night. Nightmares. I have no proof that they bought the car, except for the check which, I'm sure, is behaving like a child on a trampoline.

The next morning I am at the car lot. 

 

OK, one might ask, "Why go back to the car lot?"

 

My thinking: They really meant to date the check, December 7, because it's state law, used car policy, when paying for a used car. It protects the buyer should the car fall apart in a day or two. And it’s a crime to change the date.

 

Sounds possible, I think.

 

So I'm back at the scene of the crime. Not too smart, I tell myself, but I want check if there really is a thirty-day rule … or law. 

 

"Just wanted to tell you," I say to Sam, or what's-his-name, "your check was dated December 7th, not November 7."

"Just change the date," Larry/Sam tells me.

"Yeah, I thought so. That's what I did," I confess, with a smile, "Many thanks."

 

As I leave, I scan the lot. 

 

No VW Jetta in sight. Oh well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Construction Project

 

Sleepover Pending

Eddie asked to sleep over one night recently and as usual with the overnight came a petition to tackle a major building project. His idea was to build a tree house. I suggested pushing that back until Spring, or Summer – plus I said, “I don’t think my yard has any trees that would hold a good tree house.”

“No!” he said, indicating that he thought otherwise.

 

I grimaced affectionately. “Can’t be helped,” I said, as if offering a lesson on the ways of the world.

“OK,” he said, “then we’ll have to build a fort in the bunk bed room that we can sleep in.”

Sensing something I could actually do, I immediately gave my support.

Off to Home Depot

“We need to go to Home Depot and get wood,” he said.

I nodded.

We returned from Home Depot with thirty dollars of wood, four six foot 2 x 4’s and an equal number of four foot 1 x 1s. Ed put on his gloves and safety goggles and we got down to the business of securing the 1 x 1s to the midpoint of the six foot 2 x 4s with metal brackets – something like two boards creating a “T” shaped bracket. This turned out to be more difficult then I imagined. The heads of the screws kept twisting off when I tried to tighten them.

When did they start making screws that were so fragile? Or was I doing something wrong?

I decided to use nails which I felt was a cop-out of sorts, (real carpenters wouldn't) but as there were no real carpenters present I went ahead with it. Strangely, the same thing happened to the nail heads. They popped off when I pounded them all the way in. Huh???

Construction Phase Complete

Finally (2 hours later) I managed to create the two Ts with the 2x4s as the base. All that was left was to drape a sheet over the upright sticks and voila – we’d have a tent. Pup tent, I believe would be the correct terminology. Anyway, that didn’t work because the upside-down Ts, situated approximately four feet apart, just collapsed into each other from the weight of the sheet. Guess I missed that in physics class.

I scratched my head. I came up with the idea that I could slide one end of each 2x4 (the T base) under the legs of the bunk bed. Hoisting the metal bunk bed and kicking each 2x4 under a leg was a feat for which I expected little notoriety – but it was ingenious, if I must say. Regardless, you’ll have to take my word for it because there's no video. Ed, meanwhile, had left the work site some minutes ago in favor of the living room couch and the Noggin network.

Confident now, I fetched a larger sheet, and re-draped the tent roof. I stood back, surveyed the masterpiece.

Cool!    

I called Ed.

“Cool,” he agreed.

Honestly? It wasn’t that cool, not one of my better construction projects, but I slid a gym mat under the flimsy sheet roof and thought - yes, it could pass for cozy sleeping quarters.

I laid a second gym mat against the edge of the first and that was how we slept – L-shaped head to head.

 

When Ed went home the next day the “tent” was still up. I think I dismantled it about a week later. The parts have been dismantled as well. They’re in the cellar. I notice them when I go down to do laundry. Honestly the tent project barely rises to the level of low-grade amateur construction, but in my book it’s a marker of one good night’s sleep and one of those moments of love that I cherish with my grandson.

Life at its best.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Life's Gifts, Early Spring 2011

 

Daughter Ash called at 7 AM. The kids were sick, or one anyway. Emma, was coughing in the night. The others were claiming copy-cat-syndrome ailments and mom, in a weak moment, offered a school reprieve for all, which meant that she had to call her personal assistant – me.

 

              “Is there any way you could come over?” I think that was the way she put it. 

              

              I immediately went into accommodation mode, “Yeah, no problem,” I said, my voice hoarse from sleep.

                Tom- kids' dad - was going in to the office for an hour, Ash told me, then he would come back home and take over for the rest of the day.

Papa, Can We Play Football

I was there from 7:30 to 9:30. It was an easy shift. I sat in the living room, in an easy chair by the front window, reading my book in the sun while Ed and John watched TV. Emma was upstairs in her room with the laptop. Around 8:30 Johnnie approached me, “Papa, can we play football?”

 

“Now?” I said

“Yes.”

“Maybe this afternoon,” I said, “It’s freezing out now.” Last night’s low was near 20 degrees.

 

Eddie piped in from the TV room, “Not now Johnnie, we can play at 11 o’clock.”

“Or two o’clock, Ed,” I corrected, “It’ll be warmer.”

 

Johnnie retreated to the TV room. He was back in a couple of minutes with a question. “Papa what is bigger, 11 o’clock or 2 o’clock?” I looked him. His patient eyes looked back at me, waiting for my answer. I felt a tug at my heart. I tried to explain time to Johnnie. 

“Time, in the morning, goes 8,9,10,11,12 then starts again, after 12, or noon, with 1, 2, 3 etc., so 2 o'clock comes after 11 o'clock every day. Get it?" I said, or something along those lines. He seemed to lose interest in this, looking away and flinging his arms through the air. I continued with further explanation (AM, PM etc.) but he went back to the TV room.  

 

Tom arrived back home. I started to gather my things. John walked back into my room holding a small rubber dinosaur.  He looked at me as if to say, “I really wanted to play football now.”

Can I Give You a Hug and Kiss

“John,” I said, “Can I give you a hug and a kiss?”  He ran to me and wrapped his arms around me and lingered, leaning against my ribs. What is it that I felt? Is it Dopamine or Endorphins that the body releases as a signal that something is right or true? Whatever – the chemical message traveled through me as I squeezed my grandson.

 

With my book in hand and laptop case slung over my shoulder I walked in to say goodbye to Eddie who was wrapped in a down comforter on the couch. I rubbed his back, told him I loved him, that he was great at hockey practice last night because he was such a hustler, racing full speed every time they changed to a new drill. Ed leaned into the couch cushion, face down. He made a little grunt-like sound.  “Can I give you a hug and kiss?” I said and pressed my nose against his back. “Love you, Ed,” I said.

Once again, the chemicals stirred. 

 
A Nice Thing to Say

 

“You should go kiss Emma too,” Eddie said, not looking up. I told him that was such a nice thing to say. “Do you know that?” I said. 

 

He didn’t say anything.

 

I went upstairs to Emma’s room. I put my hands on her shoulders and said, “Eddie says I should hug you goodbye too.”  She leaned her head into my arms and I kissed her hair. “Love you baby,” I said. She made a sound of acknowledgment and I bid her goodbye walked down the stairs. “Goodbye beautiful boys,” I said to John and Ed.     

As I left, all I could think was how lucky I was and inside my head, there was a vague notion about life - and the many gifts that one has. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Young Man Traveling Solo - 1973 - Part I

 Mildly dismayed and effectively immobile in my platform shoes and sporting a bad comb-over, I had the stunned look of a man wondering why he was here.

Here, was the crowded waiting room of Pennsylvania Station, New York City on a weekday summer afternoon. I was 33, the year was 1973. 

There was frenzy all around which I judged as a crowd that was full of purpose, and happy. 

 

As for me, I kept asking, "Should I go through with this?”

By “this” I meant take a trip for a couple of days. Problem was I was unsure of the destination. One choice was Block Island, RI. Maybe I'd go there. Some friends had spoken of a good time there a few years back. That was all I knew.

                I felt I had to get away. Do something.

              My planning was minimal. Days before I had gotten out a map and traced over the dotted line indicating ferry service between New London CT and Block Island. The next day on the commuter train into Penn Station I was still undecided. 

              I was trusting the gods, more or less, trying to be spontaneous which I felt was the in-thing in 1973. I was straining to keep pace, but with who? Truth was, hippies were well ahead of me, and behind me? ... well that appeared to have mysteriously vanished.

              I was channeling Carl Jung’s book Memories, Dreams and Reflections, where he talked of the journey as a life-altering event and I suppose that was what I wanted. So I was ready – albeit half-hearted – for a journey, but as far as what it was or how it would be life-altering - no clue.

I was a divorced father of two beautiful daughters who were my best friends. Sometimes I thought, my only friends. They were, after all, my main dinner companions, shopping pals, movie dates and traveling buddies. Earlier in the summer I had toured the east coast with them, the Jersey Shore and then on to Washington DC and back.  Now I was going to try a small venture alone. What came to mind was a phrase from A.E. Housman - “fighting sorrow.” 

 

At Penn Station I slipped into the line at the information booth. A woman ahead of me was asking, “When is the next train to Danbury?”

“Grand Central,” said the man at the booth. The woman said nothing. Then inquired, "What time?"

            "Grand Central," the man repeated, this time with a stare. The woman stared back. Finally he said, “Lady!”

She stepped aside, presumably she got the message.

The next guy, wanted to return a ticket. The Info man lowered his head, rolled up his eyes and gave a thumb point. “Over there.” The guy scooted away.

My turn.

            “I want to go to Block Island,” I said.

“New London or Providence?”

This should not have confused me, but like a New York kid taking a State Regent Exam, I froze. I starred at the info man. He starred back. Seconds passed. Then suddenly I got it. Thank you God. “There must be a ferry from Providence too,” I surmised. I wanted to ask which was shorter but fearing a put-down, I muttered only, “Do you have a schedule?”

He shoved an Amtrak Eastern Schedule at me and I bolted off.

I bought a round-trip ticket on the 3:10 Metro-liner to Boston. Why Boston? Not sure, but unlike Block Island, I’d been there before – with my wife – ex-wife. Perhaps that was where I’d go.

I wandered about the station and drifted into a bookstore, empty but for a cluster of a half dozen men in suits near the back. I walked toward them. Just as I thought, it was the sex-mag section. I backpedaled out. Bad karma.

I went back to the waiting area. Hippie-like young people sauntered through. I was hippie-unlike, or, perhaps more, hippie-wannabe. The real hipsters were young athletic looking men (boys) and women (girls) variously armed with guitars, backpacks with rolled blankets, one actually with a wine skin slung from his shoulder, another with a folding bicycle, crossbar resting on his shoulder like a golf bag. Almost all were outfitted with Swiss Alp hiking boots over grey rag wool socks.

I stared down at my platform shoes. Light and comfortable, yes, but as for a rugged outdoorsy look – Not. My bag was a small duffel-type that I carried at my side like a briefcase.

When I climbed aboard the 3:10 train, my mind raced. Maybe I’ll go straight through to Boston, I thought. At least I’ll know something about it, having been there before. I didn’t know where the Block Island Ferry was, either one – Providence or New London. “Play it safe” a voice told me.  I took a widow seat and tried to relax before deciding about New London or Boston. 

              We surfaced in the Bronx rolling past Yankee Stadium and I thought of the letter I’d received from the Yankees, when I was in high school, inviting me to a tryout at Yankee Stadium.  No - I wasn’t about to be signed to a farm team contract. Had I been, I would have signed up after college and likely would not now be looking for a hapless adventure on this north bound Metro-liner. But I was here, not there. Anyway I saved the letter.

Soon we were hugging the Connecticut shoreline, beaches and inlets surrounded by tall grass. Two men in a lazy rowboat hoisted beer cans as if to say, “Bet you wish you were here.”

I guess.
              A family of four on a narrow beach, each held up a single hand salute, as they tugged chairs, blankets and sundry beach paraphernalia toward home.

Before long I heard the conductor shout, “New London next,” and my chest thumped. Should I get off or continue on? I stood up, fetched my bag. The train stopped and suddenly the decision was made.  Seconds later I was outside on the platform, turning my head as home bound commuters brushed by.

I eyed the people still on the train, peering out the windows. Did I look forlorn? Confused? Anxious? All of above?

The train whistle sounded and I considered dashing back, waving my arms, and shouting, “Wait! Wait!” But the cars pulled away and there I was alone on the empty platform in New London, CT at 6 PM on a Tuesday night.

I tried to gather myself. A minute passed. I saw what looked like a ferry dock right next to the station. I walked over. A sign said, “Block Island Ferry.” “Good,” I thought, “I can just hop on right here. Wow, that was convenient." I asked a man on the dock “What time is the ferry for Block Island?”

“11 AM,” he said.

I missed it - by seven hours.

... continued - at Part II

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                         Young Man Traveling Solo - 1973 - Part II

... continued from Part I

“Now what?” I thought. Over my shoulder the downtown area of New London was visible in the distance. It didn’t warm my heart. I moseyed about the empty dock trying to think of what to do when I noticed another ferry dock up ahead. I walked toward it.

“Is there a ferry here?’ I asked.

“Orient Point,” was the reply. 

Never heard of it. I was told it was on Long Island. OK, I had been to Long Island once, a decade ago but remembered nothing about it.

Regardless, I bought a ticket on the last boat to Orient Point, an 8 PM departure. I watched as a couple of dozen cars and a few pick-up trucks rolled onto the boat deck. I was the only one walking aboard. I soon discovered why? Orient Point was not a town. The nearest town was ten miles away. This brought a wave of more anxiety. I started thinking that I had a history of impetuous, dangerous decisions. I couldn’t think of them all now but I felt, as I looked at the gathering darkness in the night sky, that it was true. And now it would do me in. My trouble was I didn’t think things through.

I stood on the top deck of the ferry and tried to bring positive thoughts to my mind. The water looked cold, dark, and unfriendly. There were two couples on the deck - lovers I presumed plus two teenagers that I struck up a conversation with. Finally I got to the point: “Could you possibly give me a ride into town when the ferry gets to Long Island?”

They refused. Said they had no room. I pretended to understand, remembering when, as a teenager, I turned down a hitchhiker who asked for a ride at a NJ Turnpike rest stop. “I promised my parents I wouldn’t pick up anyone,” was my excuse.  These teens were college students, I was a teacher. We told a few jokes, stories about studying, but mild discomfort remained – because of the ride refusal, I was sure. Eventually they went back to sit in their car. I watched them, trying to see if their car was really full, but it was out of view.

What soon came into view was Orient Point, or I should say a single street light appeared, because that, essentially, was all Orient Point was – a street light and an outhouse size ticket booth shed, plus the dock. That was about it.

After we locked into the dock I strolled off the boat trying to put a spring in my step, as if I knew what I was doing and where I was going. It was all for show, for the riders in the cars that were sweeping past me. The faint circle of light from the street lamp soon gave way to darkness on an unpaved, sandy road. Cars rolled by. I imagined people asking, “What is this guy doing here alone, walking?”

Who me? Oh I’m just walking along here, going off to sleep in one of these fields. Don’t worry, I’m the outdoorsy sort. Also I’m a successful businessman, person – just out for a little solitary jaunt. Yeah, I’ll be fine. Needing some solitude, that’s all. I’m fine.

 

I was reluctant to hitchhike, not wanting to be observed by the college kids I’d asked for a ride but finally, panicked, I stuck out my thumb. The next car stopped.

I climbed into the back seat mumbling how easy it was to get a ride as I tried to get a look at the driver and his female companion. They turned trying to size me up as well.

“Where are you going?” the driver asked.

“To civilization,” I quipped, “If it’s not out of your way.” I let out a nervous laugh, wanting to show just enough desperation to curry favor but not so much as to appear deranged.  

 I asked, “Can I get to the Hamptons?” A long ago friend, a New York savvy guy, often spoke fondly of weekends in “The Hamptons.” I knew it by name only, much like I knew the rest of L.I. - like I knew Block Island. It turned out to be a dumb question.

“You’d have to take two ferries. It’s probably too late for that.”

“Yeah,” I conceded. Who knew? “Are there any towns, where there’s a motel maybe.” I said betraying my despair.

“Greenport, there’s one there.”   

I didn’t ask if it was out of their way. I didn’t want to give any opportunity for them to refuse.

They dropped me in Greenport, in front of a motel.  “Do you have any vacancies?” I asked trying for a look that was needy enough to qualify for the presidential suite. But it was no luck.

“Perhaps, at the Townsend, they may have a room. Maybe I could call …” the clerk said. I brought up the forlorn look again as she dialed the number. I sighed relief when I heard, “He’ll be there in about twenty minutes. It may take him a while, he’s walking.” I thought that the last comment was not good because it could suggest vagrancy. I thanked the proprietor and headed out repeating the directions in my head.  

 I felt more at ease, being in a town. The earth felt warm again. Suddenly an earsplitting howl from a nearby yard startled me almost to my death. I lunged away from the sidewalk, scraping my forehead on a tree trunk before bouncing off onto the street. “This dog will kill me,” I thought just before I realized that there was a fence between us. 

With my heart still racing, I continued on my way. That the world is a dangerous place replaced my “warm earth” thoughts.

The Townsend Motel/Inn was wonderful. Charming colonial décor and built of mostly wood with an attached restaurant and bar - just what the doctor ordered. I felt safe finally.

I dropped my bag in the clean fragrant room and went downstairs to the bar to unwind with a beer. There were two partially inebriated couples at one end of the bar and one attractive woman at the other. As a sober observer I labeled the couples as not especially attractive. As for the lone woman, I overheard her complaining to the bartender about working until 4 AM last night and then getting up at 6:30 this morning. “Surely she exaggerates,” I thought.  I wasn’t about to try to begin a conversation with either party. I nursed the beer and then headed up for bed.

Sunlight through the window woke me. It felt great. I showered, shaved, and went downstairs for breakfast - eggs, home fries, toast and coffee – great again. I bought a copy of the L.I. daily, Newsday. I enjoyed the paper and thought maybe I’d send them an account of my trip. Yes, good idea - me, adventure man, writer - great. Where was I going again?

I left the motel at around 9 AM. In daylight I saw Greenport as a charming town with tree lined streets, sidewalks, middle-class homes and a nearby shoreline visible down the side streets.  I headed toward the shore. A fifties model car with a bumper sticker that said, “I’d rather be fishing,” rumbled by. OK - what to do now? One idea was the Hamptons; the other was catch a train and go back home – more or less admit failure. A drug store clerk offered that there was a bus stop on the corner down the street. “There’s a sign there. When a bus comes, ask the driver if he goes to the Hamptons.” OK, I could figure that out, but who knew when a bus would show up?

“Thanks,” I said and shuffled out thinking I would try the railroad station. I liked trains better than buses.

There was an old man – probably fifty – sitting on a bench at the station. “Train leaves in forty-eight minutes,” he said, “It’s a bus.”  

“A bus?”

“A bus takes you part way, then a train.”

My shoulders slumped as I strolled along a rusted side track. I crossed a broken wooden fence barrier ignoring a weathered “Keep Off” sign and stepped onto a dilapidated pier. I watched small ferry boats crisscrossing the placid bay. An arriving ferry floated into a nearby dock. A hardy lad on board threw a thick rope to an old man standing on the shore. The man wrapped the rope around an anvil shaped piling and the boat glided snugly into its dock. 

I decided I'd get on. 

... continued - see Part III

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Young Man Traveling Solo - 1973 - Part III

... continued from Part II

I traipsed over toward the ferry. A stream of cars exited, their noses dipping as they bounced across the dock. Another twenty or so cars, pointing in the opposite direction waited to fill the empty boat deck.

“How much to get on?” I asked the college kid working the ticket booth.

“Walkin?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, a hint of adventure in my voice.

“Twenty-five cents,” he said.

“Is there a road over there that leads to the south shore,” I said. It was the first time I ever used the term south shore. I felt a bit more competent, like I was Walt Whitman on a journey from NYC to Boston, walking the old Boston Post Road. South shore – yeah, cool.

The waiting cars rolled onto the boat, which looked like a large oblong raft with a high telephone booth on the side middle. I paid my twenty-five cents and joined the crowd, feeling special. Out on the bay I began to feel even more special. I stood on the bow, a gentle breeze hitting my face and decided what I would do. I would walk across Long Island, north to south, to the Hamptons. Walking the whole distance, I calculated that I would arrive before dark. I felt, happy and safe for the first time. I wasn’t enough of a hippie outdoorsman to hike through the Adirondack wilderness, but - walk along Long Island roads in daylight – I could do that.  And didn’t it sound good? “I hiked across Long Island, north shore to south shore.”

The destination of this boat was Shelter Island which was an island in the middle of Long Island. That meant another ferry to the south shore. Fine with me. I’d heard of Shelter Island. Now I was about to walk it. The ferry slowed as it aimed for the Shelter Island dock. Chains unraveled clanking; a large wheel turned grinding, lowering the bulkhead flush with the boat deck until the ferry was locked snug with the dock.  I was first off when the boat gates opened, strolling southward. There was a purpose to my step.

Several hundred feet into the road I ducked into the woods and changed my long pants for cut-off jeans. This was the hip summer uniform of choice for hardy, adventurous young (aging) hippies – like me. Changing in the woods felt like a major accomplishment, like I was a legit outdoor guy able to live anywhere in the world. 

That done, I trotted out to the road and headed south. A small town came into view at the top of the next hill, a cluster of frame houses and a store or two. I passed a large home with a tennis court. A game was in progress, two men. The server looked surprisingly inept, barely connecting on his first serve. “Bad toss,” he offered. The second serve didn’t reach the net. His opponent looked more able, in all tennis whites, crouched pro-like and ready to receive.  

Forty – five the server announced. What? He was leading? Oh well, I chuckled to myself. And they even have their own court. Must be friends of the owner. Soon I was through the town and approaching the southern edge of Shelter Island. I made the four mile trek to the next ferry in one hour and ten minutes.

The boat was loading when I saw the shoreline come into view. I raced the last hundred yards or so and was gasping, plus more than a bit self-conscious when I finally stepped aboard. “Everyone saw you running down the road,” said the captain, “So we waited for you.”  I thanked him - skipper/captain - whatever. “How much?” I said. “A quarter,” he replied with a smile. I wondered – really? - why bother?

The ferry ride was about twenty minutes. I stood on the bow the whole trip next to two kids that peered into the water counting jellyfish. “One, two,” said one kid. “Five, six, seven,” said the other. “I counted that one,” said the first. Disputes continued the entire voyage. Intermittently they yelled the count back to their mom who forced a smile from a nearby car. I didn’t say anything but personally I doubted their count. I could not verify the sightings which I actually tried to do without being obvious. As we approached the dock they were yelling out numbers in the fifties while walking back to the car not even looking at the water. Oh well.

Off the boat now and back on the road a sign said Sag Harbor, 5 miles. A large highway bridge loomed ahead. I was relieved that the bridge had an ample sidewalk (fear of heights) and I looked down from the railing at the cool bay water below. It was too inviting to resist. I hopped over the rail (illegal, but hey, I was a daring adventure-man) and made my way down the bank of jagged ballast rocks to the water. I removed my shoes and shirt and walked out to knee depth where I set my hands into the water and did a couple of pushups submerging my face, lingering in the refreshing water. Wow!

Invigorated, I made my way back up the pointy rock hill and onto the bridge sidewalk and into Sag Harbor without looking down.  A tavern door faced me on the first street in the village and I decided I’d go in for a beer. The inside was dark and damp, that gave me the feeling of an old shore bar. Nice. There were a dozen or so customers, one woman and the rest men, some standing, some sitting and some half sitting. The bartender was an attractive woman. I judged her to be fiftyish and looking at her ready self-assured smile I imagined her to have a happy life. The same went for her customers, an especially jolly lot for 3:30 on a Tuesday afternoon. I was the youngest person in the room. I ordered a draft beer. “Glass or stein?” the bartender said. “Glass,” I said and she poured a small glass (8 oz.) from the tap and set it before me.  

Hard to say if this was the best beer I ever tasted, but it got my vote. Still I had just the one. I left three quarters change on the bar and walked out to the bright sun. Who was that hardy adventure-man? I took to the sidewalk this time because it felt easier on my legs which were beginning to stiffen on the front of my thighs. There was no pain, just the tightness, which actually felt good as long as it didn’t get worse.

Out of Sag Harbor the road was straight highway with little variation. My face was burning and I began feeling anxious to finish the journey. I decided to hitch-hike. After a half-dozen cars whizzed by without so much as a glance at me a guy in a truck pulled into an intersection just steps ahead of me. As I walked by I gave him such a pathetic look that he must have pitied me because he shouted that he was only going a mile or so but I could have a ride if I wanted. I hopped in grateful to be sitting. The ride was over in five minutes. I bid him farewell, feeling that I saved a half hour and happy for that.             

 

I stuck out my thumb again but had no luck, just indifference from car after car. I felt rejected – really - which wasn’t pleasant and it led me to begin a new technique. I decided to reject them before they rejected me. Here’s how that worked. When I saw that there was no slowdown as a car approached I quickly turned my back, dropped my outstretched arm and marched onward. Like I care! 

Finally I gave up all together, new technique and all. I tried to calculate my arrival time into the Hamptons if I walked it all. In the middle of my calculations a van pulled up alongside of me. 

“Do you want a lift?” said the woman in the passenger seat. I immediately went into my loner-outdoorsman-hiker-adventure-man mode for the benefit of the woman. I hesitated, as if I really wanted to hike - not ride. 

“Great,” I said like the thought of bumming a ride never occurred to me. I climbed in. There were five children in the back of the van, two women in the front seat. The women were attractive - very. They said that they would take me to the Hamptons and suggested the Sea Spay Inn as a spot to for me to stay. I wondered why the women offered me a ride. Perhaps they thought I actually was an interesting adventure-man type and perhaps they might like to meet me, maybe have a drink with me when we got to the Hamptons. The thought may have occurred to me but, any words, I kept to myself. 


... continued - Part IV

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Young Man Traveling Solo - 1973 - Part IV

 ... continued from Part III

re, my experience walking and hitch-hiking across Long Island 

Having just been picked-up hitch-hiking I settled into the back seat. I looked up at the two women in front of me, Very upscale and attractive, I thought.

 

Despite the disarming beauty of the driver and her passenger, I felt that at least some of the credit for their gesture to offer a ride, should go to me - i.e. the adventure man look. After all, I had momentarily ceased hitch-hiking. I was just walking along the road when their car stopped. 

 

"Would you like a ride?" a young women shouted toward me from the passenger window.

 

"Thank you," I said, then offered as I climbed into the back seat, "That was very nice of you."

 

OK, I'm just saying ... That it was not unreasonable that ... yes, ... well ... perhaps my appearance had some appeal – the platform shoes maybe or the cut-off jeans or my shirt half unbuttoned from the neck (very cool). 

 

Shut up, loser!

 

More likely it was pity (OK, that could be too strong a word), but I confess that I did look out of place walking along this highway, possibly more desperate than adventurous. Like perhaps my car broke down, and I needed help ... or something.

 

Regardless, when they dropped me off at the Sea Spray Inn, they gave me their phone number and said that if I didn’t get a room I should call them. Hmmm.

 

 I walked into the Inn wondering if I should have asked one of them (both?) to have dinner with me – or something. 

 

Anyway, I succeeded in getting a room, which was a quaint cabin with a small porch. The porch had a chair and an ocean view. The cabins came in pairs. I entered my side and stretched out on the bed, my mind wandering about w­­­hat to do now. I decided to go for a swim in the ocean.

 

The water was cool. There was a lone woman on the beach that I assumed was staying at the inn so I waded in and quickly dove head first into a wave, macho like. Then I swam out a bit then back and walked onto the sand. The woman was standing at the water’s edge now dipping her toes in.

 

“The water’s cold,” she said.

 

“Not bad,” I said. At least not for manly tough guys.

 

We talked for a bit. She was staying here and said that the inn had a nice restaurant and a bar that had entertainment.

 

“It’s a nice atmosphere,” she said.   

 

I went back to my cabin, took a nap for an hour then showered and went over to the restaurant. I ate a fish sandwich and ordered a beer. The evening crowd filtered in shortly after seven. The entertainment was a couple – man and woman – who played guitar and sang.

 

  I looked around at the crowd, three couples and a half-dozen thirty-plus/forty-plus single women. I tried not to stare at the others. Being the adventure-man loner type, I nursed my beer. The singers belted out pleasant folk tunes intermittently seeking some audience participation.

 

“Freedom’s just another word for …” They stopped waiting for someone to finish the sentence. The audience was silent.

 

“Come on people,” said the male singer.

 

“I know it,” said a woman.

 

“Go ahead, what is it?”

 

“I can’t think of it.”

 

That did it. I abandoned my loner-brooder- mode and called out “nothing left to lose.”

 

“All right,” shouted the singer, and then he continued, finishing the song. The crowd shot me approving looks. I slipped back into brooder- mode, “silly game” look drawn onto my face.

 

The silly games continued. I couldn’t resist one more turn to prove, in addition to being a loner-brooder-adventure-man, I was also a hippie-music-man. The riddle line was “Don’t think twice … I offered, “It’s all right,” and was again cast as celebrity. Thus, eventually I joined the crowd, had more than two more beers and actually had a good – wonderful – time. I slept baby-like in my cabin and the next morning bummed a ride to the East Hampton train station from a woman in last night's crowd. I hopped aboard a NYC bound train and from the city home to NJ. All in all, a successful venture.

 

Question: “Where’d you go?”

 

Answer: “I hiked across Long Island, north shore to south shore.”

 

Probable response: “Cool!”

 

“Yeah, no problem. I started with a nighttime ferry ride from New London, CT.”

 

Further response: “Really?”

 

My response: “Yeah.”

 

It wasn’t a cure-all, but it was something

 

 

*  The Sea Spray Inn
East of Ocean Avenue , East Hampton
The Sea Spray Inn was originally on Main Street; the house was moved to the dunes in 1902. It opened in 1888 as a boardinghouse and was popular with artists. In 1978, the Sea Spray burned down. The cottages remain; they belong to East Hampton town and are rented out via lottery.

 

 

 

NJ-CA Phone Conversation

 

I’m in California, visiting oldest daughter Brett and family. Brett is dialing the phone, calling New Jersey to talk with her sister Ashley. I’m reading the newspaper, drinking coffee. It is Saturday, 6:30 AM on the west coast, 9:30 in New Jersey.  

 

Emma, age 10 answers. Hello. 

Brett, Emma’s aunt, enthusiastically  - Hi Emma, how’s it going?

Emma - Good I guess.

Brett, still enthused - What’s happening?

Emma - Well – Johnny (age 5) was playing with tic-tacs. And I thought they were mine.

              So I went upstairs and saw that they weren’t mine.

            

* Here I suspect there is a possible gap in the description of the actual events. i.e. something else happened between “And I thought they were mine” and “So I went upstairs …” … but to continue with Emma’s version:

 

             Then when I came back down Johnny didn’t understand me so he started beating me up. (read - Johnny's fault) So I started beating him up. (read - totally justified)

            Then Eddie (age 7) started beating me up. (read not justified)

       ** So daddy started wrestling with Eddie holding him down.

 

Brett - So, ....  that’s what’s happening?

Emma - Uh-huh.

 

All in good fun, I’m sure.

 

** I must say, that I believe the image conveyed by Emma may be decidedly unfair to daddy, the “peacemaker” who was doubtless so very gently separating his two darling children. I mean “wrestling?” I don’t think so. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

How Would You Like Some Free Life Insurance?

 

The Morning Mail

 

Here’s a letter from my bank that arrived today. They want to know if I’d like $1,000 of “free” life insurance.

I’m not biting.

The reason is - I'm wise to this. The payoff likely requires an actual dismemberment while on a “common carrier.”

FYI: My car would be “un-common.” 

So - if I ever called to collect - I'd expect a scenario something like this:

 

 

This Call may be Monitored.

 

“Hello.” That’s the live operator after I’ve gone through 30 minutes of automatic menu options and having been told that “this call may be monitored.”

 

Seriously?

 

OK, me talking now  - “Yes, hi, I’m calling because I recently lost an arm when my driver side power window squeezed and then sliced into my bicep as I was riding through town trying to impersonate a cool guy from the 1950s and I accidently pressed  or leaned against the up-button.”

 

Insurance official - “Was your car leased from either a major airline or a bus company or were you by any chance traveling through the Large Hadron Collider(LHC)?

 

Me - “Well I own the car. Plus we rolled down windows in the '50s, ... so ...”

 

Official - or maybe I've been switched to a Recording - “I’m sorry I do not understand. 

In a few words, can you tell me the reason for your call."  

 

Me again - Huh? Wait – who is that talking?  Is this a recording?  Am I cut off?

 

Recording - “To repeat the menu options press 9.”

Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!

So it goes.

 

Am I on the FBI List?

 

Yes, truth be told, I actually fell for the old “free insurance” scam thirty years ago. But I discovered it just recently while inquiring about a $2.50 monthly charge on my bank statement.

It's was a bright fall day and I was at the bank, with time to spare.

Here are the details:
After asking to speak with someone I'm directed to a sitting area. Minutes go by. Finally an officer approaches.

"How can I help you," he says. 

 

"Could you tell me what this is?" I say, pointing to the $2.50 charge on my statement.

The officer takes the statement, walks back to his office. "Come in," he says. He sits at his desk and keys information into the computer.

 

He raises his eye toward me. “That’s accidental death or dismemberment insurance,” he says.    

 

“What?”

 

“Accidental death or …”

 

“Yes I know, but how did I get that?”

 

He goes back to the keyboard, keys in more data.

Approximately thirty minutes (OK fifteen) pass here. The whole time, the bank officer stares at his computer screen, typing what I imagine are updates to bad marks on my record. The look on his face varies – from sternness, to abject dumbfounded-ness to … Whoa!!! You’re telling me that this man is number 1 on the FBI’s most wanted schizophrenic list?

 

I wait patiently. Time to spare today.

Finally I'm told, “You bought the coverage in 1981, from Chatham Town Bank.”

 

I snicker. The year now is 2011. 

 

 

Thirty-Seven Banks Ago

 

He mentions Chatham Town Bank because he knows that was thirty-seven banks ago and any guilt on his part comes under the seventeenth century invasion-of-America-law-rule, which means: Long ago. Does not count! Not it!

Something like that.

My memory comes back. I remember being offered free insurance – yes – it was back around the time of the Declaration of Independence, but today, being a modern-day sear of sorts, I put two and two together. Centuries may pass but bank account numbers remain, so that free insurance I got? 

 

Oh, it was, in fact, free, but for three months only. After that a $2.50 per month deduction kicks in. That's $30.00 a year, $300.00 a decade, for a total of $900.00 for three decades which is the amount that I have paid to insure myself against the equivalent of death from collisions in the LHC (Large Hadron Collider).

 

Darn!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Novel

A few years ago, I bought a real basketball goal - weighted base support, stanchion-pole, backboard, rim, and net. It's the kind that is currently a requisite in every kid's driveway across America. I bought it for Emma, Eddie and Johnnie. At the time I was concerned that the project was a bit premature as Emma, the oldest, was but six. Then there's Ed at four and John, one-plus.

Not exactly a dribble-ready crew.

But I got it anyway – Grandpas can’t wait. Then I lugged it home and worked from noon until dark, struggling mightily to bolt it together. Still I didn't come close to finishing that first day.

As usual, I became concerned that I was spending all of this time, the whole day, and now a second day, on the BB project. I had so many other things to do. Then I thought about it. If this was my last day on earth what would I have rather done - put up the basketball rim and backboard or pretend to write the great American novel?

I’d take the former. That's my novel.

Such is life for me, a blessing.

. 

I recognize the blessing of children, as giving meaning to one's life, but what about those without children? I have to think that they can still find as strong a love, but then I'm not in their shoes. Truthfully, I don't know. What I do know is that love for one’s children is a unique blessing in that it reveals love in the ideal, unrequited form, and it’s forever – unconditional. 

 
As for a basketball goal at my own home, not the grandchildren's, I searched the town for a bushel basket, which I found at the plant store. I strapped it with bungee cords to the tree out front bordering the street, thereby re-creating an original "basket" goal from the “birth of basketball” era. I tossed a light weight ball to Ed and Emma and watched them dribble around and take various shots. It brought a smile to my face and a feeling of real accomplishment.

Call it my second novel - or short story maybe?

 

Let's Get Out of Here - circa 1964

 

           I was twelve the summer I met Re-Re Winston, visiting my cousins in Pottstown, PA. Re-Re was the fastest runner and prettiest girl at the playground and I fell in love for the first time in my life. I don’t believe we ever talked though I recall chasing Re-Re in tag and for several glorious minutes, sitting beside her on the merry-go-round.

                 Back home I prayed nightly, “Please help Re-Re Winston like me and marry me,” I did this until I was fourteen when, for reasons to be explained, I changed the prayer to “Please help the girl from Goshen like me and marry me.”

                 The change came in the fall of my fourteenth year. It was on a Saturday evening and Donnie Baines and I were standing with big kids outside the Oakland Diner in Warwick, NY. We'd won the afternoon football game against Monroe and Donnie and I, both ninth graders, got in a little at the end. I sprained my wrist tackling someone and after the game Coach Morgan wrapped it with an Ace bandage. When he finished, he smiled and said, “Keep this on all weekend.” I glanced up and brought a solemn look to my face. Being on the team was new. It was so important - hard to believe.

The group at the diner was mostly seniors, football players and older girls, beautiful like movie stars, in my opinion. The girls were headed for the movies. Some boys were pitching for a ride to Goshen, because they heard about a party at someone’s house. Donnie and I were just passing by when Milt Paffenroth shouted at us.

“Nice pass, Donnie. You too Bobby. Good game,” he said. Donnie threw a pass in the game and Milt, a senior lineman was being kind. He slapped us on the back and we pitched forward, awkwardly. Despite our unease we lingered.

The boys were huddled around a parking meter beside Eddie Sadowski’s ’49 Mercury. A car pulled up at the curb and Nancy Langlitz, bounced out. “Did you hear Elvis’ new song?” she asked to a huddle of girlfriends. Seconds later I heard a girl’s voice, soft, yet clear as a pipe, “I’m in love – I’m all shook up - Mm mm oh, oh yeah, yeah!” Ash Morgan went into his Elvis pose, strumming an invisible guitar.

"Elvis Morgan,” Egghead Clark hooted. Ash swiveled, curled his lip.

“Guess Monroe was all shook up today,” said Clutch Patterson, a wiry six-footer, an end on the football team. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and leaned back against Eddie’s Mercury. The boys grunted.

It was rare to be close to these boys, tall, and stylish, their collars turned up around white tee-shirts glowing at their necks. Plus the knockout girls, in bright plaid shirts and dungarees rolled up with wide cuffs around their calves. They swayed, humming a school song, “Warwick plays Monroe, all righty. Warwick beats Monroe, all righty.” Tremors shot through me.

Finally, the girls started to drift toward the movies. Some boys stayed back, still touting the Goshen party. Donnie and I shifted our feet, dropped our shoulders and waited for the movie crowd to get ahead.

 Suddenly Milt punched the air, “We’re going!” he yelled and five seniors piled into Eddie’s Mercury. They wrestled for window seats as the car quaked at the curb. Eddie turned the key and a throaty gurgle issued from the tailpipe. Donnie and I stared. The Mercury inched forward. A back window rolled down and Eggy Clarke stuck his face out. “Bobby, Donnie. Get in,” he shouted.

                 We shivered – paralyzed - then shot into the back seat. The smile on my face wouldn’t go away.

                Eddie made a U-eee in Buttercup Givean’s Esso station. Buttercup was outside straddling a chair, sitting backwards, his arms draped over the back. “Way to go!” he yelled raising one hand. A reference to the game, I assumed. Eddie gave a long toot. We coasted down Main, pointed for Goshen, ten miles north on County Rt. 94. Donnie and I sank low in the seat, shoulders hunched to our ears. We knew we didn’t belong, but we were thrilled regardless.

             The radio blared, Sonny James’ “Young Love,” on AM 560, WMCA. An elixir-like air filled the car, Wildroot and Vitalis, mixed with the sweet musty scent of the old cloth upholstery. We traveled slow, rolling quietly out of town, the muffler gurgling with each acceleration. The rear bumper scraped where the road dipped and someone said, “Better take out those lowering blocks.” Howls followed this. Donnie and I said nothing. The countryside receded out the side windows, black and invisible.

                Eddie brought us right to the spot. “Fifty-four Scotchtown Avenue,” he announced, triumphant. I looked for the house number but saw none. I guessed he’d been here before.

                 We tumbled out, righted ourselves, ran our fingers through our hair, and strolled confidently – them, not I – across the lawn and in through the front door. We were uninvited; that was obvious.

             No one seemed happy to see us. We were barely acknowledged. A group of boys was in the kitchen, another in the living room. Girls were collected around the record player, trying to play a 45 record, “Silhouettes,” so that it didn’t skip.

 “Silhouettes aye oh!,  aye oh!, aye oh!” It kept repeating.

 Someone said, “Warwick boys,” and every now and then a head turned. I feared a fight might start and prayed I’d be excluded – given my injured wrist, still wrapped.

              The evening moved along and the big kids got more at ease. Their cordial manner surprised me. They talked mostly to other guys; the Goshen girls seemed to ignore them. Donnie and I remained in the living room, fixed like floor lamps, watching. About an hour into this, I noticed a smallish figure moving toward us. I pressed my shoulder blades to the wall, darted my eyes and blinked. Standing directly in front of me, was a girl, about our age.

                 “What did you do to your hand?” she said.  

                 A child-like noise escaped from my throat. In a weak breath, I said, “I bent it back in the game.”

                 “Hmmm,” she said. “Too bad.” Her voice was firm, melodic. There was a penetrating smile in her eyes, and her mouth turned down, sweetly sympathetic. I had never seen anyone so lovely - never. I tried to smile back, to look without looking. After some seconds, she stepped back and walked to the other room.

                “Who was that?” Donnie said.

                “I don’t know,” I squeaked. I caught only glimpses of her the rest of the evening, but I knew that this was real love. I felt entirely justified. Donnie was my witness. I kept thinking of my words. “Bent it back in the game?” So dumb, why did I say that?

              It was past eleven when I got home. I walked up the stairs to my room, the center of my chest still tingling with heat.

              The girl turned out to be Barbara Kamarowski, a name I discovered months later. When I learned the name, I changed my prayer to “Please help Barbara Kamarowski like me and marry me.” The prayer was my secret, mine and Barbara’s.

 Not sure how long I kept saying the prayer, but it eventually gave way because I developed a high school life, and a girlfriend, in my own town. I still saw Barbara at times, albeit anonymously, and thought maybe after I got to college I’d call her for a date, but I never did. I discovered she went to college in Pennsylvania, Bucknell, and whenever I met someone from Bucknell, I asked if they knew Barbara Kamarowski. I can’t remember if anyone knew her, but a response never came back.   

                 Life moved along. I graduated from college and got a job in New York, commuting from my apartment in New Jersey by train.

                 One Friday, after work, I was on a cross town bus, gazing at the people on 42^nd Street, in front of the Plymouth Shop. The light from the store window seemed to beam a spotlight on one woman. It was a beautiful picture, I thought, her glowing, highlighted among the shadows. It made me fantasize about a new career as a photographer. As the bus rolled by I kept staring, then suddenly it hit me - it was Barbara Kamarowski.

                 The next Friday at 5 PM, I was on 42^nd Street marching toward the Plymouth Shop. My plan was to spot Barbara, approach casually and say, “Hey,” like I recognized her but couldn’t remember the name. It didn’t occur to me that my scheme was a bit demented.

                But, I was young. The gods were with me. What else was I doing?

                 I choose a camera store, two doors removed, as a stakeout spot. I strolled into the entryway acting the part of a legitimate shopper, then, breaking character, I turned back toward the sidewalk. I stuck my neck out, peering down the street toward the Plymouth Shop. No one there yet.

     To pass time I drew back and scanned the merchandise. I knew nothing of cameras, but managed to pass some minutes before I popped out for another look. The walk was crowded and I had trouble seeing. Plus, I was shivering. I’d worn only a sport coat – trying for the hardy look.

                 I started to feel discouraged and stupid, doubting the whole idea. Seriously, what was I doing here? I set a deadline of 6 o’clock. Leave then, I vowed. I stuck my neck out again. Still nothing. I stepped further out onto the sidewalk, leaned both ways. I was craning my neck, thinking of walking up toward the Plymouth Shop, when I heard my name called from behind.

                “Bobby Caskey?

      I turned. “What are you doing here?” the voice said.

     It was her.

                 “Hey …” I said, avoiding her name. Heat rose into my ears. “I’m waiting for someone,” I said, “a friend. I’m meeting him here.” I looked up at the store name. “Yeah, right here, at the camera store. God, this is funny, meeting you. Kamarowski, right?” Like I didn’t know.

                “Yes,” she said, smirking. She looked more gorgeous than ever, so smart in a black coat, her blonde hair in a French twist. I wanted to stare at her - for hours. I offered a handshake, grownup like. “How are you? You work here? In New York?”

                 “I work on 47^th Street. I’m going home for the weekend. I’m meeting my ride here.” 

                My ride – not, my boyfriend. If she had a boyfriend, then should not my boyfriend be meeting her? 

                “You’re meeting him here? At this store?” I hoped she’d correct me, and say meeting her.

                 “No at the corner. I better get down there.” She squinted down the street.

                 “Yeah,” I said, hoping otherwise. “Hey funny bumping into you.” I shot my gaze in the other direction. “Wonder where my friend is,” I muttered.

                 “Oh, there’s my ride,” she said. “Nice seeing you.” She hurried off but her smile had registered enough that I thought I could – no, I would - definitely call her sometime. A red Chevrolet was waiting at the curb and I glimpsed a shadowy figure inside lean over and open the door. Was there a big smile, a kiss?  The car pulled away. I wasn’t sure about the kiss.

                  I stayed another half hour outside the camera store. Not sure why actually. Perhaps to pretend that I was really waiting for someone. Either that, or just savoring the moment. Regardless, I finally gave in. I walked to the PATH train and caught the 7:36 Erie Lackawanna from Hoboken to Madison.

                 I never called Barbara in New York. I was afraid I’d hear, “I’d love to, but I have a boyfriend.”

                Six months later, I was in Warwick, visiting my parents when, after dinner, I ventured downtown and saw Main Street was set up for a block dance. The town held street dances every summer Wednesday and I remembered Barbara occasionally showed up in the years after high school. It seemed long ago. I felt old for the first time in my life. I was twenty-four.

                 I stood on the sidelines talking with friends. An hour passed.

                 Suddenly, as if dropped from the sky, directly across the dance floor, there was Barbara Kamarowski, with two girlfriends.

                I felt my chest thump. I kept Barbara in sight as my mind raced rehearsing greeting scenarios. I decided to venture over. I forced myself. It was a long, uneasy walk. My shoes slapped the pavement like a drumbeat.

       “Hey, how you doing?” I said.

                “Hi,” she said.

   It was less than enthusiastic. The girlfriends tittered. I got right to the point. “You want to dance?” As the last word left my throat, I wanted to pull it back.

                “Maybe later,” she said with a closed lip smile. The next five seconds seemed like a hundred - minutes. The girlfriends grew solemn.

                 Was I wrong to be hopeful?   I was, after all, a college grad. I had a job in New York (Manhattan, I called it). Furthermore I was an athlete, I played on the college football team. Did she even know that? Plus we’d met in New York, and now Barbara was here. It was fate. So I’d thought - so much.

                “Maybe later.” It crushed me.  

                 “That’s the old, maybe later trick,” I said, with a contrived smile, mimicking a friend from work who always used that expression, which we thought as really funny. My friend lived in the Bronx, which was another thing - I had friends from the Bronx. If Barbara didn’t catch my cleverness, so be it. Regardless, nobody laughed. I hurried off, fighting the lump in my chest.

                 I returned to my former spot, humiliated and despondent. I struggled through a couple of dances with Annette, a high school classmate. I avoided looking over at Barbara.

     The band played a polka and Annette and I pulled each other around the floor. I wasn’t sure if I could really polka. My technique was to just skip, like a kid on the sidewalk. The floor was packed. I spied Barbara dancing with her girlfriend. Girls did that, danced together for polkas. I concentrated on my skipping. When the music ended, I sauntered off and noticed Barbara walking nearby. I slowed down to match her pace. A Ferlin Husky sound-alike began, “Since you’ve gone … “

               I looked over and caught her eye, “Want to dance?” I said.

               She extended her arm and I took her hand.

               I didn’t get my hopes up. Instead, I prepared my goodbye words: “Nice to see you, maybe I’ll see you in New York.”

               “So, you work in New York today?” I said.

               “I don’t work there anymore.”

               “No?”

                “I’m working home, in Goshen. I’m going back sometime, but my mother got sick. I had to stay with her.”

               “Oh,” I said. I didn’t know what to say. Seconds passed. Finally, I offered, “It was funny running into you in New York.”

               “It was. What were you doing there?”

               “I work there, on 53^rd and Park. I was waiting for someone, but we got our signals crossed. He was waiting at a bar up on the east side.” East side, 53^rd and Park - that was Manhattan talk. I could have said “she,” instead of “he,” as long as I was making everything up.

                “Wow,” she said, “so you missed him?”

                “Yeah. He said he drank beer and listened to old men talking about their jobs; one guy was a photographer.” Why’d I say that?

                “Ha.”

                I was conscious of everything, our feet sliding on the pavement, her hand in mine, and how I held my arm. I barely noticed my little lies. They seemed effortless.

                “Anyway,” I said.

                “How long did you wait there?”

                “Oh, another hour maybe. Then I went to a bar up on First Avenue. Matejoy’s. Ever been there?”

               FYI: I knew a lot of bars in New York. 

                Barbara shook her head.

                “My friend and I go there sometimes on Fridays. But he wasn’t there either.”

                “Was he mad at you?”

                “No, it was his mistake.”

                Finally, I shut up. Enough with the lies. I concentrated on dancing. When the song ended, I asked, “You like working in New York?”

                “I loved it. I lived with two girls; we knew the grocer, the super, the newsstand man. We had a community. That’s what counts, and you can have it in New York. It surprised me. I always thought anyone living in New York was either crazy or a millionaire. But it’s not true.”

                I liked her long answer. “It’s not,” I added, “I thought like that once too.” Actually, I never thought about it.

                The next song began, a deep bass: “Put your sweet lips a little closer to the phone.” The chords cut through me.

                I held out my arm. We started dancing again. “Anyway,” I said, “that’s what I’d like to do someday, live for a year or two in New York. Right in Manhattan. Not now, but with a family, you know? Go to shows, museums, see everything New York has to offer. For a year or two”

                “That’d be nice,” she said.

                “ …and you can tell that man there with you, he’ll have to go.”

                I wanted to hold Barbara tighter. I thought of press my cheek to hers, but I resisted. I reminded myself not to get overly sentimental. “Yeah, I was like you,” I said, “I thought anyone living in New York was nuts. I liked visiting, that’s all. But I’ve changed.”

                “Do people ever change?” she asked.

                 I took this to mean that Barbara had, or once had, a boyfriend whom she wanted to change.

                “Some do,” I said, “and some don’t.” Read: Your boyfriend – he won’t.

               “Hmmm.”

                I tried again, “I don’t know. I had a college friend, Andy, a big tough guy. He played on the football team with us (football – with us - finally got that in). He was a great guy, my best college friend actually, but never showed any warmth or feelings. I’d drop him off and he’d jump out of the car. Didn’t once say goodbye. I always said ‘see ya,’ or something but him, nothing. Just closed the door and left. I thought it was strange. Anyway, he did this for three years, same thing. Last year he sent me a book of poems for my birthday, with a note – ‘to my good friend.’ He changed. We visit each other all the time. He lives in Pennsylvania.”

                Barbara said nothing. The music ended. She looked at me and I felt liquid building beneath my eyelids, thinking about my friend. Everything felt still, quiet. Finally, I had said something true. This was a perfect way to end it, I thought. Now just say, ‘Nice seeing you. If I get to Warwick again  …’

                We walked off the floor, had taken but a few steps when she slowed and turned toward me.

                “Let’s get out of here,” she said.  

                The phrase, “Please help Barbara Kamarowski like me and marry me,” flew into my brain and a pinpoint torch lodged in my chest. Barbara walked ahead. She looked over her shoulder and said, “Be right back.”

               I was frozen in the middle of the street - a statue.

               My friend, Kenny, approached. “What’s going on,” he said.

               “There’s trouble in paradise,” I said. Dumb, I knew, but it just came out, faint and squeaky-like, yet inside I was bursting with glee. Kenny looked at me, bewildered.

              “Let’s get out of here.” Those words had to be from a movie or something.

               Barbara was walking toward me. Suddenly my glee turned to angst. All I could think was, “Please don’t let this go wrong.”

              “Do you have your car?” I said.

              "No, Gail drove.”

              “Want to go to the Landmark?”

              “OK,” Barbara said.

              I was dying to know her thoughts. Did she like me? Let's get out of here. Who says that?

              The Landmark was a quaint country inn, a mile out of town. There was a bar with tables and another room with a jukebox and dance floor.

             “Here?” I said, reaching toward the bar.

              Barbara nodded.

              Three young men were at the bar. I knew them all. Two Johnny Kniffen and Steve Kazmeyer had their backs to us. The third, Joe Sullivan, sat sideways on the stool, facing us, holding a drink. His one leg was propped on a foot rung and the other hung loose. I didn’t know him well enough to start a conversation but I acknowledged him as we passed. He had sad eyes, hard to look at.

              As we walked by, I heard his low voice, “Some guys have all the luck.”

              I turned my head, then quickly turned it back. Barbara’s eyes were locked straight ahead. She’d heard it all before, I thought.

             When we sat down, I asked, “Did you hear what that guy at the bar said?”

                      “No, what?” she said.

                      “He said, ‘Some guys have all the luck.’”

                      “He did?”

                     “Yeah. I think he was lonely. Or envious.” I paused, looked at Barbara. “Because you’re so pretty,” I said.

                 Barbara looked up. She said nothing. I thought that Joe Sullivan’s words might have made her feel good just like “Let’s get out of here,” made me feel good, but I wasn’t sure. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it, especially the remark, “because you’re so pretty.”  

                We played the jukebox. I picked “Smoke gets in your eyes.” She choose, “You made me love you,” by Nat King Cole.

             “Wanna dance?” I said.

              She stood up and we walked into the other room, past Joe Sullivan. I wasn’t an accomplished dancer. I still did what I learned in seventh grade, the “box” it was called back then. Her perfume smelled wonderful. I wanted to tell her but thought it was too personal. From the side of the room I could see into the bar. Joe Sullivan was still on the corner stool. I maneuvered away from his view. I couldn’t get the two things out of my mind: “Lets get out of here,” and “Some guys have all the luck.” Her eyes - and his.

             The next song began, “You made me love you.” Why did she play that? We danced without talking. When we walked back to our table, I fretted about passing Joe Sullivan. Should I look up?  Say hello? 

              His stool was empty. He was gone.

              We sat at our table, both quiet. Finally I said, “So ...”

              “What?” Barbara said.

              “What’s your perfume?”

              “Sortilege,” She said.

              “It’s nice,” I said.

              An hour later we were back in the car, headed for Goshen. I thought about that identical ride, a decade previous, in Eddie Sadowski’s Mercury, the night I first saw Barbara. This was the same Orange County road, Route 94, to Goshen. I tried to recall the smells and the sounds of that night long ago. I swore I could hear the rumble of Eddie’s muffler and the big kids chortling in the front seat. It made me smile, but I kept the story to myself.

              “Where do you live?” I said.

              “Fifty-four Scotchtown Avenue,” she said and my heart jumped. The address had been stamped in my memory since high school. Was that her house, that night? She was just a youngster; it could not have been her party.

             “You have brothers or sisters,” I said as we rolled into the driveway.

              “An older brother,” she said, “he’s in dental school.” OK, that explained it. I turned off the car, straightened my arms, put both hands on the top of the steering wheel and stretched my fingers, settling in, thinking about what to say. Suddenly I heard the door open. I looked over and saw Barbara getting out. In a second she was walking in front of the car, toward her door.

              I grabbed for the window handle and rolled it down. “You know I’ve been to this house before,” I said, half shouting.

              She stopped, turned my way.

               “It was at a party. I was a little kid, a freshman in high school,” I said.

               She walked back toward the car and leaned down at my window. I looked up, wincing.

              “How’s your hand?” she said.

              “Huh?” I said. I felt sadness fall across my face. Was she mad at me for stretching my hands in the car? For not saying anything?

              I looked up, straight at her. Her eyes glared back. “The one you bent back in the game,” she said.

              It took a minute to sink in. “Goodnight,” she said with a thin smile, slowly backpedaling toward the house.

              “I’ll give you a call,” I offered weakly as she reached the door.

              She went in and I slumped against the steering wheel. I did not want to move or start the car, or drive home. I wanted nothing more than to close my eyes and think about everything, everything that happened tonight and everything from ten years ago – and just wait – stay - right here - in the driveway.

Early Days of My Post-Retirement Career

 

Driving Miss Daisy

                 A short time after I retired, I applied for two jobs. The first application was to “Time Out,” an adult day care center – as the morning driver. Driving Miss Daisy, I called it. They needed my birth certificate (always a challenge to find) and my Social Security Card (hadn’t seen that in a while). I located the birth certificate, but not the SSN card. For that I sent $14.95 to the SS administration.

 

                 Did I ever get the SS Card? Not sure.

 

                 Anyway, a plus about the driving job was that it was somewhat like humanitarian work, and I got paid. And I thought I could contribute. I’d try to get them talking, build familiarity etc. I could do that.

 

                 Years before, my mom had gone to “Time Out” from age 92 until age 96. She died in 1999. She had a friend there, named Frieda. They were good friends, albeit only at “school,” as she called it. But at least they knew each other's name. So I'd have much to do in the sixty minutes of travel, just keeping the passengers actively engaged with one and other.

 

                Ultimately, I got the job. Twenty dollars, two hours per day, a hundred a week - not bad. 

 

Handing Out Towels - Not Qualified

 

I also gave my application to a local fitness center for the job of staff member on duty - the equivalent of handing out towels. The interview was not especially demanding, just general conversation and what shifts could I work.

 

Nevertheless, when the director, Mary, asked me why I wanted the job, I hesitated. She helped me along, “For something to do,” she suggested.

 

I took ever so slight umbrage, because I didn’t want to be lumped in with retirees who were bored because they couldn’t think of anything to occupy themselves. Being thought of that way was not flattering, so I responded, perhaps without enough softness, that no, I wasn’t looking for something to do. I was fully active in carrying out my own “meaningful” life. I wanted the job for the money, which is what I ended up saying.   

 

“Well actually, I’m doing it for the money,” I said. Something like that. 

 

For some reason, this didn’t seem to sit well with Mary. She moved immediately from there to explain the several “employment principles” of the center – essentially, be kind, courteous and helpful at all times.

 

I was well aware of that as the way to behave even outside of the exercise room. Regardless, I nodded agreement. 

 

Anyway, I didn’t get that job.

 

You Want to Volunteer?

 

The third thing I did was go over to Pine Acres which was a nursing home. I talked briefly with some residents, Mary Lou, Bob, Al, Mary, Nancy etc. Mary was by far the most alert. She had five children, she said, then remembered one was killed in a car accident.

 

“Terrible,” I offered, “nothing worse.” My heart ached for her.

 

She nodded agreement, pain on her face.

 

“I hate nursing homes,” she said, “but my children all work. They can’t care for me.” I agreed though I wasn’t certain that she couldn’t be at one of their homes.

 

“Even if a nursing home is nice, it’s not home. Something about it makes you feel alone.” I said this.

 

“Yes.”

 

I stood next to her wheelchair and talked for fifteen more minutes, then bid farewell. I said I’d see her again. “Oh do,” she said in a high pitch, pleading thank-you. I recognized the tone. I had worked – volunteered – in a nursing home for over a year some years ago and was always taken by the need, but even more, the gratitude.

 

                I poked my head into another room. A frail, gray skinned woman was breathing oxygen, holding a plastic mask to her face. It was therapy for her lungs she told me.” Lungs are a problem as you age,” she said.

 

Her roommate asked if I had a newspaper. I said no, but I’d get her one. An aide was in the hallway and she saw me come out, looking around. “What does she want?” she said, rather gruffly.

 

“She wants a newspaper,” I said.

 

“I’ll get it,” the aide said, and marched away as if it was not my place to respond to such requests. I doubted that the newspaper would ever appear.

       

           I stayed about another half an hour – still no newspaper. On my way out I caught the attention of a middle aged woman in business clothes – obviously an administrator.  I related my story that I wanted to visit regularly and thought she should know who I was.

 

I’d been here with my father-in-law, Max, a year previous and had the idea then that when I retired I’d come visit those confined here. I didn’t use the word confined. But thought that maybe I’d even bring Max here.

  

              “You want to volunteer?” she asked.

 

               That sounded too formal, like I’d volunteer for an assigned task, play bingo every M-W-F. I didn’t want that exactly, but I said yes. She took my name and phone number and said that someone would give me a call. I doubted it, just because she didn't look especially pleased.

 

                I thanked her, put on my coat and walked to my car. I thought of how fortunate I was and it registered that much of my good fortune was that I was still relatively young – 67 – and healthy.

 

Yes I was a free man – I was in the world; I was ambulatory, looking at the trees, taking deep breaths, able to drive to California right this moment should I wish. Yes I was alive and healthy, and while not eternal, I retained the belief that I would never be like those I visited today.

 

Silly thought. I’m sure there was a time when each of those inside thought the same.

 

            No one ever called me from Pine Acres.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pre-School Ends Early

 

Wait - What's the Date that Pre-School Ends?
The pre-school (Holy Family) ends its year eight days before the public school. The result being that close to a hundred pre-schoolers are turned loose on their respective care-takers – mostly moms of course – but also, not an insignificant number of grandparents. Count me among the on-duty grandparents.

OK, So What are We Doing Next Week?
It was at the Holy Family after-school playground that I huddled with two moms (P and D, parents of Johnny’s closest friends) to consider our options. P suggested a trip to the zoo. I offered that “I’d rather stick needles in my eyes,” a Jack Nicholson line. No one laughed. Finally we settled on rotating responsibilities – each person takes one day with the three of them. I’d get Tuesday, P Wednesday and D Thursday. Monday and Friday we’d trust to the gods.

               Who Is It?
It's Tuesday morning. Johnny, brought by his “early baby sitter,” is at my door at 8:30. I’ve told the moms I’d be at the town library at 9:30 and that they should show up there with their characters.

In the meantime, until 9:30, John is at my house and making short work of my “neatened” house. I had straightened things up last night in the event that Gina (early morning care person) came in when she delivered John.

               String, Scissors and Duct Tape
I’m still getting my bearings as I settle into the couch with coffee and newspaper when John asks for marking pens. I fetch them.  Back to the couch. Minutes later John, apparently diverted to a ball of string, approaches me dragging a large length of twine. The unraveling ball is visible in the distance on the far side of the room. “Have you got scissors?” he says.

 

I jump up. “Wait, wait, wait,” I say in rapid fire, taking hold of the string. “We don’t want to unravel this,” I emphasize, attempting a kind-hearted-panic tone.

 

I look for scissors, and actually locate scissors (a surprise). I cut off a length of string for John to drag around.

 

I return to the newspaper. Next is a request for duct tape. I look up – try to think. You know how you can picture the duct tape – just recently having seen it – clear as day – somewhere – but where? I know I just saw it. I put down the newspaper and begin an earnest search. The duct tape is not anywhere where it should be. The shelf where I always put tools – no. The kitchen counter, next to the microwave – no. The medicine closet – no. A bookcase shelf, top of the desk, front porch – no, no, no.

 

OK. So what time is it? It’s 8:45. Time is really moving slowly.

How to become famous - March 26, 1969

                

                The year before I turned thirty, when Donna was twenty-eight, we were in the Burger King restaurant in McLean Virginia on the evening of March 25. We were munching fast-food and watching the stream of D.C. commuters circling I-495 around what was called Tyson’s Corner when Donna said, “I think I just got a labor pain.”

 

                At home we counted the minutes between contractions, until finally, at 10 PM we took off, heading fifteen miles North, then East, on I-495, to Bethesda Naval Hospital. At this time Donna's pains were what I would call fierce. I felt especially helpless. I tried to comfort her but nothing helped. Having the baby was the only relief and we both prayed that it would happen soon.

 

We rushed into the hospital, where the doctor on duty examined Donna. He told us that Donna was not sufficiently dilated and could not be admitted. We got back into the car and drove home. A few more hours of continued pain and closer contractions sent us back to the hospital. Another examination. She still wasn’t dilated enough and the doctor suggested that we return home again. We begged him to let us stay and finally he gave in.

 

They put us into a small room where Donna continued to suffer and I did nothing except look on in horror.  Finally as morning came everyone convinced me to go home. I would like to think that I protested, but the fact is that I ended up at home where I slept until mid afternoon.

 

There was no word from the hospital. Stupid as it sounds, I must have assumed that no news was good news because when I got back to the hospital around 4 PM. I recall a feeling that the worst had to be over and all was well. Most likely they just forgot to call me.

 

So I rushed in and inquired and they told me that my wife had given birth to a boy. Just as I breathed a sigh of relief the nurse said, “What was your name again?”

 

“Winchester,” I said.

 

She looked at her colleague. “She had a boy, didn’t she?”

 

The colleague said, “I think.”

 

 “Are you sure?” I said, “I don’t care what it is, I just want to know if she had the baby, if she is OK.”

 

The two of them then marched back through a set of double doors, presumably to check. But they didn’t return anytime soon so I inquired to another nurse. That nurse went back through the same doors and finally they all came back and told me that Donna had not given birth as yet.

 

This convinced me that she must now be dead. She could not possibly have lived this long through the kind of pain she had endured last evening. I asked them to please go back again and be certain that they had the right person. They assured me that they did and that the birth had not happened as yet. I could not see her they told me, as the baby was coming soon. I don’t remember the next few hours except that I called the grandparents and told them everything was O.K. and I would call them soon. I was convinced that all was not well, but I again felt powerless to help.

 

It was almost two hours later that they came out to tell me that Donna gave birth to a girl. They were sure this time.  They told me that I could go in to see her.

 

I stood next to Donna in the hall as she lay on one of those moveable beds with wheels. I held her hand, hugged her and told her over and over how great she was. It was one of those rare and wonderful times when I felt alive and authentic without any distraction. I was completely overwhelmed by this accomplishment of hers.

 

I had to admit that I always had some doubt that a real baby would result from all of this. But apparently here it was, a miracle, and true, and alive and healthy and it was all her doing. I felt an overwhelming admiration for Donna which I could only name as love, but it wasn’t the usual kind where you look at someone and love them because you like how you think they see you. This was different. I was honestly so in awe of her, her alone, that she had actually done this – made a beautiful living creature out of nothing really, and she did it all by herself. 

 

                Moments later I was standing on the bare tile floor in a corridor of the Naval Hospital’s newborn unit peering through a large window into the nursery. On the other side of the glass was my daughter, now an hour old. It was my first look at her. I had always thought that I wanted a boy as my first child. Part of the infatuation that D and I held for each other in our early years included a fantasy about our first child. He would be a boy and we would name him John David. It was an endearing thought for me. I would play football with John David. Donna and I would love him so. He would be beautiful, better than me, with Donna’s good looks. In other words, he would be like her. Except that the first second that I looked at my daughter I knew instantly that I didn't want a boy, any boy. It was this child, this girl that I wanted, that I had always wanted and would ever want.

I didn’t know it at the time, but after the birth of my daughter, I would often ask myself, “How did I ever live before?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In and Around Newport 

At Starbucks, Newport, RI

 

                Coffee in hand, I locate a seat. I sit, look around and take a sip. 

 

                I notice a slight woman nearby. She's dressed in a tank top and shorts. Her cheeks are sunken and her hair matted. She is sitting with her elbows propped on the table, her hands wrapped around a paper cup with tea. The string and tag from the tea bag rest on her knuckle. I notice a dark blotch beneath her left eye. 

 

                A bruise? 

 

                I hope not. 

 

                A very content, handsome baby is next to her chair, on the floor, in a car seat. The woman is running her hand over the floor next to the car seat the way a blind person would search for an object. I see a child’s toy just beyond her reach. I decide to walk toward her.

 

                “May I help you? Are you looking for the toy?” I say.

 

                “Yes,” she responds.

 

                “Are you blind?”

 

                “Yes.”

 

                “Is there anything else that you need? Are you OK?” I ask as I hand her the toy. She concentrates on reaching toward the baby, feeling for the child’s hands, to give him the toy. The baby, takes the toy. I again notice his bright and happy eyes, same as they were without the toy.

 

                “Thank you,” she says.

 

                “You’re welcome,” I say. “Your baby is a beautiful child. A boy?" I add, noticing blue colors.

 

                “Thank you,” she says. “We’re just waiting for my husband. Yes, boy.” 

 

                I hope some more - that the story about the husband is a fact and that he is wholesome looking with a gracious manner, but I don’t stay to witness this. I speculate that the baby looks too good, too wholesome himself, for anything to be amiss. The woman is at a table in the center of the café, people all around her. The staff and other customers seem not to be concerned about her. I conclude that all is OK. That she has been here before, that she is well known in this cafe. 

 

               I wait for a time, several minutes. Eventually I decide to leave, but as I do, stepping out to the street, thoughts of the woman, her baby and her circumstance stay with me.             

               

               For days, and beyond I think about the woman and her child. What could I have done? I could have inquired to the Starbucks staff and made sure all was OK? I should have done that, because despite feeling all was well, at least I would have felt more content.

 

                All I can think is that I did something - I picked up the toy. That's all. 

Out on the Street

It is evening, after dark, I am walking on Thames Street, a main thoroughfare in Newport, RI. 

 

An elderly gentleman approaches me as I'm licking a cone of frozen yogurt. The man is dressed in a plain white tee shirt and long pants. The shirt is old, but it's clean, thin material, a well-worn look, but not wrinkled. He's not a tourist, I decide.

 

“Ice cream cone is not good for you," he says, "not at your age - no,” he says.

 

I look his way, give a half smile and pause, eying him for a second. Finally I offer, “I know. It’s yogurt, but you're right, not good." Then I add, "Nice night for a walk.”

 

To which he responds, “I’ve been in the house for six months. I was afraid to come out. I got very nervous. Every time I came out, I got nervous. The doctors didn’t know anything.”

 

I consider my words. Do I want to start a conversation here? 

 

Finally, I say, “Can you sleep at night?” I think of my own trouble, and try to commiserate.

 

His answer: “My parents were born in the Azores. It’s near Portugal. I have eight brothers and sisters, my father died when I was six. I came here when I was twelve.”

 

Hmmm. 

 

I'm unsure how to respond.

 

“Yeah, well …,” I say, but my thoughts trail off.

 

 Finally I offer, “You’ll be OK, just keep walking, going outside. Don't stay indoors.” I look him in the eye. He seems harmless, my age, maybe a bit older, but with a full head of gray wavy hair, so I add, “You’re a young guy.”

 

“I’m eighty-five.”

 

This does shock me. “Really!" I say, "I’m sixty eight. I thought you were younger than I was. You look it.” This is a minor exaggeration. Though he holds a walking stick, he appears to get on well without it. Plus he converses with full animation, and a strong voice. Never would have guessed his age. 

 

 “No," he says, "you’re a good looking man; you're young looking.” 

The man is eighty five, an apparent agoraphobic, possibly somewhat off mentally and a complete stranger. So why do I feel myself liking his compliment? Plus I am inclined to accept it, like believing him, despite the questionable circumstances. Doesn't take much, I think to myself.

.

                “Yes, yes,” I say, as if to politely dismiss his kind thought. "That was nice of you to say that."

 

“You’ll get married again,” he now says. OK, this is strange. Does he know I'm not married?

 

“Make sure you get married again,” he says, as parting words.

 

"OK," I say, then with a friendly wave I'm on my way.

Continuing my walk, I give this a little thought: Minutes ago I was strolling alone down the main street of this vacation city. I definitely wasn't thinking about getting married, but it did occur to me as I stepped along the sidewalk that it would be nice if I had some company on this night. Then I meet this character and ...

 

Just a little bizarre, no?

 

In the Car, at a Light

                I am in a traffic line waiting for a green light when I notice a man weaving down the sidewalk, coming toward my car. He's a bit unsteady. Suddenly he stops, bends down reaching for something. It's a cigarette butt. 

                He plucks it from the pavement. 

                Straightening up now, still tottering, he holds the cigarette with two fingers in front of his nose -inspecting it. His face is whiskered, and his complexion is purplish, overly tanned. I know the look - homeless plus drugs, I assume.

               Suddenly he flings the butt into the gutter. Not up to standards apparently. 

 

I just happen to be riding with someone (girlfriend) who has a pack of Marlboros and they are sitting next to me on the console between the front seats. I reach over, pull out a new Marlboro. I roll down the window. The man looks at me. I flip the Marlboro his way.  “A cigarette for you,” I say.

 

He hears me and his glistened eyes catch site of the white stick as it falls on the sidewalk in front of him. Again, he bends forward, stretching gingerly toward the pavement, tottering. Suddenly, he lurches ahead. He steps on the cigarette - mashing it.

 

What to do? Still at the light, I grab another. “One more,” I say, tossing the second. He smirks, to himself, eying the cigarette on the walk. With some effort, he gives a half smile to me. I take it as gratitude. He looks back down, trying to focus. He bends slowly again. This time he succeeds.

 

I catch his smile, albeit labored. The light changes and I roll forward. Now I second-guess my humanitarian gesture, a gift of a cigarette. Not humanitarian at all.

 

I look over at my friend. Should I mention again the bad effects of smoking? My friend has her eyes straight ahead. She knows what I'm thinking.

 

“Was that a humanitarian gesture?” I ask.

 

“Not really,” she replies.

 

              We continue on. I decide that I feel good about it regardless.

 Senior Lead Foot

It’s early, on a Saturday morning; the first week of February in Southern California. We’re looking for Interstate 405 leading to San Diego.

I’m the designated driver for daughter and granddaughter. Our destination is a girls’ soccer tournament, ages 10-11. It's called the State Cup. The title, I’m told, is a bit of an overstatement as the implication that the winner is State Champion or best in California is – well – not.

Interstate 405, in these parts, is called The 405. That highway language applies to all of CA as far as I know. Not true however in the rest of the country. Take route 78 going east to west through northern New Jersey. Spoken CA style it would be, take The 78.

Weird.

At age 73, I travel somewhat slow by CA freeway standards. Cars wiz by us as I roll onto the 405. Daughter Brett, age 43, gives me a look. I apply the "old" lead foot – teenage-like. Before long I am up to speed, though not winning any races.

Our conversation keeps pace. I urge Brett to get a Master’s in Nursing (She’s a RN with a Bachelor’s). The usual caveats: time and money. Change of subject, Brett remarks about a funny episode on the “Ellen Show.” Girl in mall deadpans to old guy the spoken lyrics of “We’re never, ever getting back together.” The bemused old guy says, "Do I know you?"

Ha. Ha.

Next topic: Grandson Mike’s telling of his teacher popping popcorn as a demo of volcano pressure. When teacher offers all students a taste, he brags, “No butter or salt,” then warns, “Both those things will kill you.”
 OK.
Another teacher anecdote: Teacher's neighbor had their car battery stolen and thieves left an sincere note of apology along with four Lakers tickets as compensation. That's LA Lakers - basketball.
Got it.
Neighbors, somewhat happy about the trade-off, went to the game. Tickets were great.
Really?
When they got home, as Mike (age 12) tells it, “Whole house gone!!!” 

We laugh out loud at Mike’s rendition, especially his sweeping arms and the words, “Whole house gone!” Meaning, all stolen. For miles afterward I randomly go into hysterics at 65 MPH, laughing so hard that my eyes shut. Each time I fight to get a grip. Every so often Brett simply repeats, "Whole house gone!" waving her arms, and my hysteria is triggered again. This goes on for the remainder of the trip.

Moving on, we pass Camp Pendleton which leads to comments about war and anti-war.

A few more route changes and we arrive at our destination – Marriott.

At the front desk Brett says, “I forgot the confirmation email.”  

The clerk says, “No problem.” She looks for my name.

"Edward?" he says.

Miracle, I think.

Annie disappears into a stairwell, racing off with friends. I hear someone say, “Let’s play hotel tag,” and I think “State Hotel Tag Champs.”

For sure.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cross Country by Train – Tips (Circa 2010)*

  That Sounds Like Fun

 

When I tell people that I’m taking a train across the country, without exception, the response is, “Oh – that sounds like fun.”

 

Yes – true – but there is a caveat – or three.

 

  Cost (See Amtrak.com for precise charges)*

The cost of a “coach” trip across the USA rivals air travel. It’s in the $400-500 dollar range, but if you’re over 30 and you want to enjoy the trip, you’ll want a room. Amtrak calls this “first class.”Unfortunately, like air travel, first class adds approximately $1,250 to the cost.

 

A room helps you get a good night's sleep, plus you get a bathroom. So we’re talking $1,650 for a six-day, meals included, round trip vacation across the country. For two (bedroom as opposed to roomette) the round-trip cost would be around $2,500, again with meals.

 

* FYI: post pandemic prices (2022) are through the roof: $6,000.00+ for bedroom, cross-country round trip. That plus service (trains) is cut in half. Prohibitive in my book.

 

  Free Meals with Your Room

Let's say free meals will save you $50 per day/per person for the six days. As a pretend restaurant critic I'd rate the food as good to very good (for some reason you’re always hungry at mealtime). A bonus is the atmosphere - five stars for the view. 

 

  Rooms and bathrooms – more details.

There are two types of rooms: roomette and “regular” room (called a bedroom, viewliner room or superliner room, depending on the train). Both afford privacy, a not-small point for adults. Plus there are two window seats in every room. Good as well. 

 

Note: If you are under thirty or the gregarious type you might actually prefer the coach (sleep sitting up) experience. Depending on the make-up of your car’s population, the coach car may actually “come alive” after the first over-night which, in itself, can add to the trip. You know, meet new friends and all that.     

 

  The Roomette

The roomette is a two person room. You're knee to knee and face to face when sitting (comfortably) during the day, but even better sleeping bunk-bed-style at night. Dimensions are 3'6" x 6'6", I’m fine with it.** Also on the NYC to CHI run there is a bathroom in the roomette – or toilet anyway – under the sink, which folds up (think wall-bed) and voila. OK, so you could kiss the knees of a passer-by in the outside hallway, you are that close, but there is an opaque curtain between you and the hall aisle. Oh - and you’ll have to kick your roommate out unless you’re accustomed to visitors in your bathroom standing at about the proximity of your normal reading material. Still, it’s not a port-a-john. It’s yours alone. Much better.

 

Another advantage of the NY-CHI leg roomette is that the upper bunk has a window (less coffin-like) through which you can spy on the outside world from the comfort of an invisible pitch-black perch. I actually love this. Not sure if I should admit it but it seems safe (read ethical) – and deliciously anonymous.   

 

** A confession: My daughter and I actually rode CHI to NY with two adults and three very small children (highly illegal according to Amtrak) in a roomette. We survived. It wasn’t bad.

 

 

  The Bedroom, Viewliner/Superliner

This is a larger room that accommodates two adults and two small children comfortably. Dimensions are 6'6" x 7'6". I say comfortably here because, don’t forget, you can walk about on a train. The two primary destinations are the dining car and the lounge car. The snack bar with seats and tables is adjacent to the lounge and open to all. Of course your dining car time is limited (you must be chewing or about to) but the lounge car and snack area is yours as long as you like. Traditional seat-saving rules apply, i.e. a draped coat and hat – Yes. A half empty soda bottle – No.

 

  Book Early

Caveat: Amtrak prices vary like airlines. The earlier you book the reservation the lower the cost. You’ll also want to book early to get a room. They sell out early, especially at peak travel times. Trust me on this. Again see www.amtrak.com.

  First Class

When you have a room Amtrak refers to you as a “first class” traveler. Try to contain your excitement. It is something that my daughters and I joke about. We’ve done it both ways – first class and coach. First class gives you privacy, free meals, private bathrooms and access to the “first class” lounge inside the stations (good for luggage storage), when waiting for your train at either Chicago or New York and other spots (no such lounge at L.A. however).

 

Also you board first - well that’s not so important since the room is reserved, but as a coach traveler I always felt compelled to race to the train to get a good unreserved coach window seat (a must for me) when the boarding announcement was made.  In "first class" your seat (room) is reserved. No racing. 


  The Amtrak Crawl
Contrary to popular opinion Amtrak doesn't always, as the song says, Roll along past houses, farms and fields.Well - it rolls, just not always swiftly.

The issue, in "Train Speak," is that Amtrak does not own the track. You’ll hear this repeated often by the on-board staff. Every once in a while a freight train (the owner of the tracks) will either be plodding along up ahead or will want Amtrak to get off to the side so the freight can pass. When this happens you either slow to a crawl or head for a siding track and wait. Exasperating to say the least. As for the train staff, you know that they know what’s happening, and they're happy to tell you if you can find them.

As for the passengers, there's a common refrain: Anybody know what’s happening? 

You worry about missing the connection in Chicago, arriving too late for dinner at La Posada in Winslow, AZ (highly recommended, staying at La Posada), or missing the beautiful scenery of Glacier National Park due to darkness (always the case, I never saw this in half dozen trips).

You can almost count on at least one extended “crawl” (or worse) on each cross-country trip and the three scenarios above – missing connections, dinner, scenery, yes - been there, done that.

But, all in all, no problem - I love trains. I’d do it all again, and I have. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

   Tuesday in the Park with John (Val & Francis also)

 

We are on our way to the park, five-year-olds, John, Val, and Francis, along with 71-year-old child care person (me). During the trip a discussion ensues between John and Val about who had the biggest injury last week.

 

                  The Wind Blows the Blood

 

Val cut his toe on the trampoline. John fell from his bike on the driveway, wearing shorts. Both claim excessive bleeding. John says that he had a lot of blood. Val says blood from his toe cut was so much that it was going up his whole leg.

 

John says, “It can’t do that.”

 

Val says it can.

 

“How can it?” John disputes.

 

 “The wind blew it up,” Val says.

 

John calls on me, “Papa, Can it? Can wind blow blood up a leg?”

 

I side with my grandson but with a caveat for Val, “Only if it was a very strong wind and Val was lying down.”

 

“Were You?” John asks.

 

No answer.

                It's Someone's Mother, I Hope 

We arrive at the park. There’s a festive crowd; it’s lunchtime and more than one picnic is in progress.

I spot a person my age – grandma. “On duty today?” I inquire. It’s a conversation starter.

 

“Oh yes,” she says. “Monty, Valerie, no more hiding from me.” She turns to me. “It’s easy to lose them here.”

 

I agree. “Siblings?” I ask.

 

“They’re cousins.”

 

Her cell phone rings. “Oh, someone’s calling, one of the mothers, I hope,” she says which indicates that this grand ma wants to be off duty – seems to feel it’s beyond her quitting time actually.

 

She puts the phone to her ear. “Hi where are you?” she says. Another indication that she’s done – or should be. She hangs up. “OK,” she says, “We’re going.”

 

“Have a good one,” is all I say, though I would have liked to have talked more with this person. Something about her manner, the accepted exasperation with a hint of humor that drew me to her. But I will never see her again. A missed opportunity to commiserate.

 

Anyway, what time is it? OK it’s 12:15.

 

                        Reserved Seats Only

Seats are at a premium here, at least, that is, space that is not “reserved” with strategically placed water bottles, hats, or opened books turned over. There are but three aluminum picnic tables, with seating benches on each side.  At one, lunch is in full swing. Mothers fuss with myriad food containers, nudging them here and there across the table top. Enough Mylar balloons for a lift-off are anchored to the legs of another table. I suspect a birthday party.

The third table is relatively vacant so I saunter toward it. Of the two seat benches one is less occupied, empty but for a single half filled water bottle perched in the middle. Not enough, I reason, to reserve the entire bench. I sit down at the near end. 

                          It’s the Pregnancy

A mom approaches, seemingly in pain, her hand on the back of her hip. Sciatica she announces with a groan as she slides onto the opposite end of the bench. She’s obviously hobbled. I glance in her direction. There is a collective sympathetic “Oh,” from nearby moms.

 

I consider joining the discussion. I know a thing or two about sciatica – back pain etc. I’m 71 – expert on this. I roll over some thoughts – what to say? Another mother offers, “It’s the pregnancy – for sure.”

 

This brings a chorus of agreement. Pregnancy is the verdict. I exclude myself from the discussion - opt out, no comment.

 

                Tip: Don’t Slice the Strawberries

 

I try to spot the kids. Where’d they go? Oh, there they are. OK, I lower my head, rest my eyes. This is when I notice on the ground, right at my feet, upwards to fifty nicely sliced strawberries, covered with dirt.  It makes me chuckle. Am I laughing at another’s misfortune? I suppose I am.

 

I try to imagine the scenario.  

 

Mom – or grandmom - is up before everyone, in the kitchen dutifully slicing each berry into a shaved quarter.

She is humming softly. A thought enters - Why am I slicing every single berry? Don’t ask- she tells herself - she just wants to, or maybe that they are more likely to be eaten. She, dismisses the thought, continues slicing. Finally, she finishes, packs them, neatly, into a Tupperware container. Kids will like these, she thinks.

 

And now this. The strawberries are covered in dirt.

 

Seriously I would have picked them up - scooped them right back into the Tupperware, to take home later and wash them. Yes, yes, … don't tell me. I know. Trying to feed one of the children the dropped strawberries, would go something like this:

 

“Euew!! I’m not eating them.” This would be the oldest of her three.

 

 “You know what? Shut up!” That would be the sweet mother.

 

I would love to hear that. The sweeter, the gentler, the more darling the mother the more I like it. It doesn’t sound at all mean, not at all, coming from her – sounds loving even. Why does it make me feel good?

 

So how did they get on the ground? I’m betting on her own little Johnny, age 4, wanting one strawberry, yanks at the Tupperware lid as he holds the container against his chest. Mom/Grandmom does not notice this. She is in the middle of gentle laughter with her contemporaries, catching up on news. Anyway that’s my guess.

 

But of course, I don't know if any of this happened, really. I know only that the dirt at my feet is littered with strawberries and that they had been assiduously sliced and intended for someone to eat, which I also know also, did not happen …and never will happen.

 

 

                      

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gridder Grandpa, Fall 2010

 

The year had three seasons in 1950: baseball, football and basketball. It was a time before kids had travel teams, when Cardinal caps were worn only by real Cardinals, when the two-handed set shot was in and though the drop-kick was going out of favor, placekicks were still done with the toe.

 

My favorite thing in all of life in those years was playing baseball in the backyard, after dinner with my dad and brother. I was the pitcher and dad, choking up on the bat, tapped out flies and grounders to me and brother John, an outfielder a few paces behind, and me. 
    

Sixty years later, I am a grandpa. As I walk through my door today I notice that there is a message on my phone. I press the button and listen.

 “Papa, can you come over and play football with Mike and me bye”

It is grandson Eddie, age 6 and Mike is a play date friend. I arrive shortly and immediately begin to explain the various rules of football: the goal lines, out of bounds, four chances (called downs) to score and … I notice that their interest seems to wane so I forgo things like line of scrimmage, declaring if your kicking on fourth down (kid games only), and laterals versus the forward pass … etc.

Even so Ed interrupts my abbreviated explanations and calls out the teams, “Mike and me against you and Johnny.”

“OK we’ll kickoff,” I announce.

Johnny (age 4) is standing at my side protesting with some words, but mostly screams. I think he wants to hold the ball so I address him directly, “We’re kicking off, John, OK you kick, and I’ll hold it.” The yelps continue so I surmise that that wasn’t the issue. Finally I relent, “OK you hold,” I say, “I’ll kick.” This should be good, I think. 

 

I give John the ball to hold for my kick. He immediately takes off running, dashing about like “Wrong-way-Corrigan.”
 

“Hey, John! Where are you going? We have to kick,” I shout as Ed and Mike take up the chase. Well this, ... it’s like football, I reason.

“Hey! You guys,” I yell. This doesn’t stop them, but the four-year-old trying to elude two six-year-olds is doomed. Brother Ed soon wrestles John to the ground, trying to grab the ball. Johnny resists, screams some more and manages to heave the ball onto the neighbor’s yard.

“OK, OK” I say, trying to restore order. 

 

I go retrieve the ball.

Eventually a "game" gets going. It’s now me alone against Mike and Ed. Johnny has quit. He is sitting on the swing set which is fine with me.

Ed and Mike are both first graders. I'm a retired teacher. Age 70. 

It is a little surprising, the effort that I must put forth to tag them. Though the game has been ruled two-hand touch, neither Ed nor Mike stops running when I touch them with both hands. They don't even bother to claim "one hand" when I do tag them. Instead they just continue on, tear away, race the length of the field, and shout “touchdown,” raising their arms in celebration. 

 

Fine.  I change from touch to grab and hold.

 

I score touchdowns too, but don’t celebrate. I am, however, much pleased with my ability to dodge these just beyond toddler characters –  age six -  and am not the least bit self-conscious that in the end I win the game, something like 30-24, by my count, which I keep track of in my head, but out of modesty don’t broadcast. My victory, may I say, was mainly the result of quite impressive swivel-hip running on my part, against the obviously out-classed six-year-olds. I know my adversaries are only six, but the swivel-hipping was enough to get me thinking about that nineteen yard run I had against Lafayette College, fifty years ago - when I was out in the open, why didn’t I do a swivel-hip then? Doubtless I was even better at it then and so I think about it sadly now, that perhaps I could have gone all the way on that November day in 1961.  

 

Back to reality - I am especially fond of Mike’s compliment on my performance. He offers it in a tone of what I feel is genuine reverence. I quote: “You’re really great!” is what he says, and more than once, starting after my third touchdown run. I hope that he tells his mom, who I secretly have a crush on, albeit thirty, or more, years my junior. 

 

The next day I literally, cannot walk one step. Baker’s cyst it is called. I looked it up online. It’s a major flare-up and it feels like a golf ball size knot behind each knee.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Life that is Blessed, Morning rituals - September 2010

 

I am at my daughter Ashley’s home. I am the hired-hand, the morning chauffer for three school children, ages 4, 6, and 8. I also feel a responsibility to help with any and all pre-departure tasks, which vary, depending on the day. 

 

Ashley is in the backyard, standing with her arms folded below her ribs, glaring at a small dog on the grass in front of her. The dog and Ashley appear to be in a stare-down contest. I hear Ashley say, “Go!” The dog, his name is Max, doesn’t blink. Finally, Ash says, “OK, forget it.” She picks up the rabbit sized dog and tramps up the deck stairs into the house. I follow her in. I can see that she is hurried. It is early morning. She is a teacher, special education, and needs to get going. 

 

Inside, Johnny, age 4, is not happy. Crying? He is protesting going to his pre-school. The summer with mommy at home is still fresh in his mind. From the sound and the redness of John’s watery eyes the crying does not appear to be fleeting. Ashley is carrying breakfast to the table. She flings over a flap edge of the tablecloth; half uncovering one side of the Magic-Marker blemished bare wood table and sets down a plate of pancakes for Eddie (6) and two flakey pop-tarts for Johnny.

Eddie, big brother, always alert to little bro's business, inquires, “Why did you give him so much icing on his pop tarts?”

OK - Pop tart? Had my mom mentioned a pop-tart to me as a child I would have conjured an image of a sour soda. You know soda pop? But that’s beside the point. OK, point being: Pop-tarts are purchased ready-made - with icing. Anyway ...

Ashley counters with, “That’s not so much icing.”

My thought: "Why does Eddie care?"

Eddie’s breakfast is pancakes, filled with chocolate chips. Like wheels on suitcases, chocolate chips in pancakes is a recent phenomenon, and like the wheels, did not require the brain of a rocket scientist to invent. Ed smothers his pancakes with syrup made of High Fructose Corn Syrup, Water, Cellulose Gum, Salt, Artificial Flavors, and Natural Flavors, Sorbic Acid, and Sodium Benzoate, (Preservatives), Caramel Color(seriously?), Sodium Hexametaphosphate. In other words, not food – or ... somewhat like pop-tarts.

Back in the 1940s, my brother and I used to refer to syrup in large doses as “Enough to sink a battleship.” It must have been the WWII influence because I don’t hear that phrase today. 

Ashley is preparing a small tumbler of liquid Motrin for Emma (8) who is suffering the trauma of what is called a pallet expander.
       
Motrin ingredients – Active: Ibuprofen 100mg (NSAID)* in each 5 mL (1 tsp)
 Inactive ingredients -  acesulfame potassium, anhydrous citric acid, FD&C Red #40, flavors, glycerin, polysorbate 80, pregelatinized starch, purified water, sodium benzoate, sucralose, sucrose, xanthan gum
Hmmmmm - inactive? Guess it could be anything, and can’t hurt you as long as it’s inactive.

Anyway, a pallet expander - to a child this would be best described as a miniature medieval torture device. I’m guessing that it is a recent invention like the chocolate chip pancakes but it may have taken an actual rocket scientist to dream this one up. It’s supposed to correct tooth alignment, something like braces (more or less). Depending on the personality of the child a side effect of the pallet expander is starvation. The good news is that 8 year olds are still able to kiss other 8 year olds with pallet expanders. This is an improvement over braces, where there was the prospect of locking braces – albeit no known cases in modern history.

 

Ashley places two glasses of liquid in front of Emma, one fruit juice the other milk. Emma is sitting sideways at the table, a bit pushed back. I recognize this posture from the antics of my own children a generation ago. It’s the “I’m not eating” protest posture.   

 

Why is it that many children do not want to eat? More to the point – do not want to eat anything you want them to eat. Has anyone figured this out? I think it has something to do with the knowledge that eating is the one thing that they control entirely. That has to be it.

 

I don’t know what Eddie eats (his paper plate is already in the garbage), but John has begun whimpering again and is now hauling his plate of pop-tarts toward the garbage container under the sink. Dad intercepts him here, holding John’s arm. Johnny begins to slowly tilt his plate, slanting it like the bed of a dump-truck.  The fact that Johnny is turning the plate ever so slowly and looking at his dad’s eyes impresses me because it distracts his father’s gaze. Just as the tart is about to slide off dad recovers.

 

“Johnny!” What are you doing?” He grabs the plate and the pop-tarts.

 

I go into the other room, look out the front window. I hear a fight developing over the TV remote, between Emma and Edward. I walk into the TV room knowing there is no solution to this problem.

 

I had it first. I was watching this. No you weren’t. Was too. As I said - no solution.

 

I try to think of an enforceable rule. OK you get it today, she gets it tomorrow. That never works. Nobody wants it tomorrow. So I think to myself, “Forget it. Nothing will work.”

 

Instead I say, “OK, give me the remote. No more TV!”

 

It’s a miracle. Emma goes upstairs to brush her hair. Ed opens a book. They both seem to accept my edict. That’s it, that’s all you have to do? Be stern (difficult), be fair (no such thing) and try your utmost to speak calmly (difficult). Most important, do not care about the result – ever - and don’t get your hopes up is all I can say.

 

It is still early but I announce that Ed and Emma should get into the car. “Get your backpacks. Get your shoes on.” I get Johnny on the couch and begin the shoe business. His feet do not cooperate. Were I a parent of young children today I would NOT have children take shoes off when they come in the house - ever. Keep them on until you go to bed. Put them back on in the morning as soon as you get out of bed. “Shoes are either under your bed or on your feet. That’s the rule!” Emphasize this. Probably it would never work, but it’s a good idea. No?  Or you could sleep with your shoes on. That might be even better.

 

Emma and Eddie start trudging to the car. Dad says he will take Johnny.  

 

On the way to school I am told that I drive too slowly.

“Why do you?” Eddie wants to know.

 

"Because I have precious cargo," I say. Not sure if Eddie gets it.

 

At school I watch them trudge up the walkway, Ed with backpack, Emma, with a small suitcase on wheels. It is my favorite moment. They book in - post haste – with focused urgency like a commuter late for a train. The scene warms my heart. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Summer Night in July

 

It is a very warm, humid July night in NJ. The children, five grand-kids, are in Grammy’s condo wrecking havoc – and loudly. I offer a fix. I will take them up to the play area for fun and games. Everyone thinks this is a good idea. So, moments later I am marching up the road, pointing for the tennis court/basketball court. The five children, ages 4 through 9, precede me.

 

We start out with a baseball game.  First base is a puddle, second a flattened tennis ball can, and third, Johnny’s shirt. The basketball goal support is the backstop, with home plate in front. I never get up to bat in the baseball game but do my share of dashing about on my sore seventy year-old knees, chasing fly balls and grounders and then trying to tag the speedy runners.  Trust me, it’s an effort.

 

After numerous innings we thankfully switch to a basketball game. Here, it’s me against all. My thought is that I’ll show my skills but let them win. I enjoy a large height advantage, so I effectively control the game. Somehow I manage to lose by more than I plan, primarily because the long distance shots that I heave up in a futile attempt to inspire admiration are all inaccurate – arthritis in the wrist is my excuse - and so I surrender and lose 11 – 5 (or 22 – 10).  My left wrist aches.  Johnny, age 4, tells me I stink at basketball.*

 

Back at my own home at evening’s end I am in front of the TV watching a documentary about baseball in the 1950s.  There is a replay of the old Who’s on First? Abbot and Costello skit I actually laugh out loud. Moments later I literally cry watching Willie Mays and Roy Campanella and Kurt Flood talk about their beginnings in the days of severe racial prejudice.

 

* OK, couldn't let this pass: Fifty-plus years ago I was leading scorer and player-of-the-year in Orange County, NY Village League (very tiny schools) high school basketball. 

 

So,  … "stink at basketball?" No way.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

1, 2, 3, 4 ... when you're dead, infinity - March 2010

 

With the grandchildren, as with my own children, I often feel overwhelmed with a feeling of love for them. I try to contain the feeling at times - don’t know exactly why - but more often I let it go and say "I love you" whenever the mood strikes.

 

So invariably a few times per day I can be heard asking Johnny, “John – how much does papa love you?”

 

John varies his response. He either gives back a number or recites the learned answer, “Too much.”

 

Today it’s the numbers.

 

“Ten,” he says.

 

“More than that,” I say.

 

“A hundred.”

 

“More than that.”

 

“A billion.”

 

“Nope more.”

 

“A thousand hundred.”

 

“Still more,” I say.

 

“When you’re dead?” he says.

 

John is four.

 

In recent months, I don’t recall, but it is possible that he has asked someone in the family, when I would be dead. Perhaps he was prompted by riding in the car past the cemetery on Ridgedale Avenue. Not sure, but the response could have been something like “A long time.”

 

So I’m guessing that he figured that the answer to ‘when I’d be dead’ was something bigger than 70, which he knows is my age now. He then, likely, put two and two together and calculated that “when I’d  be dead” was indeed a very big number, and therefore a good answer to “How much does papa love you?” Among other things.

 

Smart huh?

 

To John, the “when you’re dead” number is a real number, nothing imaginary like the square root of a negative number. I don’t know where it fits exactly in his counting sequence but just last week Johnny and I were in the grocery store and he pointed to some cookies that he wanted.

 

“Too much money,” I said.

 

“How much are they?” he said.

 

“Lots.”

"How much," he pleaded.

"Lots," I repeated. 

 

So he guessed, “When you’re dead?”

 

There was a mother and daughter in the aisle with us and she let out a gasp, then laughter.

 

“Did she get it?” I wondered.

 

I’m not sure that, without our experience together, I would have connected the dots relative to John’s words, but it seemed that the young mother did. Or perhaps she was only responding to the sound of the phrase itself. Four-year-old in the grocery store talking to old grandpa – and he shouts, “When you’re dead.”

 

Sort of funny, no?

 

Or, my take: adorable.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The fossils - March 2011

 

Johnny asked me yesterday, “Papa, did the fossils kill Jesus?” At age 4+, he’s in his last year of Catholic pre-school. 

 

“Fossils?” I say.

 

“Yes, the fossils.”

 

What? You mean fossils, those imprints in rocks - of insects and leaves?”

 

“No not fossils – fossils”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Not fossils, fossils, there’s an ‘A’”

 

“You mean Pharisees?”

 

“No fossils. with A”

 

“Oh – apostles!”

 

“Yes. Did they kill Jesus Papa?”

 

“No they were his friends.
 

"Who killed Jesus?"
 

" … ahhh … bad people, not the apostles.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Super handy power mower mechanic guy - 2011

 

A power lawnmower, vintage 2007 has a starter cord that you yank to get it going. It also has a choke, usually a rubber bubble-ball that is pressed to send gas into the carburetor (carburetor, is that right?). So on Sunday when I got out to mow the lawn, I press the bubble and yank the cord, except that the pull of the cord meets with a stronger than usual resistance. I try again and again. It seems to be getting more difficult. Finally it won’t budge at all. I step back to rest. I look at the mower, trying to contemplate its age - then I mentally divide the cost - I guess $175 – by the 3 years I’ve owned it, and arrive at a little less that $60 per year. “Ok, maybe this mower is shot,” I think, “Time for a new one.” 

 

I give it another try. I pull the cord again. Now it’s completely, frozen (not the right word, I know), tangled or knotted maybe. Several more tries and finally I give up. If I could take it apart, I could probably see the problem and untangle the cord if that’s the issue, which it most likely is – I guess. I look over the mower and notice some screws/bolts holding the various pieces together. I go inside and look for wrenches. I locate ratchet wrench set in a box with a handle and a number of round wrench fittings. 

 

None of the wrench fittings fit the various bolts. 

 

I see another box. More individual wrench fittings, no handle though. Seriously? How does the handle disappear?

 

OK, back to the mower. There’s a plastic guard cover. I loosen two screws and remove it. OK. The next candidate for removal is the part that contains the wheel that the pull cord wraps around. I look for bolts, screws and spot maybe four, maybe eight. The only wrench fittings that fit are the ones with no handle. I spend a good half hour trying to find the missing handle. No luck.      

 

I decide to wait until tomorrow.

 

Tomorrow comes. I’m at the mower again. I locate a ratchet screwdriver with fittings that work for some of the screws/bolts.  

 

After much labor – loosening screws in positions that only a career mechanic could access – I manage to lift off the top. Whoops – the whole cord assembly comes off with the top too. OK – wow. Though all I have done is remove eight screws, I am quite proud of myself. Thus I start imagining an ultimate triumph. I've actually fixed a broken lawn mower.  I begin to construct my successful super-handyman story as I continue dismantling the mower. Whom will I tell?

 

Holding the removed assembly in my hand I tug the cord. No resistance. Hmmmmm. I peer down at the mower, see the flywheel (is that the name?). There’s a brake pad pressing against the flywheel. I immediately deduce that it is this that is keeping the flywheel from turning. Then it hits me. With my hand I clamp the safety handle and the brake pad disengages. Then it hits me again. The reason that the cord could not be pulled – way back when - is that I was not holding down the safety handle – something I have done for - I multiply 25 lawn mowings per year by 3 years and come up with 75 -  so that’s for each of the past 75 uses of the mower.

 

OK, so I didn’t really have to take apart the mower. You see – the flywheel is locked by a brake-pad whenever the safety handle is not clamped snug with the push-handle. Everyone knows that.

 

Perhaps not all mowers are constructed like this (this is a guess), however I suspect they are. Face it - dumb me. Still I feel somewhat mechanically inclined. Actually, I’m pretty much super handy about things. I just took apart a whole mower.

 

Ok, moving on, I'll admit that putting mowers back together is not really my forte.  Witness that I spend the better part of the day on this task and succeed – mostly – save for one extra bolt and one rather large hard rubber washer – where did that come from?

 

I try to start the mower – the ultimate test.

 

It starts. Cool! I feel accomplished – somewhat. There is a bit of a clanking sound. The extra bolt, or rubber washer, I deduce, belongs somewhere, and needs to be put back in. The clanking is mostly noticeable at startup. I go into the garage and look for the washer. I give it fifteen minutes. I can't find the washer. Back to the mower. I start it up again. Still going, but a definite clanking.

 

I tell myself that it is God’s will. If He/She wanted to stop the clanking then … well you get the idea. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stories D'Amour

 

Nothing we (speaking for myself) like more than to tell someone one of our love stories. Young or old, they’ve always popular, especially with the one doing the telling. Don’t know if their popularity increases as we age, but it seems certain that the thoughts of past love does not diminish. To an extent I think that it may even grow, as it blurs. Perhaps, however, there are not as many people around to listen. That’s another thing.

 

Max, my father-in-law, had a favorite love story. Right before Alice Shrade died she told her daughter, “Call Max Dopson and tell him I died.” Alice was Max’s high school girlfriend and Max came to NJ to live with his daughter when he was ninety. He lived to 96 and in the six years he and I logged a good many hours together, riding in the car, long walks, breakfast, lunch, you name it, just the two of us, to and from on various excursions. I probably heard the “Alice Shrade Story” (among others) a dozen times.

 

Obviously it made Max feel wonderful the he was remembered. And it was a love story that I enjoyed hearing as well. And could I just take a moment here to apologize to Max for, more than once, blurting out the punch line? Sorry Max.

 

Max would start the story – no segue required – “You know Alice Shrade, she was my girlfriend. She passed away. And when she died, you know what she said to her sister …?” This is where – a couple of times – I would butt in,  “Yes I know – ‘tell Max Dopson’.”

 

“Right,” Max would say.

 

“That’s nice, isn’t it?” I'd say.

 

“Yes, that she thought of me.”

 

And so we would continue our drive, rolling along the road, life’s highways, we the living.  

 

I liked Max’s Alice Shrade story, enough so that I thought perhaps I should think of a person or two to tell of my passing (I was born in 1940). Not so much that they would be informed, but if they were anything like Max, or me, despite some sadness, I think that it would make them feel good and perhaps some day they would tell the story to their grandchild, the story of how I thought of them, right before I passed away. Something nice to leave someone - no?

 

It sure made Max happy ...  to be remembered so.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Remembering Field Day, 2009

     

   Yesterday I walked down the block, with Emma, age eight, a distance of five houses. She started to run at the halfway mark and I chased after her, laughing and shouting, “I’ll catch you.” 

I didn’t come close. 

What I did, was pull a hamstring. I guess the truth is now if I were to enter a field day race at Briarwood Elementary School against eight-year-olds, I could neither win, nor finish in the money. Actually, I probably couldn’t finish. 

I should mention here that, at age 10, I won the field day fifty yard dash in the fifth grade in Warwick, NY at the high school track, circa 1950, but lost by a step in the sixth grade to Brad Piggery.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My greatest accomplishment - 10/2010

 

The kids get home from school around 3:15 or so by the time we roll into the driveway. They have about fifteen minutes before we must leave again to take Emma to swimming practice which starts at 4:00. 

At 3:30 I make the first announcement, shouting like a train conductor,“Ok its 3:30 lets go, we’re leaving in five minutes - shoes, jackets.” 

On this particular day I walk out to the car to get some of the school junk from the back seat, drawings, lunch bags, odds and ends left on the seat from the ride home from school. Eddie and John race out. “I’ll beat you,” Ed says. 

I notice Emma is coming out also, swim bag over her shoulder. “They’re fast today,” I think.

 

“Wait,” I shout, “Don’t shut the door.”

 

The door slams. It’s too late. My keys, to the car and to the house, are inside.

 

I try to think. I'm frozen.  “What can we do?” 

I look at the house. A minute passes. 

Finally I try the windows that are reachable from the deck. No dice – all are locked. I walk around the house, the side, front, the other side. I'm done for.

I spy the kitchen window, nine feet from ground level. I attempt to stand on the foundation ledge and push against the screen. It is a hard go. The ledge is slanted. My attempts to grab the sill don't work. Finally, in one motion, I spring onto the ledge and shove at the screen. The screen goes up. I push on the glass; the window goes up. Hallelujah! Finally an open window, but it is nine feet off the ground. 

 

I step back, look again. The kids are behind me, watching, fearful, hopeful.

 

I notice the hose spigot. I test its strength with my foot. It's fair. I put half my body weight on it, then step back to the ground. OK, now I coil like a shot-putter pushing off with one leg, the other leg on the spigot. Miraculously I am able to grab the sill of the nine foot high window, so in the same motion I continue pulling myself upward with two hands on the sill, like getting out of a pool. My head brushes the open sash as I try to force head and shoulders through the opening. I need to force myself inside more. I push down with my hands. My body raises slightly, extending a bit more of my torso into the kitchen, I try to straighten my arms for more leverage; they weaken. 

I am seventy-one years old. Did I mention that? 

Finally I collapse. With my legs still hanging outside, my ribs crash down onto the aluminum track of the screen. I hear a sharp snap and feel the tear in my rib cartilage. I let out a scream, then several more screams - louder.

“Are you OK?” the kids shout. The three of them are standing on the grass some ten feet below the window.

I keep screaming.  Again they ask, “Are you OK?”

 

“No,” I say.

 In the kitchen, my forehead rests on the sink. I give off a few more moans. I’ve done this rib cartilage thing before, each time thinking, be more careful. But I hadn’t counted on this situation.

 

Slowly I pull myself onto the kitchen counter; my knees are in the sink. I lower my feet to the floor. The rib doesn’t feel so bad I think. I spy my keys on the table.

 

With keys in hand I head back out. “OK, let’s get in the car,” I announce. I am wobbling as I walk to the car, truly hurting, but – honestly - I am also extremely proud of my Spiderman wall scaling antics. 

“Are you OK?” Emma says again.

“Not really,” I say, but what I am thinking is that no one - not one person - in this whole world is going to appreciate what I have just done. I can tell them about it and they will likely respond that I should always keep my keys in my pocket – don’t lay them down in the house. There will not be one word about how utterly amazing that I - at age seventy-one  - could shimmy up a nine foot wall of house siding by merely stepping on a hose spigot and then - believe it or not – actually hoist my full body weight up and into and through the small window opening above the sink. All of this as three children looked on in both horror, and perhaps, awe, from below like creatures from the land of Lilliputians. I mean seriously! But that’s it. It’s over. There is no video.

 

And I should not have left my keys in the house.

 

As we go out the driveway I can’t resist asking, “Was that amazing? Or what?”

“Papa,” Eddie says.

“Yeah, what?” I’m waiting for a question like, “How did you fly all the way up there?” It must have looked amazing from their perspective, from so far below. 

 

“What, Ed?” I repeat.

 

“Why didn’t you use the ladder?”   

 

“Huh?”   

Looking for it - circa 1985  

 

 It is early evening, a Friday, I’m getting ready to go out (read - looking for a girlfriend). I’m 45 years old, single (read – divorced) and father of two girls - Brett, 15 and Ashley, 13. I’m in the basement of my house, a pair of pants draped on my arm. Moments ago, before the full-length mirror, I spied crow’s feet wrinkles at the top of each pant leg. So I hustled to the basement and got out the ironing board.  After a few presses the phone rings upstairs. I scale the five steps in two jumps. “Hello,” I say.

 

"Dad!”

 

“Yes.” I say. It’s daughter Brett.

              "Dad - OK can you pick up Cindy and Robin?”

              "Yeah no problem, what time,” I say

             “Leave in three minutes,” she says.

            “I’ll go as fast as I can, but not three minutes. I'm ironing here.”

 

The kids are always rushing and every minute counts. Were we like that? Of course not. We took our time - walked everywhere. Isn’t that the claim? Anyway, three minutes - is she serious? Nevertheless, I agree to step on it.

 

The cat meows at my feet. “Look, Socks, you want food right? You see what that is?” I point to the dry food dish. Socks continues to circle my ankle, meowing with each half-turn, indifferent to the food. “And do me a favor, use the litter box tonight, not the kitchen rug, got it?” I don’t think Socks gets it. I return to ironing, but after one leg I go back upstairs and dial Ash (youngest daughter).

 

“D, is Ash there?” I say. 

 

“Hold on," she says.

 

D is the first wife - ex. She has a boyfriend.

 

Wherever she’s headed tonight it will not be, as I - looking for it. Such thoughts pass through my mind as I wait for Ash.

 

Ash comes to the phone. “Ash, where are you sleeping tonight? Sleep at my house, we’ll go for breakfast in the morning.”

 

“OK, maybe.”

 

“OK, anyway, I’ll leave the lights on and the key under the mat. OK?”

 

Back to the pants. The doorbell rings. I step into the almost pressed pants and pull them up, smoothing the left over crow’s feet with my hands. I shout up the stairs, “It’s open!” 

It’s Dennis, a friend, my partner in crime this evening. 

 

Looking for it, as we mockingly call our Friday night activity, can take any number of forms for the man or woman on the cusp of middle age in 1985. The two main forms are bars and singles events. Bars are a bit less humiliating because one can pretend to be in the bar, NOT looking for it, but just for a drink. At a singles event, our choice tonight, it’s a given that you are unattached and looking, which is humiliation-number-one. Not – mind you - the fact that you’re alone at age forty, nor that it logically follows that every relationship you’ve ever had has flopped somehow – period! But it's this: mere membership in this muster of singulars announces that very fact, by default, the moment you enter. “Hi my name is Ed, I’m single. All relationships I’ve ever had have failed.”

 

We, Dennis and I, have done this particular singles event for the past two years on most Fridays- which is Humiliation – two: ‘You haven’t met anyone yet?’ In other words: “Hi my name is Ed, I’m single, all relationships I’ve ever had have failed, I’ve been coming here for two years, but haven’t met anyone.”     

 

It wasn’t always this way of course. Want to know who I really am? I’ll go with the words of an acquaintance of my mom’s, an elderly gentleman (80ish), who when introduced to me extended his hand and blurted out, “You know I was quite a baseball player when I was a young man.” That’s me – not the loser single man but quite a baseball player when young. It’s a fact I usually manage to get across to prospective girlfriends somehow, albeit later in the game.

 

Dennis enters and immediately assumes the mock-the-singles-lifestyle-tone, “Hey we got to hurry up, we’ll get locked out.”

 

“No way – remember we’re on the Coffee Crew.”

 

The New Expectations Single Adult Rap Group (ditch the Rap would be my preference, it’s so 1970s) takes in about 200 people every Friday, but well over that number show up and wait in line outside (Humiliation – three) until doors open at 8:00 PM. The tail end of the line always gets shut out (humiliation – three-plus). Those rejected pivot back to their cars with dropped shoulders convinced they would have met their soul mate tonight. To avoid this shut out Dennis and I got the bright idea to sign up for the Coffee Crew, which sets up the pre-event coffee and cookies. Instead of arriving at 7:00 PM and getting into the Humiliation–three-line we show up at 7:45 and budge to the front saying excuse me, knock on the door and are immediately escorted inside. This is Humiliation – Four for me, but Dennis says he likes it.

 

“I still have to pick up the kids,” I tell Dennis.

 

“Oh no!” he says, “You’re done for.”

 

“I’ll make it, but we better take two cars.”

 

“Of course - you know the rule: cool guys, looking for it, need their own car,” Dennis chuckles.

 

 “Yeah, duh, you never know when something might turn up,” I mock.

 

“Yeah, but - remember the other rule: It’s only when you’re not looking for it that you find it,” I say, then continue, “Guess that means we’re not going to find it, because we’re definitely looking for it.” I go upstairs to finishing dressing.  The truth is I have chosen my Friday night outfit earlier in the week. I actually tested out the look on Monday, in the mirror, and then took the shirt and sweater to the cleaners on Tuesday, and picked them up today. I should have taken the pants, obviously.

 

Dennis shouts up the stairs, “We’re always looking for it.”

 

“But we never find it - ha ha."

 

“OK,” I say coming down the stairs, “anyway - you see my keys anywhere?”

 

“Where’d you put them?” Dennis says. Just then the phone rings.

 

“That’s Brett,” I say, “I’m not answering, she just wants to know if I left yet.”

 

“I’ll answer it, I’ll tell her you left.”

 

“Yeah. OK, I know they’re here because I drove the car here,” I say.

 

“Hello, your dad left,” Dennis says, unconvincingly.

 

“Dennis!” Brett screams into the phone, “I can’t believe he hasn’t left.”

 

“He’s looking for his keys.”

 

I start talking to God, “OK, enough, where are they.”

 

Brett on the phone with Dennis says, “He’ll never find them, if I was there I’d find them in a minute.”

 

She’s right. I slowly pace in circles, trying to think.  I look under the newspaper on the table, fling a sweater off the couch. Not there. I look in the fridge.

 

“He’s looking in the refrigerator now,” Dennis says laughing. “What the hell are you looking in the fridge for?”

 

“Don’t ask. I’ll tell you later,” I say, “Ah, my coat pocket. Where’s my coat. They’ve got to be there.”   

 

“Still looking,” I hear Dennis say, and then he says, “Yeah, I know,” offering sympathy to Brett.

 

“Ah ha, got ’em, … coat pocket,” I announce, triumphant. “OK, we’re leaving right now.”

 

“Got that Brett? Dennis says.  

 

“OK goodbye, have fun tonight,” Brett says to Dennis. They both hang up.

 

“Ready? Let’s go. We'll take both cars. See you up there,” I say getting into my car. Dennis drives away and I head for Robin’s house, toot twice in her driveway. Robin bounces out the front door.

 

“Hey, how you doing?” I say.

 

“Fine,” she says climbing in.

 

“So what are you girls doing tonight?”

 

“We don’t know, really” she says. 

 

“You like the music?” I ask Robin. I know that when Brett gets in the car this music will be switched, but the girls that are not my daughters are courteous enough not to complain, much less start pushing the radio buttons. I’ve got the 1940’s and 1950’s station on but it’s the Easy Listening 40’s and 50’s. The kids call it elevator music, which is not a compliment. “Good music huh?” I say.  Robin giggles. Is she really in pain I wonder? Brett and Ash say it’s painful. Jo Stafford is singing “You Belong to Me.” I love that song. They must at least think it’s nice I imagine, as we head for Cindy’s house.

 

Cindy gets in the back with Robin. “Hello,” I say.

 

“Hello.”

 

“So what are you guys doing?” I ask again, not really caring if they answer. I assume that they are going to someone’s house and that eventually as the news travels the male counterparts will appear outside, mingling around. Somehow the boys will get noticed and sooner or later they’ll all be either inside or outside, depending on the parental presence and a variety of other variables. The good thing is that everyone is either fourteen or fifteen - no cars as yet. It’s foot travel or parental chauffer only.

 

“We don’t know what we’re doing,” Cindy says.

 

“You like this music?” I ask. It’s the Four Lads now, “No Not  Much”, another personal favorite. They’ve got to love this I think.

 

“It’s OK,” Cindy says, meaning no. Robin is quiet, having already answered the question.

 

I pull into Brett’s driveway and she is out the door before the car stops.

 

“Dad!” she says, climbing into the front seat.

 

“Yes, I know, I’m three hundred million hours late. Hey wait a minute, I liked that song,” I say as Brett changes the station. "Plus Cindy and Robin liked it, didn’t you girls?” My protest is ignored. Cindy and Robin offer a faint giggle, but no comment. Brett is furiously pressing buttons on the radio. 

 

"Anyway, do you have an appointment somewhere, at a specific time maybe, somewhere you have to be by an exact time?” I ask. No such thing, I’m sure.

 

“Don’t worry about it Dad. Does anyone know what we’re doing tonight?  Dad, why are you going so slow?” Brett asks, all in one breath. I continue at the same speed. I still rule is the car speed.

 

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” Robin says.

 

Cindy adds, “Me neither.”

 

“Where to next?” I ask.

 

“Stephanie’s  ... go Dad,” Brett says, urging me to speed up.

 

“Relax B, we’ll get there. Anyway, your hair looks good.” B just had her hair cut.

 

“Oh God!” she says and takes out a comb.

 

Stephanie and Darcy are next and that’s all, apparently. After Darcy, I start down the road again.  I anticipate further instructions.

 

“Wait, does anybody know what we’re doing tonight?” Cindy asks.

 

Suddenly all hell breaks loose - high pitched screaming. I quake in my seat. 

 

Everyone is shouting, “Turn it up, turn it UP!”

 

The truth is I like this song too. I let the music seep in as my car rolls slowly on. I don’t know if it’s the radio music or the sweet soft sound of the five girls catching every word, and then the excitement when they hit the chorus. I wanna know what love is …but the joy reaches into my chest on this long stretch of street called Cathedral Avenue until eventually the frenzy subsides slowly, as  the song ends.

 

“Dad, where are you going?” Brett says.

 

“What? Melanie’s, no?” I say.

 

"We still have to get Laura and Debbie.” 

 

"OK, anyway - I'm just saying - I haven't got all night. You know, I'm busy tonight also."

 

"Like what?" Brett says.

 

"Looking for it," I blurt out, trying to be funny.

 

This brings a chorus of giggles, which is a little like - humiliation - five.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

September 4, 2007 - My first official day of retirement.

 

Though I retired in June of 2007, that summer found me with a wrenching computer job that I offered to do for an adult student/friend of mine. The result being that I couldn't declare myself fully retired until I submitted final invoices for, as they say in the business, “services rendered.” I didn't bill like I would have billed Exxon-Mobile Oil, but instead charged a rate that was on par with what one gets for mowing lawns. In all I felt it was fair - remember landscapers make a good buck these days. So I was happy that I did the job, that I finished, that it worked (I hope) and I was grateful for the money. 

 

Now (September) I begin my official retirement, the retirement about which so many people asked, “Have you got something to keep yourself busy?”

 

                     I Have Lots to Do

I certainly think so. For starters there is Ashley and her three kids with whom I estimate 10 hours per week as an official babysitter / personal assistant. No invoices submitted there. Add to that another 10 hours where, by choice, I seek out their company because a thought pops into my head that I miss them, like this morning when I got out of bed at 8 AM and raced the four miles up the road to the Florham Park Dunkin Doughnuts so I could meet the family for coffee at 8:20, after Ash drops Emma(5) at school.

 

 Of course there’s plenty of other stuff to be done - there is house maintenance, cleaning, vacuuming, dusting(an annual requirement – at least), straightening up or picking up piles of  “stuff” strewn about from the day (or days) before.  

 

There’s yard maintenance (mowing, raking, planting, weeding, trimming etc.), plus recycling – sorting bottles and cans and newspapers and cardboard, opening and tossing junk mail (regular and email), exercise at the gym or outdoors, brushing teeth and other personal maintenance functions, eating meals, and of course shopping for food, a little reading here and there (I read much, but don't always finish books – most recent completed book, “Truth and Beauty,” by Ann Pachett. Read that some months ago, this year, I believe). 

 

Oh I do genealogy too and I have that Warwick, NY (townscrapbook.com) website. Both of those things I have promised to do more of after retirement. And I write as a hobby so I often tell my kids when their assignments overwhelm me. “Ash,” I say, “I’d love to help you out but remember - I’m a novelist, I have work to do.”  It brings a chuckle, but seldom releases me from duty - but then, I wouldn't want it to. 

                   
                           Mornings at Quickcheck

Every morning I buy a 95 cent cup of coffee at QuickCheck and read the newspaper. That usually takes an hour. Then I proceed to one or more of the items mentioned above. I honestly do feel relaxed now like I cannot remember feeling since “who knows when.” Part of the reason is that the temptation to procrastinate does not seem half as sinful. After all I no longer have work pressures like pressing course preparation. I can always do, what I need to do, tomorrow. I’ve got forever. Obviously, at times, the finite nature of life escapes me. 

 

I get the feeling that will change. 

                     
                            Even the Sun Will Retire

Read yesterday that the earth is about 4.5 billion years old. It’s got 5 billion more years to go before the sun explodes into a “red giant” and sucks up Mercury, Venus and maybe earth, but not the planets beyond earth. Earth, itself, is on the cusp, but it doesn’t take a seer to see that the good old earth will have seen better days. Among other things, the oceans will boil.

 

Inhabitable to say the least. 

 

So I don’t have forever.

                           Celebrating Retirement at the Beach 

Last year, this time, Labor Day (2006), I was at the NJ shore, on the boardwalk. It was early evening, a perfect day but for the knot in my stomach that related to my classes beginning the next day. I shouted to daughter Ash, that next year we were going to come down again on Labor Day, drink a beer and look at the ocean and reflect on the blessings of not beginning school the following morning - which is what we did yesterday (next year now) – more or less.

                          That's Enough Sun
After a few hours at the beach in Point Pleasant we moved the picture-perfect moment to the porch of a seaside restaurant in Atlantic Highlands. I ordered a draft of Sam Adams, Ash got a white wine and Tom a … something that I never heard of, with rum and lots of limes. We leaned back, brought guarded smiles to our lips.

 

It was perhaps a minute later that Eddie (age 3) lofted his cloth napkin over the railing into the water. Various reprimands were offered – not good restaurant behavior, ocean pollution, and the possible killing of fish or birds that might try to eat the napkin. Eddie offered no defense. He assumed a guilty, not listening, posture.  

 

Johnny (1.5) was surveying the toys placed before him (knife, fork, spoon, sugar packets, salt shaker etc) and asked (a high pitched Yiiiieee! is the bulk of his current vocabulary) for one specific toy. We offered a sugar packet but he issued a few more Yiiieees, so we handed over the spoon, whereupon we discovered that a one year old really can make a discomforting racket banging a spoon on a table. Actually, we knew that. We were having no luck finding a suitable toy so we decided that removing Johnny from the table, in shifts, was the best solution. Each adult got ten minutes or so away from the table. As the honored retiree I got to go third. In the meantime I surveyed the water and the drawbridge that stretched over the Sandy Hook inlet. I kept one eye on Eddie who was now standing on his chair leaning over the railing, ostensibly looking for his napkin. A chorus of “No no’s,” were directed his way, along with one “you don’t stand on chairs in restaurants.”     

 

My turn for recess supervision with Johnny. I decide to venture some 30 feet out onto the dock clutching his wrist and pointing out a variety of educational items – wa-wa (water), boat, rope, birdy etc – when the drawbridge starts to open. I hurry back to the table.

 

“Wanted to watch the drawbridge and drink a beer,” I offer apologetically to my co-workers. We all take a sip of our drinks. Ash gets up to do her shift with Johnny.

                         What's that You're Drinking?

 

I lean back. “What’s that you’re drinking?” I say to Tom.

“Caipirinha,” he says.

“Huh?”

“Caipirinha.”

 

“Hrrumph, never heard of it,” I say. He looks at me as if I might be kidding. I wasn’t.

 

Screwdrivers, Seven & Seven, Tom Collins, Slo Gin Fiz,, Whiskey Sour and Scotch and Soda, were the drinks I knew. The new drinks made me think of a lot of new things that I’m going to avoid or simply not bother to learn, namely iPods, DSs, Blackberries, Blue Ray to name a few. I’m sorry to say that I gave in to a cell phone. I lived, fine, for so long without one, why would I need one? “So I can get you,” Ashley informed me, so I relented.  

 

The drawbridge went up – then down. Our dinners went down too – hurriedly - and we headed for the car and the ride home on the Parkway. I expected a standstill traffic jam, but we sailed home at 6 PM on Labor Day Monday. Perfect end to a perfect day.

                         September 17, 2007 - two weeks later

 

Not much has happened as far as my new retirement life is concerned. Halfway into September already and I’ve yet to settle in to a new life.

 

For a long time now I have tried, with little success, to develop a routine that would one day take on a life of its own, something that would both inspire and propel me toward what I could think of as achievement, eventually becoming automatic-pilot-like, in other words, effortless. Now that I’ve retired maybe I can do it. Anyway I think I’ve got the start of it pretty much down – that would be the effortless coffee and newspaper part.

 

It’s Monday morning, a week after Labor Day and I’m in the Quick Check lot with coffee and the newspaper opened. My cell phone rings.

 

“Can you come over? One fish in the aquarium is eating the other fish, he’s already k-i-l-l-e-d two (the word "killed" is a no-no, must be spelled). The kids are hysterical, I’ve got to take Emma to school. Can you go and buy another tank so we can separate them? Quickly”

 

This, I’m thinking, might be the best of what I’ll get as far as the achievement part of a new life is concerned. It is, and though not exactly effortless, my response is kind of automatic, or propelled.   

 

I eventually complete the task: come over, watch kids, buy another tank, separate the fish. Done. 

 

I’m a single man - Summer of 1976.              

 

As a single father, in my thirties, I was always looking for companionship, someone who would accompany me on a dreamy romantic getaway. I even had a book that I picked up at a garage sale; the title was something like America’s Best Romantic Hotels. I consulted it often and daydreamed as I flipped through the pages. Regardless, romantic companionship generally eluded me for extended stretches, and so I did my traveling primarily with my daughters.

Down the Shore

               I remember one adventure that took in the whole Jersey Shore, north to south. It started in Ocean Grove and ended in Ocean City.

               In Ocean Grove we stayed at the Castle Arms Hotel, which was on Main Avenue, across the street from my childhood vacation residence, The Main Avenue House. The year was 1976, which would make Brett seven years old and Ashley almost five. Asbury Park was still alive and well at that time and after dinner we walked up the boardwalk to see the amusements. I played Skeeball and tried to win a prize, or two, but for some reason found that I had lost my touch.

 

I was no longer an ace at Skeeball after being such a crackerjack as a child – or was I? I wondered. Perhaps it was just my father’s encouragement, given so lovingly to his youngest child, that I remember. Still it seemed easier when the Skeeball alley was waist high and the ball rested like a cantaloupe in my hand. Everybody said I was great at Skeeball and I cashed in lots of tickets for prizes, or so I recall.

 

Rocking on the Porch

 

                Returning to the hotel we lingered a while outside on the lawn as the guests looked on from their rocking chairs on the front porch. One guest, an elderly gentleman named Andrew, ventured out to speak with us. We were a rarity here, the two children especially, but even myself at age 36. Most of the clientele were seniors. Andrew said he was here for the whole summer. In the winter he lived in Staten Island.

                “Do you want to see my room?” Andrew asked, after we had talked for a while.

                “No, that’s O.K., thanks,” I said, “I guess we’ll just go to bed.”

                A few minutes later when we walked into the hotel, there was Andrew standing in the lobby. “Take the elevator,” Andrew said. Actually I wanted to walk up the stairs, but we got onto the elevator because Andrew seemed to want to show us the ropes. “My room is small," Andrew volunteered as the elevator ascended. "But it has a bath,” he added.

                “That’s good,” I said. It turned out we were on the same floor.

                “Dad,” Brett said as the elevator door opened, “He wants to show you his room.”

 

 

 

Andrew's Room

 

                “O.K.,” I said, and we followed Andrew as he beckoned us down the hallway. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see Andrew’s room, but honestly, I just wasn’t thinking …about Andrew. Brett, age seven, was more perceptive, not so self-absorbed.

 

There wasn’t much to see in Andrew’s room. It was very neat. There was a bed, night table, one dresser and a closet with no door. Its opening was covered with a cloth drape that hung to the floor. Andrew slid the drape to the side and we peered in at the neatly hung clothes, three or four summer shirts and a couple of pairs of pants. We acted as if we were prospective home buyers, very polite, low-key, responding our approval with variations of, “Hmmm,” and "nice." Andrew turned toward the bathroom, and extended his open hand, “And here is the bathroom.”

 

                “Hmmm, nice,” I said.

               

    “It’s nice,” Brett added. Ashley was silent.

                The tour complete, Andrew stood in front of us and said, “It’s a nice room.”

 

                “It is,” Brett and I said. Ash was still quiet though she turned and looked in each direction with us. Her hands hung in front of her, palms on her thighs, rounding her dropped shoulders, the five-year-old speechless pose.  

I'm a Single Man

               

                Then Andrew said, as if apologetically, “I’m a single man.” 

 

                I took it to mean that he always had been so. He was plain without exception, just a man, single and from Staten Island who summered now at the shore, in this sparse room without color, or trimmings or company the likes of which I now recognized adorned me so splendidly. 

 

                I offered a humble gesture of gratitude and placed my hands on the shoulders of the two children at my side. I did not feel proud here. It was sadness - true - but more a sympathy with, not for, Andrew. I had seen enough of life at age thirty-six to understand the difference between Andrew and myself – that it could be very little. I knew that this was not a tragedy that I was looking at here and yet I still felt a small fear push into my head that someday that I might be standing alone as Andrew now stood before me and hear myself say much the same thing – an aging soul trying to break through a feeling of invisibility, to present a little part of myself, to someone - to someone who was young  

Thanks for Showing Us Your Room 

 

                As best I could, I offered a word of praise for Andrew. “Thank you so much Andrew. Thanks for being friendly to us. That was very nice.” Then I took a step toward him and put my hand on his shoulder, then shook his hand. “Thanks for showing us your room,” I said.

 

                I hoped that I wasn’t overdoing it. Andrew seemed to appreciate our visit. Brett added her own support to my comment. “Yes, thanks” she said and she and Ashley both extended a small handshake to Andrew.

 

                The next morning Andrew was on the porch when we all came downstairs. We bid goodbye to him here and told him that we would see him maybe next year. We fussed over him and his porch friends oohed and ahhhd over the girls.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What's a Goer? August 1981

Here’s a dinner table conversation I had with my daughters, Brett (12) and Ashley (9).  

The date is August 4, 1981. I am 41 years old.

Brett begins, “You know Cindy? She’s going out with Chris?”

“Yeah,  when?” I said.

“When?”

“Yeah when … or where?”

“Dad!” Ashley my youngest admonishes me.

“What?” I say.

“She’s going out with him.” Ashley advises.

“Yeah, so what’s that supposed to mean?” I say.

“It means he’s her boyfriend.”

“Oh OK,” I get the picture, “You mean they go together.”

Brett interjects, “No, never, Cindy would never go with him,”

“Then why did she become his girl friend?” I ask.

“Dad!”

“What?”

“She’s not a big goer.”

“Goer?”

“Yeah, goer, someone that goes all the time. Cindy’s not like that.”

I’m piecing things together here. I see that there are semantic differences, a generation gap thing.  When I was a young boy, “Going out with someone,” meant that you were going out somewhere. If I said to someone that I was “going out with Betty” the reply might be, “When or where?”  Like I said. Which still sounds reasonable I thought. Anyway.

 

* Below is a summary of the comparison between 1980’s and the 1950’s:

1980’s word                     Translation for 50’s kids (Seniors)

Go                     =                            make out

Go with             =                            make out with

Going with        =                            making out with

Going out          =                            going together, going steady, boyfriend/girlfriend

Going out with =                             same as above

                   Goer  =                                            one who makes out a lot, 50's term - fast

Going together  =                             making out together

 

Brett continues, “She doesn’t want to go out with him because … oh, I’m not supposed to say why.”

This perks up Ashley, age nine. She is just learning about the ways of love and romance and is trying her best to comprehend it all. “Brett, come on tell!” she says.

“No,” Brett says suggesting that such matters are for twelve year olds only.

“Brett, please tell me,” Ash begs.

“OK, you promise not to tell, not Niki, not Allison, not Kelly, not Sandra; No one … or else I’ll punch you in the face?”

Gee, I think, a punch in the face. That’s the real nuclear weapon there. I feel certain that Brett never punched anyone in the face.

“Alright,” Ash promises.

I get up to turn down the radio. I want to hear this too.

“OK, she doesn’t want to go out with him because she doesn’t know why, she just doesn’t. She likes him but she just doesn’t want to go out.”

What? That’s it? That’s a letdown if I ever heard one. I think this but I don’t say it. Ash doesn’t appear to be disturbed.  She just looks a bit perplexed, but half happy too that she was told a secret. I’m guessing that she must be thinking to herself, “Gee, love is strange.” I want to say this to Ash, but I don’t. Anyway I think I’m getting the hang of the language now. Then Brett adds, “She was going to break up with him today.”

I forget about the letdown and accept that that’s all there is to the story. I mean … we’re talking sixth grade here. I’m just happy that I now understand their language. And now using proper terminology I offer this, “Well if they’re breaking up then they must have been going out.”

“They are, I said that.” Brett says.

“Yeah … right.” I say. “Well how did that happen, how did they start going out?” OK I think. I’ve got the hang of this now.

 

“He asked her out,” Brett says. I feel quite with it because I know that this means that he asked her to be his girlfriend. I keep this to myself, the feeling of being with it because I suspect that the term with it is … well … not with it. 

“How did he do that?” I’m curious about this. Did he say “Would you be my girlfriend,” or “Do you want to go steady?”

“He said, do you want to go out?” Brett said.

“Do you know this is how it’s done Ash?” I say.

“Dad!” she says, meaning, of course she does. She’s not that stupid.  

“That’s it, that’s all he said, just those words; ‘Do you want to go out?’ ”

“Yes”

“Where do they go?”

“Nowhere.”

“They don’t ever go anywhere, ever?”

“Nope.”

“Why did she say yes if she didn’t want to go out with him?”

“You can change your mind, you know.”

Abbot and Costello, Who’s on first, comes into my mind.

So she changed her mind? Hmmmm. Not so strange. Probably happens six times a day.

The meal continues. I feel like I was just educated on the facts of life but I still think that kids must slip from time to time when a boy says, “Do you want to go out?” It’s got to happen sometime where the girl says “When?”

 

So I ask the question, “Did this ever happen … when somebody says, ‘Do you want to go out?’ did anyone ever say “When? Or where?”   

 “Nope.”

                Ok. Guess I don’t know everything

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The gift cards on my desk - 2/2011

 

I think they are called “gift cards.” Regardless, I have several – Subway, Dunkin Doughnuts, Sony Theatres, Home Depot etc. I’ve used them once- or twice.

 

How much are they now worth? That’s the question.

 

God only knows.

 

I would put them in my wallet, but, and this is the point, I think that because they are tossed onto the top of my bedroom desk – the final resting place for soon to be garbage stuff – that they have: 1. Expired or 2. Have been cashed in (used up). Otherwise, why would they be on the desk?
          

So I procrastinate, leave them on the desk where they look at me and I at them each time I pass by.

 

Just toss them, I tell myself; you rarely go to these places anyway.

 

Wait. Someday I just might actually go to Dunkin Doughnuts and hand over the DD card to the cashier and maybe get a free coffee - or more.

 

Doubtful, but never know.

 

More likely I'll wait for my coffee with a sweet senior citizen smile on my face. The cashier will slide the Styrofoam cup my way and say, “Ah, nice try, but these are used up, zero balance.”  Or something to that effect. 

 

Of course, there’d probably be an adorable thirty-something mother in line behind me who later, laughingly tells her girlfriends about the cute little old bald man at DD this morning trying to use a gift card for a cup of coffee. “He was so cute (my words), so excited, took it right out of his wallet and handed it over when he got the coffee and the cashier said, ‘I’m sorry but this is cashed out.’ I felt so bad for him. I wanted to buy his coffee, but I thought he’d be embarrassed.”
      
           So the gift cards will stay on the desk for a while longer. I'll put 'em in my wallet one day, then truck down to DD with the express purpose of checking their value. I don't care if the young mother has a laugh at my expense. She did say cute, right? Oh sorry, those were my words. Forgot.

Epilogue 

OK, so actually I did take the DD gift card to Dunkin Doughnuts a week or so after writing the above. I ordered a medium coffee and handed over the card.

 

“This [gift card] is not activated,” the cashier said.

 

“Oh, OK. Can you activate it here?” I said.

 

“Yes.”

 

“OK, good, go ahead,” I said. I didn’t ever remember using it so it probably has at least   $25 dollars on it. Cool!

 

“How much do you want to put on it?”

 

Huh?

 

“You’ve got to put some money into it.”

 

“Oh – no – forget it. That’s OK.”

 

Activate? How was I supposed to know there was no money in it? What was it doing in my house then? Oh well.

 

I pay cash, thank the cashier, and turn to leave.

 

A young mother is behind me in line holding a toddler’s hand. I look at her and smile apologetically. She smiles back. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

               

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eat my Bubbles - November 2010 

    

 I am in the basketball gymnasium of a local community college. It’s a Sunday in November, 2010. “Home of the Lions” the scoreboard says. Approximately 200 un-lion-like children age 8 – 13 mill about before me. Most are barefoot, attired in wet bathing suits soaked from recent excursions in the official Olympic size pool across the hall. On foot, they scurry about the gym, dancing as they chatter, moving always with the grace and lightness of water bugs. 

 

Between the pool and the gym is a hall that is filled with myriad tables where vendors (mostly mothers) hawk various swim team necessities from chocolate chip cookies to the requisite bananas and apples, to sandwiches and pizza, to racks of swimsuits, goggles, flannel pajama pants (the travel attire of choice for swimmer kids), car decals for swimmer families, and, of course, tee-shirts. As you may have guessed I am at a swim meet – my granddaughter’s.

                     

                    Invitational Meet
The event here today is labeled “Go for the Gold.” It is classified as an Invitational Swim Meet, as opposed to Dual.  Invitational, I have learned, means, among other things, you’re here for the long haul – a full day. 

                    Swimmer Gymnasts
       This is my first swim event as swim-grandpa. In a past life, a generation ago I was a “gymnastics dad” at a time before silhouette car decals of cart wheelers were popular or even existed. My memory comes back now – “I Love Gymnastics” was the (only) bumper sticker preferred in my “gymnastics dad” years, the late 1970s, the Nadia years.  

       Actually, it appears that kids still love gymnastics. Each corner of this gym today is packed with circles of small swimmer girls doing cartwheels and round-offs in between their swim events. The gym floor is sprinkled with crumpled towels, presumably arranged by team. Intermittently an adult with a clipboard approaches a cluster of swimmer-gymnasts and dispenses essential information.

                          Long Haul Parents
       Waves of kids come and go here, first traipsing into the building, then back and forth from the pool to the gym. Races are grouped by age and theoretically some waves could vanish as others appear. This does not seem to be the case as the crowd, if anything, grows. There is much down time in large (invitational) swim meets for eight to thirteen year-olds.  A child swims once – or twice, maybe three times – for a minute or two, whereas the meet itself - that’s a five hour event. Experienced parents prowl the hallway bending over the tables of swim gear and then moving along to check the time-sheets taped to the wall. In the pool area their seats are saved by piles of coats and towels. With them, as well, is a plethora of essentials. The most critical is the pass-the time equipment such as fold-up chairs, books, newspapers, kindles, laptops, pencils, and but also cameras, stop watches, meet programs and Speedo backpacks.  Some parents yell encouragement at their children as they glide by, their shouts timed with the part of the stroke that brings the head out of water. It is my opinion that the swimming children are oblivious to this, but I am uncertain. Coaches, holding stopwatches, pace at poolside, and offer their own vocal encouragement. Like parents, they time their words, barking “Go” when the head turns and an ear rises above the surface.

                    Pressurized Predicament                    
       I tell myself that the scene today is different from those “Nadia years” gymnastic days. But I am unsure about why. On the trip down this morning Emma (age 9), recognized her pressurized predicament just as my daughter Brett did in 1978. Emma was in the back seat as we rolled south on Interstate 287. She knew that she was on the swim team and despite the performance anxiety that she felt there was no turning back. She had no choice. Today I was driving my daughter’s SUV/Van. Thirty some years ago I was behind the wheel of my Datsun 210B hatchback with four nine year olds stretched horizontally in the way back. As we approached the gym I would say, “OK, here we are; this is the turn.” A chorus of voices would respond, “Keep going, don’t stop.” But they too knew that there was no fighting the inevitable. They were nine. This was life. They had no choice.

                    Body Art
       Another new twist today is that the swimmers write on their body with sharpies. Newcomers like Emma with a swim-mom-challenged mother do not know what to write – nor do I - so Emma draws a smiley face on her arm. I gaze around at the other participants. No other smiley faces. Most seem to have Chinese printing on their arms that appears to my unfocused eye like biker tattoos. Could it be?  I make it a point to decipher the body art. Finally I spy a serene looking lass and risk a question, “What did you write there?” I say to a girl standing with her mom.  I see it is not Asian writing. She holds up her arm. I see tic-tac-toe-like lines with words and numbers – in English.

       “It’s my events,” the girl tells me and her mom smiles. I am happy I did not offend her. This is always a concern when a senior citizen encounters a celebrity athlete. I do make out a few other inscriptions without help. “Eat my bubbles,” is a popular one for Emma’s team. It is written across their backs. Cute. 

                    The Young and the Befuddled
       There are numerous grandparents here and to a person they seem especially befuddled, if not outright unhappy. Stuck in a traffic jam comes to mind.

 

        I think that the wet concrete bleacher seating may be an issue, or the muggy heat-wave-like weather in the pool area, especially harsh on overly bundled seniors. But I could be projecting my own thinking on them. Honestly - I jest, because I am not unhappy, not at all. At age seventy this is my greatest joy, not so much the meet, nor the competition but just being around the happy kids, watching their enthusiasm whether they are cart-wheeling or paddling through water. And about the water - these young kids, all go full force, up, back, up, back, four times or eight times - slapping the water with a vengeance, kicking on and on without let-up. I am overly impressed.

Thankfully, it seems, there is not a heightened emphasis on winning though I could be naive.

 

        In the meantime, knowing that Emma is part of this group, that she is such an athlete (no evidence of Olympic dreams – unlike my hockey grandkids), in all, it warms my heart – immensely.        

New York by Train, Feb 2011

 

It is a Saturday night. Daughter Ash's family has tickets for the ice show at MSG. Son-in-law Tom is scheduled to drive in with daughter Emma after her swim meet. I am going to ride the train with Ash and the two boys, Ed and John – as their guide. Since I love riding trains and being with the family, there is no hardship. After shepherding Ash and the boys to MSG I am going to meet Micki in NYC for dinner.

 

Tom ends up making the 5:38 train. Mickey cancels because of cold weather. My friend, Manzi, calls in the afternoon looking for something to do and said he wants to come along. 

 

At 6 PM we are all on the train heading to NYC. Ash and Emma are sitting in front of Manzi and me. The two boys are with Tom-dad across the aisle. Mid trip Emma turns and looks over the back of the seat. “Want to know what we do at swimming practice?” she says.

 

 “Yes,” I say.

 

“It’s called pyramid. It’s … Ok first, it’s 25-butterfly, then 50-butterfly-kick, then 75-butterfly-drill, then 100-butterfly-pyramid,  a 75-butterfly-drill, a 50-butterfly-kick, then 25-butterfly. Emma’s description, with the exact progression of 25-50-75-100-75-50-25 continues for all other events: freestyle, backstroke, and breaststroke. It takes a while. At the end I say to Emma, “Could you repeat that?” and all laugh, including Emma.

 

Manzi, trying to pretend being funny, says that someone should call Caroline and tell her that he is on the train to NYC ... and he's very relaxed about it. Ash dials Brett in California - relays the message.

 

Emma turns again and asks, “Why is Manzi here?” I explain that he has a "girlfriend" in California - Carolyn - and he wants her to know that he is capable of riding the train and that he is very nonchalant about it. Everyone laughs at this – Emma only half. (FYI - re. Carolyn - Manzi has never seen her and never will, but CA daughter Brett thinks they'd be a great pair so the joke escalated after she sent Manzi a Christmas card)

 

Emma’s question was offered with such childlike sincerity that I feel bad that my response was not returned with the same wholeheartedness. My thought falls away and the trip continues.  

 

The next day, my thoughts return. I tell Emma that I’m sorry that I didn’t answer her truthfully when she described her swim practice and asked about Manzi. She accepts my apology but seems uncertain why I have said it. My reason was her sweet earnestness which, upon reflection, reminded me of why and how life is beautiful and true, or at least how it might be if we (me) could just “become like little children,” and try to see the other instead of only one's self.

 

And so, however small it may seem, I am, once again, sorry that I missed the opportunity to respond truthfully to her instead of making a joke to please myself.

So, I tried to make up for it. I hope she remembers this and, more importantly, that I do as well.

Overheard in the men’s locker room - 2004

 

I'm in the men's locker room at the local YMCA, shower finished, I'm packing my gym bag. It's a Thursday, mid-morning.

 

“Whew!” a very sweaty guy brushes by heading for his locker. Finding his spot, he fiddles with the combination lock. He looks over at a nearby fellow, a middle-aged gent, tying his sneakers. 

 

"Wheeew!" sweaty guy offers again.

 

“What’s the matter?” says the gent.

 

“That was some workout,” sweaty says.

 

“Yeah, I saw you. You sure did it, there. What’d you do?” gent asks.

 

“I did HIT! That’s H-I-I-T”

 

Huh?

 

"H-I-I-T," Sweaty says, still out of breath.

 

“I knew it was an acronym. Let me guess!” says gent.

 

“High Intensity Interval Training.” Sweaty says. He didn't let him guess.

 

“Yeah, I was gonna say something … some kind of interval training.”

 

“Yeah. Thirty seconds run … fast, then thirty seconds jog. Do it for fifteen minutes.”

 

“Of course, well that’s been around for some time. We used to do it to train for speed,” says new voice, chiming in. It's octogenarian Stan, who had a stroke seven years ago. Margaret, a septuagenarian-plus, and Y regular (obviously not currently part of this men’s locker room talk) said Stan had the stroke because he ran a marathon and then went home and had sex. This, Margaret says, always makes Stan smile – stroke or no stroke - whenever she repeats the story.

 

“We did H-I-I-T in college, in football practice,” someone within earshot pipes in from a far locker.

 

“Yeah.” A chorus of “yeahs” follow. All ex-footballers, I presume.

 

Then another voice, from across the room, “Yeah! ‘HIT’ is right! Didn’t you hate that?”
 

“Hate what?” say a new voice. The conversation seems to have veered to a new area.

 

“Of course, but you want to know the good thing about it? What I liked about it?” This from another new voice.

 

“What?”

 

“It meant that practice was over.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Yeah!”

 

“I hear ya!” a final comment, from a far corner.

 

The rule here is: Give an ex-footballer the scantest of segues for a football anecdote and he’s off and running. 

 

“When I’m done a workout, I go home and have a cognac. I mean if it’s after dinner.” This from Ed, a muscular, serious body-builder, and a septuagenarian, no less.

 

“Oh, Cognac, that’s sweet stuff. You’ll really feel that the next day,” a bloke, agreeing with Ed.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Yeah!”

 

“You know what I used to drink? Ed says, "Bourbon.”

 

“Oh! You’ll feel that.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Yeah!”

 

“But that was good!”

 

“Bourbon is good stuff.” another agreement.

 

“Yeah.”

 

 “I like gin and tonic,” says someone new.

 

“That’s a woman’s drink,” muscular Ed says.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Yeah!”

 

“Yeah, but I like it,” says the original proponent.  

 

“It’s a woman’s drink,” Ed repeats. 

 

Seems that Ed gets the final word, Conversation trails off. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Time to hang it up - circa 2009

 

How many of us still own a jock? Or to put it another way - You’re seventy; do you know where your jock strap is?

Jock-strapping, that’s what they called it (playing sports) in the army, and all real killers, like our drill sergeants, frowned upon it, as I recall. I doubt that their frowns were free of envy. 

 

Regardless, I grew up thinking that athletic excellence was synonymous with honor. Didn’t everyone agree with that? It sure seemed like the truth. College was no different; jocks garnered envy as well as reverence, or so I thought. The jock-house was an esteemed fraternity - or so I thought - and I lived in one while an undergrad. In those days if you called me a jock it pleased me. Call me that today and it would still please me. Or better yet, give me an excuse to talk about my former jock life and then you’ve made my day. Was I a tough guy? Far from it – period. But let me spin a yarn about the old days and one might think, “I bet he was tough, he’s just being modest.”

 

Alas, for me, playing sports was a pursuit of the highest order.

 

Thus, my memory is vivid about a conversation some years back, when my friend Doug Yano and I were talking about how we had slowed our workouts and generally abandoned other athletic activity and he said, “I don’t even own a jock,” which shocked me because it occurred to me that, come to think of it, neither did I.

 

Was this what life had come to?

 

I thought about it some more and then remembered that actually I did have one jock, or so I thought, but exactly where it was, I was uncertain, which was beside the point because I had not actually worn my one jock in years, maybe decades.

 

So, where was my jock? I thought I recalled seeing it recently, in the basement, somewhere around the tool bench. What was it doing there? Anyway, I went to look and after darting my eyes in every direction, I spied it above the workbench, hanging on a nail. Huh???? 

I can’t remember the last time it was in my gym bag, much less used – worn. Obviously, it had been saved through a half-dozen house moves over the years.  Why? Who knows? And why now on the nail? Oh well.

 

It was not that I thought that I might need it someday. Like there was ever going to be another tackle football game.  Nor was it that a jock was something to save, to pass on to the grandkids, like an old baseball mitt. And it wasn’t at all like my old football practice jersey, now somehow full of holes (again, why? how?) that I hoped after my demise, my surviving heirs would come across the jersey and pause briefly to reflect kindly upon my athleticism first, and my life, second. I believe that I saved the jock because – well - what else could I have done with it? A jock is not something one gives to the goodwill.

 

Of course, I could have thrown it out, but think of this: “Tossing it,” into the bottom of this week’s garbage pail, or on the top for that matter. That didn’t seem right, because there it would sit, or lay, until 7:30 AM Monday when the truck comes around, the cans are emptied and the contents head for the landfill for a million years. Not right, not at all. 

 

For kids in the fifties and sixties there was the phrase, “Hang it up,” as in “It’s time to hang it up,” which we muttered from time to time as gentle ridicule. What we were hanging up was a jock. I don’t hear that much - at all - these days, but then why would I? It’s not a popular phrase in senior circles.

 

But from my youth I recall a college teammate, Al Richmond, (I include his name because if anyone ever reads this I’m certain that Al would appreciate the citation) who tried to invoke a ceremony in the locker room after the football season’s last game, his last, when he shouted to all, “I’m hanging up my jock,” and with that he draped it on a hook in the visitor’s locker at Lafayette College. I think a few heads turned and that it got a laugh, or two. 

Oh, did I mention that I was on the college football team? Not important, but I was.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Life as we know it 

 

Last night I went to bed around midnight. I turned out the light, made my way over to the bed in the dark, then suddenly got the idea – almost like a voice in my head - that I should go back to the bathroom. What? I thought. Why? I opened my bedroom door.  The light was still on in the bathroom. I turned it off.

 

I know, no big deal. It's a 60 watt bulb. But I couldn't stop wondering what it was that reminded me? I offered a thank-you to the unknown.

 

Today I tightened the small screw in my glasses frames. I applied some glue, to the head of the screw on the advice of a student in my class decades ago. As I worked I reflected on where I should put the screw driver when I finished, so I’d know where it was the next time it was needed.

I set the repaired glasses on the kitchen counter to dry. I noticed a few crumbs, brushed them into the wastebasket, moved some utensils and cereal bowl to the dishwasher, crumpled a plastic bag and walked it over to a recycling container.

Out the front window I spied the neighbor walking her dog. She has two; where’s the other? I moved closer to the window, watched for a few seconds. I turned back and saw the small pile of tax documents on my desk. I should look on-line, I thought, for a rough calculation or rate chart, to see if I’m going to get killed with taxes this year. So I think.

 

Back now to where I should put the mini-screwdriver. Ok – so first - where is that screwdriver?

I look on the kitchen counter. No.

I walk to the front window, glance around. No.
The desk? No. Over by the recyclables? No.   

 

I repeat the same path again. Still no screwdriver.

 

I reflect on last night, the voice (or something) that said “Go back into the bathroom.” I could call upon that voice again I think I should go back to the kitchen once more. But I pause here. And I reflect, should I sit down to call “the voice?” I should, I just think – to concentrate. I pause again. Do I want to sit now, to better think? Who is that “voice” anyway? My deceased mom or dad I imagine. I’m remain standing in the dining room, not moving, thinking of my parents, when I turn my head and notice the screwdriver laying in the folds of a sweater on the dining room table.

 

Again, I think it was my parents. Seems that it’s in our nature. 

 

 

 

 

 

I am Paul Fryer

                

 I Was Quite a Baseball Player
Who am I really? Well, it’s like this. Actually a man named Paul Fryer said it best when I met him for the first time some decades ago in the late 1970s. At that time Paul was approaching eighty and was visiting my widowed mother, as they had known each other during the early years of their marriages.

     We were standing in my mom’s kitchen, making introductory, idle small talk. Stuff like ‘Where do you live now? Are you retired? (Of course) How was your trip up?’ and so forth. I asked the questions but not sure I always listened for the response. I was in my thirties; I had things on my mind. Suddenly out of the blue Paul blurts out who he really is, “You know I was quite a baseball player when I was a young man.”

  Is That Going to be Me?
     I looked at him – and allowed a smile. “That was strange,” I thought to myself, but I immediately saw into my own future: the day when I would be like Paul - standing alone, facing a stranger, much younger than I, who saw me only as an old man who never really was much of anything and saying to the stranger, “You know I was quite an athlete when I was a young man.”

I made a vow of caution to not plagiarize Paul. God bless him.

    Moving ahead to today – it is thirty-five years later, a mid-Winter Saturday, 4:00 PM., 2010. By now my vow of caution has been broken many times.

 

 Yes, It's Me
     It is a bright day in northern New Jersey, the kids are out front playing street hockey. Through my window I see grandson Ed, age 6, heading toward the fray, outfitted in full NHL goalie gear. He trudges along slow and bowlegged from the pads’ bulk but with the determined stride of a young cowpoke. I join up with the spectator parents sidling up next to a young father. I notice that there is a Naval Academy decal on his car. “So you went to Navy?” I say.

 

     “Yes,” he answers and I feel that I should probably mention I was recruited by Navy for basketball which I do say (the short version) despite my awareness of the strain this places on credulity, as things appear now. The father offers that he met his wife there. I add some details to my "recruited" story to authenticate my claim, “I stayed on campus, in the boathouse,” I say.

 

The father nods. Midshipmen usually know the boathouse is the Academy accommodation for recruited athletes, or so I think. Regardless, the kids continue to scurry about before us with childlike earnestness, raising sticks and cheering for goals scored. The conversation turns to the notion that pick-up games like this are great - that starting organized sports too young is risky. The father then adds “Twelve years of football is more than enough for anyone.”

     I see another segue. I pause my thoughts, then decide to go with it. “Hey, I know, I played four years in high school, a year in prep school then four more years in college, and my body aches often.” Not really (don't know why I put that in, about the aches - dumb).

 

     I don’t look at the dad when I say this. I don’t want to see his doubt or disbelief, or worse – a smirk. So I concentrate on the game, my eyes straight ahead. I notice that the name Paul Fryer has popped into my head, As in, “I have become ....

     Seriously – I really was quite a basketball player as a young man.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

      What kind of bread do you have? ... circa 1981

 

              It is a school day morning, early November. The kids have been at my house for the past few days. Brett, age 13, rises early, around five AM, whereas sister Ash, 11, must be dragged out of bed. Brett starts working on things right away; first homework, then hair, all between phone calls. By seven I am up, adding my two cents to the morning mix. The first thing I do is to get Ash moving, and then I go downstairs to make breakfast and sandwiches for lunch. Doubtless my lunches differ from most. Very health foody here.

 

                I hear Brett talking to Ashley, “Hurry up Ash, I get detention if I’m late.”

   No comment from Ash. I’m guessing that detention is a big girl (6^th grade) thing.

                I yell up, to anyone, “What kind of sandwich do you want?”

                Brett responds, “What kind of bread do you have?”

                Immediately I sense a predicament. I pause my words, for I know what she is thinking. I have only whole wheat bread; and worse, it’s from the health food store, the organic variety. I know if I say, “only whole wheat”, she’ll say, “forget it, I’ll borrow lunch.” I change subjects, “But what do you want - Peanut butter or cheese and tomato?”  I am proud that they have both accepted the switch to natural peanut butter. 

                Again the reply, “What kind of bread do you have?”

                I give up. Reluctantly I admit it. “Whole wheat,” I say, but I say it overly enthusiastically as if whole wheat is the greatest thing since … well … since sliced bread.

               “I don’t want a sandwich.”

    I’m not sure which one shouted that but it was just as I predicted.

                Now I am forced to initiate what might be called a more lively debate (lecture) during which time I will try to persuade and educate my daughters about the merits of whole grain bread and healthy eating. I proceed with this but if something sinks in, I am unaware. Then suddenly to my surprise Brett suggests a compromise. She’ll take the Peanut Butter, but she’s going down the street to a neighbor’s house to borrow some white bread.

                “Whatever,” I say - not pleased. I just hope that she doesn’t come back with Skippy Peanut Butter too.

As she leaves Ash yells, “Brett, get me two slices too.”

In a short while, Brett returns with four slices of white bread and I accept them without comment and spread the natural peanut butter and all fruit jelly. I add a banana to each bag and a peeled carrot. Good nourishment I think to myself. I don’t ask if either daughter wants the carrot or the banana.

Time moves along. I fix breakfast for Ash and call up to Brett who is putting the final touches on the hair, and making a last minute phone call to a classmate, “Brett did you have breakfast?”

“Yes.”

“What did you have?”

“Honey Nut Cheerios with foul disgusting, grossining skim milk.” Grossining is her word. It’s not in the dictionary. It means gross, or really gross - i.e. bad.

My food is not a hit this A.M. More minutes go by. Finally we’re ready, almost.

“Lets go, lets go!” Brett says, to me.

“Yes we’re ready,” I say, “As soon as I find my keys.”

Brett goes to the car while I look around the house.

“Can we go!” Ash says.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, “I’m looking for my keys.” I notice Ash is quite loaded down with books cradled in her arms. “That’s quite a pile of books you have there, want me to show you a good way to carry them? Just wait a minute.”

I dash upstairs and grab my web belt from the closet. I present it to Ashley and tell her that she can strap the books together and then sling them over her shoulder. I demonstrate with the belt alone. “Like this,” I say throwing the belt over my shoulder.

Ash looks up at me, not impressed. “No thanks Dad.”

“Why not? That’s good, they don’t all fall apart like this, and it’s a good way to carry them. I used to always carry books like this, in college even.” I deftly strap together three books and demo again, this one live. “Watch, I say, flinging the books skyward. They clear the right shoulder; arch nicely and crash, a hardback corner piercing into high area of my back that I believe is called the scapula. I wince, but quickly force a smile. “See?” I say, smiling broadly now.     

“That’s O.K. dad,” she says. Neither the college thing nor the live demo impress her.

I cannot understand this. I used to love carrying my books like that – especially in college. But there is no use I know. I am dispirited, but I try to let it go. “O.K., O.K. Anyway my keys are really lost this time.”

“They’re not lost,” Ashley says. Strangely this actually makes me feel better.

“Yes. They’re lost. Really, really lost. That’s it. I’ve looked everywhere.” My thinking here is that if I overly exaggerate the certainty of the lost keys, the Gods will descend and prove me wrong. It has happened. 

“Dad, they’re not lost.”

“Well then where are they?”

“All right, you want me to find them?” she says, and sets down her books joining the search.

I really am convinced that they are lost beyond hope. I have looked everywhere. I dare the Gods to prove me wrong. Brett, from the car in the driveway, toots the horn twice. I open the front door to tell her about the keys, but just before I speak I hear Ashley’s admonishing voice, “Dad!” she says, and I know she has found the keys. Somehow the kids always find the keys.

                “What?” I say in my trying-to-sound-perplexed voice.

                “Where did you put them?” she says.

                “Ash! If I knew where I put them I wouldn’t have been looking all around.” I know that this is an old joke, but I still like the sound of it and I reason that at 11 and 13, they haven’t heard it too often. I could be wrong.

                “They’re right here,” she says and points to my keys resting atop the thermostat on the living room wall.

                “Yeah, well, I put ’em there so I won’t forget to turn down the heat before we leave. See?”

I turn down the heat. “Good idea, huh? See, this way we can’t leave …”

                “Dad!” Again, the admonishing tone.

                “O.K., you ready? Let’s go.” I check the heat again, making a point. Then out we go.

                “I’m done for,” Brett says as we climb into the car. 

                “Yeah, we know all about it, major detention right?”

                “Yes,” says Brett, not amused. “What took you so long?”

                I don’t answer. We’re on our way now, and to me it looks like we have plenty of time, actually.

As we drive, I notice a flock of blackbirds performing wide loops high above and against the sky ahead of the car. Strangely I’m also aware that my own music cassette is still playing, not the usual blasting radio stations, but instead Louis Armstrong is singing, “It’s a wonderful world.” I swear that the birds rise and fall in time with Louie’s song.  My mind drifts gently to birds, how they sing to greet each day. Apparently, we humans are not sure why birds sing so, but maybe it’s something like kids jabbering away in the schoolyard, before school. As with the children in the schoolyards, the birds do this every day and they usually finish in about a half hour also.

I offer a few comments. “You know arriving late to you guys is not getting to school at least a half hour before the bell. This is because you want to socialize, get everything rolling; you know, find out what’s new etc. So do you ever listen to a schoolyard from a distance? With every kid putting his two cents in, all the screeching sounds like just what birds are doing when you hear them early every morning, chirping away in the trees. Don’t you think you’re just like the birds?”

I add, “They usually go on for about a half hour also.” I pause for a reaction.

Ashley seems unmoved, looking straight on.

            “You love that,” Brett says.

            It occurs to me that I have never been happier than I am right now. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Where's the Title?

OK I'll buy It

I decided to buy my son-in-law's 2008 VW Jetta for the lease buy-out price, approximately $9700. This led to the decision to sell my 2002 Jetta with 102,000 miles. For that I needed to find the title. OK, the car was nine years old. Same for the title. Actually, I hadn't seen it - the title - in a while. Nor, as it turned out, could I find it presently.

New titles, I learned, could be had at the nearest DMV (Department of Motor Vehicles) site.

Off to the DMV

So, intent on procuring a new title for the 2002 Jetta, but feeling a dread much like a five-year old headed for a flu shot, at 7:30 AM on a recent overcast morning, I head for the agonizing NJDMV, 19 miles west on NJ Route 10.  I pack a full coffee mug, newspaper, requisite DMV papers (application for new title, car insurance card, registration for the 2002 Jetta) and laptop.  

It is my second DMV trip this month. The first, three weeks prior, was for the same purpose but ended in every DMV customer’s nightmare - i.e. get to the front of the line after an hour’s wait and be told, sorry but you have the wrong papers.

In my case, today, I had the papers, but still failed. What I heard at the end of the line today, was, “Sorry there is a lien on your car. You’ll need a release letter from VW credit.”

Now, I actually owned my car – outright – so I thought – huh?

“I own the car,” I told the man, but I don't think it registered with this particular DMV man.

“You can have them fax it to me,” he said, unimpressed.

I Knew This Would Happen

I grabbed my documents – registration, insurance card, title request form – did a military-like about face and marched away, breezing past several hundred poor souls in various stationary lines, out to the front vestibule and toward the door. I reached for the aluminum door handle. Oops – in front of my eyesight was a sheet of paper, 8½ X 11, looking like it was ripped from a child's homework notebook and with hand scrawled words “Not an exit.” It was taped to the glass door. OK, must be the other door I surmised and looked over my shoulder. “Exit here,” it said.

Fine! Out I went, mumbling to myself, “I knew this would happen.” 

The way I figured it was that since I bought my car and paid off VW Credit, they should no longer claim that there was a lien on my car. Wouldn’t you say? So why was I told, "there's a lien on your car?"

 

You Won’t Have to Worry

A few days before, the used car lot man had offered me $1300 for the 2002. It appealed to me because the guy said, “Sell it to me and you don’t have to worry about what happens to it, if anything goes wrong.”

He knew me - knew that when I said I could sell it to a friend that I was the type of guy that would worry about future breakdowns – and that I’d put the sale money into savings, and when the breakdown occurred (inevitable) I'd refund some of the money – if I sold it to a friend.

As for the specific friend that was interested in my car, I fretted over a possible breakdown on an interstate, at night. Fortunately, it was the husband, I was told, who’d be driving the car and he appeared to be in NFL pre-season condition. Still!

Regardless of who bought the car I needed VW Credit to send a lien release. Then I’d take the release letter to DMV, hand over $60 and get a new title. This irritated me because I paid $19K cash for the car some nine years ago.

I have a vague memory from when I bought the car, of falling for a come-on from the sales person, “If you finance for a month, you’ll save $200 off the price, or $100.” Something like that. He didn't mention adding $60 for the title.

Did Anyone Send Me a Title?

So, I think I agreed to “finance for a month,” but did I ever get a title when the month was over? Maybe, years ago. Maybe they actually sent me a lien release letter. If so I probably looked at it – said to myself, “That’s nice, especially since I just handed over $19K. Should I save this letter? Can’t see why. I’ve got a registration. What more do I need?”

License and Lien Release Letter Please

During the next nine years I was stopped by a cop twice. First, driving 3.5 mph turning right on red on an empty highway. Second, pulling over onto the shoulder too soon to turn right. Each offense was $350. The point is, I had all the necessary papers.  No patrolman asked for a lien release letter.

A Second Visit to the DMV

So, now, here I am, again, off to the DMV. This time I am armed with the infamous lien release letter. I'm told it will cost $60 for the new title. I have cash, a checkbook, and a credit card. I'm wise to the DMV. It makes their day to bring someone to the front of the line and just when they're about to fork over cash, say, “We take only checks."

It's a private DMV employee game called "Front-of-the-line-turnback."  The employees keep a tally, crown champs, have a party at year-end, the whole nine yards. It makes the day go faster. 

Don't believe me? 

Next time you get turned back after getting to the front, pivot and walk away, but then do a quick turn-around. You'll catch the person smiling, probably marking his or her tally, and comparing scores with the guy at the window next door. You'll see.

to be continued … -  Click for sale of the 9 year old car

Eight Years Down the Road

This post is speculation about the future, something I think that I might do someday. My daydream, if you will. Right now, it's some years down the road. If ever.

I turned 78 in March 2018.

Here are some thoughts currently living in my imagination.

As I imagine myself, I have just turned 80 and three of my grandchildren are in college, in New England. I am in a window seat on a Northbound Amtrak train out of NY, headed for Boston. The whole way up I'm trying to decide if this late in life venture is true destiny, the icing on the cake of a life, now all but completed, or if it will be the nadir, a final testimony for a life of errors. I so much want the former but fear the latter. As I listen to the sound of the rolling cars, I try to keep two thoughts in my mind - one thought has been around for forty years the other for half of that.

Update, March 2021

The Covid19 Pandemic hit, in earnest, a year ago. Despite that hardship the three college-age grand kids did make it to New England colleges: Mike and Anna were both recruited for ice hockey by Amherst College and Brown respectively. Emma  got into her dream school, Boston University, but the pandemic upended her plans and she finished the semester working remotely from her NJ home. Spring 2021: Anna is on the Brown campus, Mike is remote, currently in CA but headed to a "hockey house" in SC. Wierd. 

Update 2022: Mike at Amherst College, Anna at Brown U., Emma at Salve Regina U. in Newport, RI, Eddie is set to enroll at Boston College in Fall '22. Johnny, 16, still at home in high school.

Me, happily living in my daughter Ashley's sun-porch.   

As for the two thoughts in my mind, mentioned above: The first, older thought, from Thomas Merton, is this: “The love of God seeks you in every situation.” I vow to search for this, to notice every situation, every person, not for what they think of me, how it affects me, but to see myself, and all others, without distraction, as a child, as children, of God. Thinking that way seems true - and doable. The priority of kindness can be sown into all parts of life, into every situation. So I believe.

I glance up the aisle between the rows of seats for possible signs. Nothing yet.

The other thought, more recent, is from Gore Vidal, as follows: “Without knowing precisely, I have long sought and tried to create, a life of a proper human scale. In my repertoire it went by other names. Mostly I called it community, meaning closeness to both nature and other people. I would add, as well, a closeness to God which indicated at least some space and time for reflection.”

Would this venture lead me to either the love of God or community? Preferably both. It was eight years ago that I hit on what I thought was a brilliant idea. I would sell my house in the New Jersey suburbs and move to a cozy, in-town apartment in the college town that my first grandchild had chosen. I would take courses, join the college gym, attend sporting events, and spend my days writing in the library.

And my nights? True, nights would be the challenge for a seventy-eight year old male of limited means in a new town. But I would meet the challenge. I would comb the city for friends and senior events after dark. I could do it. I would force myself to enter the contrived, unfamiliar, discomforting world of senior activities – to find community and – dare I say it? - God.

Perhaps I should retract that, the bit about finding God. Why? Because “finding God,” if there is such a thing, would not depend on one’s location. At least not the God that I imagine. So, if you’re looking for God, I'd say, go for it – wherever you are and do it now.

Nevertheless, my one true sentence here and now is: Finding God - I’m not exactly sure what that means.

If I have a blessing that might indicate the words of God - something that I believe and something that appears to be universal, it is this: that my mind has found it fit to believe in the maxim, “Do unto others.” Just a small caveat: “believe in” is not always the same as “live by.”

So do I ever live it?

At times, yes. The rest of life is filled with the everyday petty emotions that seem to automatically grab my attention.

What can I say? Only that I’m trying - or think I am.

Meanwhile, it’s off to Boston.

Seriously?

It is my dream. It’s just that I always seem to be about $400,00 short.