Author: Paul

My friends and I disagree on different occasions.

For example:

If a group of young women, who offer nothing of merit to society or humanity in general other than their ability to kick a spotted ball or throw a heavy weight, wish to turn a back to our flag or kneel during our national anthem I say have at it. I figure we can’t have it both ways. The fact that a group of individuals who have been coddled, pampered, and entitled all their lives because of their athletic prowess can embarrass their country and disrespect their leaders whenever they wish without fear of reprisal is what make us great and separates us from other countries. I think the fact that their actions, though inappropriate, are tolerated shows what a great country we have.

So I won’t be spending any time grousing about the picture of the young woman with her back turned toward our flag. I, instead, will bring to mind the picture I first saw as a student in history class---back when history teachers still loved America. Six Marines proudly raising the flag on Iwo Jima after so many of their fellow soldiers had give up their lives for the honor of doing so.

Nor will I waste a second thought on those who choose to kneel during our national anthem. Instead I will think back to September 25th, 2001. The date of the first baseball game at Yankee Stadium after 9/11. All the players stood along one foul line and NYC first responders stood along the other while TAPS was played and renditions of We Shall Overcome, Lean On Me, and God Bless America were sung. And then 33,777 fans stood in solidarity while our National Anthem was played. No kneelers that day.

So I try to remember what I was taught through my entire life.

To stress what makes us different from each other weakens us as a nation and as a people.

To celebrate what makes us the same defines that which makes America great.

Anybody out there who might have some golf balls that they would be willing to get rid of cheap?

There is a reason I ask-----

A few years ago, when I retired, my friend Lou suggested I take up golf.
“It’ll be relaxing and give you something to do.“

But I wasn’t interested. It didn’t seem like much of a challenge. I mean-you put the ball on the ground and hit it with a stick. It’s not like someone is THROWING the ball at you. It just sits there waiting to be struck. Not much to it really.

But a month ago when I was offered the opportunity to play golf with my daughter, my grandson, and my son-in-law I decided to give it a try. And I found out that Lou was HALF right. It did give me something to do. But “relaxing?!” What is the absolute polar opposite of relaxing!


Now I majored in Physics in college. I know all about forces, and angles, and projectile motion, and conservation of momentum. But this game of golf is diabolical. It doesn’t seem to follow any of the rules of Physics. I swear—it is impossible to believe that I can swing as hard as I can in one direction only to have the ball squirt or dribble or bounce, or flop in the completely opposite direction. And the more frustrated I get, the worse the results.

Today I went to a local nine-hole golf course. It was a nice course. But in order to fit the nine holes in the space allotted there wasn’t much fairway. Lots of brush and sand and ponds. At least that’s the excuse I’m giving for what took place.

As I stood on the tee of the seventh hole I remembered a joke I had heard about Jesus and Moses playing golf. (It was not irreverent -honestly) It seems that Jesus was determined to clear the pond in front of him using a seven iron. But to no avail. Ball after ball kept plopping into the water. I think I know how Jesus felt as my ball after ball kept plopping into the pond. The only difference being that Jesus had Moses playing with Him. And Moses kept parting the water so that Jesus was able to retrieve all his golf balls. And although my wife was standing by watching she refused to wade into the water to retrieve anything.

All in all I lost nine golf balls today playing this nine-hole course. I believe that gives me and E.R.A. so to speak of 9.00 . Worse than the Phillies bullpen!

I figure that if I’m going to keep playing this game I’m going to need many more golf balls.

So I ask again---Anybody out there have any golf balls they want to get rid of cheap??

Ground Hog’s Day

I found the movie humorous. But these days I have much more empathy for Bill Murray. It’s not so much fun living the same day over and over again. I rise before 6AM, have coffee, watch the exact same news report, eat, take a walk, eat, check my computer for longed for communication, maybe a little snack, do a Sudoku puzzle, decide whether I should comb my hair or maybe take a shower. Or maybe not. What the hell. Smell my sweats to see if I can get another day out of them. By then I’m hungry again. Eat. Then it’s Mahjong and Hearts on the computer. Take a peek at my 401K. A glass of Metamucil and some antacid. And maybe –if it’s not raining- a little garden work before lunch. And so on and so on….

Honestly I don’t mean to make light of the situation. We have a pandemic on our hands and serious, life decisions need to be made. Like how do we get food. Yesterday we decided to try the “food delivery” method. Now I have to tell you that we did not come to this decision lightly. Trish actually began to twitch when she realized that she couldn’t use her coupons and that she would actually have to pay 11 cents more for a can of tuna fish!! But we felt we had no choice in the matter after our son’s daily warnings on the perils of human interaction. So Trish put in her order on line and was told that we should expect delivery by 4:30PM. The food was dropped on our door step around 7:30 PM. But of course I couldn’t just bring the food into the house. According to my son I needed to sterilize it first. So there I was- wiping down milk cartons, and frozen pizza boxes, and caned juices with a “Clorox” wipe. But I must admit that I was stymied on what to do with the fruit. How the hell do I sterilize grapes?? I finally did get everything into the house. Unfortunately the lettuce we ordered was replaced with Kale—yech. The low fat milk was replaced with whole milk—very upsetting since I have been so careful with my eating habits. And the bananas were so green I’m figuring we won’t get to them until the pandemic has passed. And they didn’t have any miniature chocolate peanut butter cups.

But I knew that Trader Joe’s did! I thought that maybe I could get to that store and back before my son found out. So I grabbed my gloves and the old mask I had in my workshop and off I went. When I got to the store I realized that they were only letting a few people at a time into the store so that they could practice social distancing. The problem was that because of this restriction there were about 70 people in line-standing just inches from one another. Hmmm. But no matter because I don’t do lines. Those doors could lead to paradise and I still would just “come back later”.

So no peanut butter cups.

As I drove home in a surly mood I began to sink into a dark place. I began to fantasize about how easy it would be to rob the place. I already would be wearing a mask and gloves. I could just walk up to the cashier and slip him or her a note.

“Don’t make any sudden moves. I was standing in line for 45 minutes just inches away from a lot of people I don’t know. God only knows what germs I have picked up!! Just put all the peanut butter cups in a bag or I will take off this mask and gloves right here and now!” 

But I snapped out of my fantasy when the phone rang. It was my son! If he found out I was in the car he would start his lecture all over again! So I didn’t answer, drove home as fast as I could, and called him back. “Just standing on the back deck son, having a snack”. Which just happened to be true after all.

 

The first car I ever owned was a used 1964 VW Bug, I got it out of necessity at the end of my sophomore year of college in 1966. Prior to then I got where I needed to go by hitch-hiking. We used to call it “thumbing a ride”. I “thumbed” it all over the city of Philadelphia and its surrounding areas—to and from school everyday, to friends and families houses, to stores…. I have some great stories associated with those rides. But at the conclusion of my sophomore year I was to begin my co-op program at US Steel in Fairless Hills PA. Too far and too much uncertainty to rely on the thumb. So a car it was. And I loved that car. In truth it wasn’t always easy to love it. No air conditioning in the summer. Very limited heat in the winter. The windshield wipers worked only most of the times. If I was in a real hurry I could get that Bug up to 84 mph going down hill.. Tops. Not a single mph more. It served me well. But when I got married in 1969 I figured it was time to get a slightly larger vehicle. A used 1965 Buick Special. That vehicle too served me well.

But then something wonderful happened. My neighbor had a connection with a Chrysler Dealer and he told me to visit his friend because his friend had a great deal on a NEW Plymouth Duster. A brand new car! And it WAS a great deal. Of course it was the last car on the lot and it was bright purple. With a white vinyl top. But so what! A brand new car! I kept that car forever. (I patched up its rust spots and painted it by hand with a coat of green Rustoleum paint in its later years).

I’ve had a few new cars since then. Always a sensible car and always with a great deal.But a funny thing happened recently. I had saved some money so that I could travel in my retirement. But then I found out I HATE traveling. So instead I bought a fancy new convertible. It’s a fine car. And I do enjoy driving it. But the truth of the matter is that at 73 years old my driving that fancy new car probably doesn’t have the clout that it would have had when I was 23 years old--when I could have impressed the ladies and made my peers envious. Hard to do much impressing now. Especially with two grandchild safety seats secured in back and a handicap sticker hanging from the rear view mirror. Not to mention the exercise in humility I must perform every time I get in and out of the vehicle.But don’t get me wrong. I love driving it. And I drive it all over---to my cardiologist, to my urologist, to my pulmonologist, to my dentist, to my gastroenterologist, to my pharmacy….. Just can’t drive it too far because I have to stop and use the restrooms.

So I ask a favor. If you see me driving around in my fancy new convertible please give me a wave. And, if you don’t mind, try to act impressed!! I’d really appreciate it.

 

                                   Lessons My Father Taught Me

• Treat your loved ones the way you would want them to treat you.
• Never allow anyone to blame you for something you didn’t do or to label you as something you are not.
• Children do not ask to be born. If you have a child then that child becomes your number one responsibility and your number one priority.
• You can get much more accomplished when you can make the other party believe that your idea was really their idea in the first place.
• You are entitled to nothing in this life. Least of all respect. If you want something—go out and earn it. And respect is the most difficult and the most precious of things to be earned.
• If you want something done right—do it yourself.
• Believe nothing of what you hear and only half of what you see.
• Make all your friends believe that there is something special in them.
• Don’t dwell on past failures and setbacks. Press on to the greater achievements of the future.
• Never be satisfied. There is always room for improvement.
• Hug and kiss your kids as often as you can.
• Keep your word.
• Choke up with two strikes and always hit the cut-off man.
• In your heart be at peace with the Lord.

 

It began as a torrid love affair….

When I began teaching Physics in 1968 my first three or four lessons dealt with the use of “The Slide Rule”. You see in 1968 “The Slide Rule” was the only devise available if one wanted to perform complicated mathematical calculations. Now “The Slide Rule” was an amazing device. But I don’t think that anyone would call it simplistic or self-intuitive. Then, in the seventies, the electronic calculator came onto the scene. It was large and expensive but I didn’t care. I fell in love. And my love flourished through the years as the electronic devices grew in their usefulness and availability.

But as happens with so many such affairs, the passion was replaced with a feeling of familiarity and comfort. I loved my calculator and my flip phone and my computer and my automobile’s rear view camera. I really loved my TV remote that enabled me to watch a football game, a movie, a talk show, and the news report all at the same time. I was happy.

But then, as they say, the blush began to fade from the rose. 

I began needing three remotes to operate the TV and accompanying devices. My computer began sending me nasty messages. “Your software no longer supports this operating system—you idiot! Go to the master heading, click on applications, scroll down the options for blah blah blah, choose the option for hunya hunya hunya, upload the yada yada yada and follow the instructions to ….. godknowswhere”. But this relationship with technology slipped from love to familiarity and now approaches hate ---thanks almost entirely to my cell phone. You see my flip phone wasn’t good enough. So my wife bought me an i-phone. And each time I eventually got the hang of it—well sort of—it seemed I needed a higher number. I think I am on a “6”. The phones are now up to at least a “10” if I understand correctly. (I think they jumped a few spaces while I write this.) Now in all honesty I do use my phone regularly. I even “text” now. Something I swore I wouldn’t do. But I had to learn because you see my kids and grandkids are so busy and so important that they can’t actually TAKE my calls. I need to text a 15-minute conversation that would take only two minutes with a personal conversation. And get this. My cell phone is a “Smart Phone”. Now I quickly came to realize that my smart phone isn’t really all that smart. Any more than a calculus book is a “Smart Book”. It seems that the smartness of the phone-and the calculus book for that matter-depends on the user. So in fairness I think they should have a sliding scale for phones. My phone for example would be a “Slightly Below Average Phone”. I came to this rating by judging how often my 12-year-old granddaughter rolls her eyes as she watches me navigate the settings.
I used to feel sheepish about my inadequacies with technology. But not any more. For I have come to a conclusion. I’m good right here. I don’t need or want any new technology stuff. My brain is all filled up. In fact lots of stuff that I USED to know has leaked out. Keep those higher number phones to yourself. Tell that creepy Alexa that I am perfectly able to turn the lights, the radio and the oven on myself. I’ll never use two-thirds of the gizmos in my automobile. And damnitall I don’t care if I CAN report my problem on line!! I want to TALK with a representative. A real live one!

Went to purchase a new TV the other day. Guy asked me if I wanted to buy a “Smart TV”. “No” I said. “Just a slightly below average one”.

“Working From Home”

I first heard the term about 12 years ago when my daughter called me from an auto dealership to ask my opinion about a vehicle she was considering purchasing.

“No work today” I asked
“I’m working from home today” she replied
“Obviously not” I said.
“Not what?” she asked.
“Working OR at home” I smirked.
“Oh I’m just taking a break” said she.

Now if you are AT work, a break amounts to a quick stop in the restroom. Maybe grab a quick cup of coffee or a snack bag of chips before heading back to the office or workstation. If you are “working from home”, a break can be almost anything. Buy a car; workout at the gym; meet friends for lunch or a round of golf; binge on old episodes of Downton Abbey; play video games. Hell, take sky-diving lessons if you wish. Who’s going to know?

A few Thanksgivings ago a family member and I were watching a football game on TV. He was “On Call” and receiving a substantial bonus for “working from home” on a holiday. His phone never rang. He just sat there dozing while I tried to put a dent in the 104 Physics labs I had to have graded before returning to classes on Monday. He even had the chutzpa to mention how unfair it was that he had to work and I was “off”. Same thing during the summer months. Friends sitting on the beach gazing at the ocean with their cell phones in hand in case it might ring and they would have to spend maybe 10 minutes with the caller. They were —you got it—“working from home”. The lesson plans I worked on and the football playbook I was rewriting for school didn’t count. I was “off”.

Did you ever hear the tale of “The Emperor’s New Clothes”?

Let’s be honest here. It doesn’t count as work unless all or at least most of the following conditions are met:

• Set an alarm clock for early the following morning
• Get out of bed even if you were up all night sneezing, coughing, and/or partying
• Shower
• Shave something—your face, your legs, your head
• Find something relatively clean and acceptable to wear to the workplace
• Grab a quick bowl of Cap’n Crunch
• Root around in the fridge to try and find something to take for lunch that day
• Fill the travel mug with something—coffee, tea. hot chocolate, vodka
• Scrape the damn ice off of you car’s windshield
• Fight the traffic through that godawful commute to the workplace ( And that’s assuming you have a car. It’s a whole new kind of hell if you have to wait outside in the blistering heat, pouring rain, or freezing cold for the bus!)
• Find a parking space
• Show up on time
• Smile at your boss
• Make nice with your co-workers

If these aren’t met then don’t call it “work”. How about “Alternately Located” or “Alternatively Situated”. How about “Progressively Venued”?

“Working from Home” ??!!   My God the Emperor is naked!!!

“Time to get up” Andy’s mom said. “You’ll be late for school”

Any didn’t really want to go to school. He hadn’t done his homework and he knew he wasn’t prepared for his classes.

“Everything is just so hard” Andy thought. But the truth was that everything wasn’t really that hard. It was just that Andy was lazy. He always tried to duck work. To take the best shortcuts he could. Now sometimes he could bluff his way through his classes with a smile and a joke. Everybody liked Andy. But not today.

A week ago his teacher told the class that each student would be required to write a short poem which he or she would then read in front of the entire group.

Andy hadn’t even thought about writing a poem. He just kept putting it off. He didn’t tell his mom or dad about the assignment either because he knew that they would have insisted that he sit and concentrate until he came up with something.

“This is a stupid assignment anyway. Who cares about some stupid poem” Andy thought as he ate his cereal. But he was worried. He knew he would have to stand up in front everyone and that he would be embarrassed because he didn’t have anything prepared.

On his way to school he tried to put a few lines together but they were horrible. “I wish there were some easy way out so I wouldn’t have to do any work and STILL not get into any trouble” Andy said out loud.

As he got closer to school he saw an old woman sitting on a bench across from the school. She seemed to be looking at him. And smiling. As he got closer he was certain that she was smiling at him. Well actually more than smiling. Maybe laughing at him. Andy knew he wasn’t supposed to talk to strangers but he was in a bad mood anyway and he didn’t like the idea of this old lady laughing at him. So he walked up to her.

“Are you laughing at me” Andy asked

“Why yes young Master I am” the old woman replied.

“And just what is so funny” shouted Andy

“Why young master you have a problem I think. A problem that you would like to solve without giving much effort. Am I not correct” the lady asked.

“And how would you know that “

“I don’t think it matters how I know. What does matter is that I think I can help you.”

“How? Are you going to write that poem for me?”

“Oh young master, I can do much better than that.”

“How?”

“I heard your wish!! An easy way out without doing much work.”

“So What” Andy asked.

The old woman cackled and said: “ So I can grant it! If you are sure that is what you want.”

“Yeah I want it! What do I need to do?”

“Just touch my hand and your wish will be granted” the old woman whispered.

Andy was a bit skeptical but he figured that he didn’t really have anything to lose. So he came close to the woman and laid his hand on hers. Andy couldn’t be sure but he thought he felt a small shock when he did so.

“Now what” he asked?

“Your wish has been granted. You need only to speak and your poem will burst forth.”  The old woman stood and looked at Andy. Then she walked slowly away. But as she did she began to laugh again.

“What the heck” said Andy under his breath. “Crazy old coot. I guess I’m not gonna get my poem after all.”

Andy walked into the classroom. He found his seat and slumped into it.
 
"Allright students” the teacher said. “Please take out your poems and we will begin reading. Who wants to go first?”

Well of course Andy didn’t want to go first. Or second or EVER. He didn’t HAVE a poem. So he slunk down in his seat. But it was no use.

“We have time for one more poem” his teacher said. “How about you Andy. Stand up and read yours.”

Well Andy knew that he was in trouble. He knew his teacher would be disappointed. He knew his parents would also be disappointed when they found out that he hadn’t done his assignment. So as he stood up he decided to tell the teacher that he had never done his assignment and take the consequences.

But just then an amazing thing happened. When Andy began to speak, this is what came out:

“It was bright and sunny
a beautiful day
A bluejay and robin
 came out to play
till that pesky old cat
chased them away”

Andy was shocked! Where did that come from? I guess that ugly old woman knew what she was talking about! Andy’s teacher was very please and congratulated Andy on his good work. And Andy sat down with a smile on his face. “Well that was easy” he thought to himself.

But at recess time when all the kids when out to play a funny thing happened. All the kids decided to play baseball and they asked Andy if he wanted to play.Andy loved to play baseball. So when he started to say yes-instead he said: “I think I would like some chances to hit. But I can’t do the catching cause I don’t have my Mitt”
And that’s the way it went for the rest of the day. Everything Andy said came out in a rhyme. When his mom asked how school went that day Andy replied:“ Actually I’d say-my day went okay.”
When his sister told him to turn down the volume on the TV Andy said: “I need it loud so that I can hear. If you don’t like it then don’t sit so near.”

And so it went. On and on.

When his mother asked him if he wanted cereal for breakfast Andy said:
“Actually I’d rather have eggs on my platter.”

Or when his father asked him to feed the dogs he said:
“I’ll dish out some food for one then the other and a treat for them now and later another.”

 Or when his friends asked what he had packed for lunch he said:
“ A carton of milk and a large round ripe peach. Got them both at the market right near the beach.”

Andy couldn’t help himself. No matter how hard he tried everything came out as a rhyme. At first everything was okay. His teacher thought it was clever, his parents thought it was funny and his friends thought it was cool. But after a while it became annoying. Then it became REALLY annoying. His teacher stopped calling on him. His friends didn’t ask him to play anymore. And his parents became angry when they told him to stop but he didn’t. Andy was beside himself. He wanted this to stop. He was sorry he ever made that deal with that creepy old lady. He should have done his own work and not tried to find a way to skip his responsibilities. So the next day Andy walked back through the park. He wanted to find that old woman and get out of his deal. But he couldn’t find her. Again and again he went but with no luck. He decided to try one last time. So he walked through park again but there was no sign of the old woman. Andy was so discouraged that he sat on the bench where the old woman had sat and he put his head in his hands and wondered just what the heck he was going to do. And then Andy was aware of someone standing over him. He raised his head quickly in the hope that the old woman was back. But what he saw was not an old woman but a beautiful young lady. With flowing black hair, beautiful black eyes and wearing a long, flowing dress that reached to her feet.

“You are disappointed to see me young Master” she asked in the softest voice Andy had ever heard.

“I hoped you were the old lady returning” Andy said

“And why did you want it to be she”

“Because I made a deal with her and I want to end it right away. I just want to go back to the way it was.”

“Ah young Master you can never go back to the way it was. But perhaps you would like to make a deal with me?”

“But you are not like the old woman at all. You are young and beautiful.”

The young lady smiled “What you see is what is in your heart. If you have faith in yourself and are willing to work hard and if you are truthful and honest then you will see beauty.” 

“I will have faith in myself, work hard and be truthful” Andy shouted.

“Then touch my hand young Master and believe”

Andy was a bit skeptical but he figured that he didn’t really have anything to lose. So he came close to the beautiful lady and laid his hand on hers. Andy couldn’t be sure but he thought he felt a small shock when he did so.The beautiful lady smiled and walked away.

Andy wasn’t sure what to do next. So he walked home as fast as he could. When he got there he went looking for his mother and found her in the kitchen. “Well here goes” thought Andy.

“Hi Mom. What’s for lunch?” 

NO RHYME –JUST A NORMAL SENTENCE! Hooray!!

“Well I’m glad that rhyming stuff is over” said his mom.

“Not nearly as happy as I am” Andy thought.

From that day on Andy did all his work, was truthful with everyone and tried to keep only beauty in his heart.

Oh by the way Andy went on to write many poems.

But none of them rhymed.



 

 

 

 







 

So I went to the Barber Shop today. Well not really the Barber Shop. I’m not sure if that’s the right name for it. But it’s that same place that skinny kid who plays in a band goes. The kid who gets what we used to call a crew cut and then goes on TV and tells everybody how good the hair cut makes him feel and look.

Well anyway that’s where I went. And Trish came with me. She almost never comes with me when I go for a haircut but we were going to run an errand afterward so she came along. On our way she takes out her phone, pushes a few buttons, and when we stop at the next red light she sticks a picture of this really nice looking guy in front of my face and tells me that I should get my hair cut like him.

Now I know some guys really take their hair seriously. In fact it borders on a religion with my son. But not for me. Not since 7th grade when I had this really cool curl I used to put in the middle of my forehead. So I say “sure, why not?” knowing full well that I ain’t ever gonna look like that dude when the haircut is over. I mean I took a peak in the mirror when I got out of the shower this morning. Not a pretty sight!

So Trish shows the girl the picture and the girl takes me back and proceeds to cut my hair. When she’s done she tells me what shampoo to use and then shows me a jar of this special conditioner made just for my type of hair. I listened intently. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the only product touching this head will be whatever bar of handsoap is on sale at ShopRite.

So out we go to the waiting room. Trish takes a look. She didn’t say anything. She just shrugged. That “Well we gave it a shot” kind of shrug and we left. And went to the mall to walk with the old people.

No one noticed my hair

Now after 50 years you’d think I’d be used to it.

My wife and I meet up with friends or family whom we may not have seen in a while. I get a nod and a hello—“Hi Paul. How are you?”. My wife gets a hello and then has praise and compliments showered upon her—“ Trish you look great. You haven’t changed at all. You look way younger than your age!” Blah, blah, blah. Etc., etc., etc.. Now don’t you people all realize that when you meet up with TWO people and shower praise on only ONE of those people you are, by extension, sending a quite clear message to the overlooked individual!? “Trish, you look great. Paul….not so much fatty!” Just once I wish some one would pass a little praise my way—“Paul you look great. Slim and fit and young!!”. I’D know you’d be lying, YOU’D know you’d be lying, and I’D know that YOU’D know you’d be lying. But so what! I mean really! We “other people” have feelings too you know. What are we---CHOPPED LIVER? If you prick us do we not bleed….

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m happy that my wife receives such praise. Because I’m sure it makes her feel good. But also because I have recently come to the conclusion that she looks the way she does because of me. Really. You see I’m a complainer. I need sympathy, empathy, compassion. If I have a sore finger I want everybody to know about it. And since I can’t tell EVERYONE, whom do you think I tell? You got it. Headache, toothache, backache, stubbed toe, pulled muscle,   Trish has been hearing about them all for 50 years. It’s gotten to the point that I don’t think that the complaints even register on her conscience mind anymore. But I keep right on complaining. She has spent so much time in doctor and hospital waiting rooms that she has read every magazine ever published over the past half century. She sat there through all my x-rays, Cat Scans, therapies and scopings. Through all my surgeries --Cataract (both of them), Hemorrhoids(both of them), Heart Catheterization, Kidney, colonoscopy (four of them). She has rushed me to the hospital so that I could deliver all nine of my kidney stones. She has been to Care -Centers in Delaware, Pennsylvania, Florida, Maryland, New Hampshire, Vancouver…

So you see it is I who is to be congratulated for how good my wife looks. It is I who has toughened her up. Kept her on her toes so to speak. I’m kind of like sprints after practice or push-ups in the morning. Nobody likes to do them but they make you strong and keep you in tip-top shape. So the next time you see Trish and comment on how great she looks, how about a shout out or a pat on the back to her personal trainer.

Dedication: To my friend Joe Moglia from whom I learned and on whom I based these rules

The rules of success are really quite simple.

1. Always work to the greatest level of your given authority (and as far above that level as you can go without getting fired or arrested).
2. Recognize talent–administrators, coaches, workers, players….whomever
3. Have the ability, charisma, charm, whatever to amass that talent.
4. Have the courage to aggressively and relentlessly manage that talent. No excuses. Ever.
5. Most importantly get that talent to believe that it can accomplish way more than any reasonable person would ever expect it to accomplish.
6. Stay loyal to your friends and loved ones.
7. Scare the shit out of your enemies.

A young man died this week. Suddenly. Tragically. How sad I was. But death doesn’t startle me like a clap of thunder. It creeps up on me sometime later and engulfs me. So it was again as I stood alone on my deck enjoying a sip of bourbon and a warm autumn breeze. Alone-- by the fading Verbena and the flourishing Mums. Death’s presence came upon me. Poor Anthony. Poor Anthony’s family. I slipped into anguish. Thank God for faith so that we need not use the term senseless.

A good woman died this week. Also suddenly. Also tragically. Poor Kathy. Poor Kathy’s family. Further I slipped unable to catch myself.

A good man and a good woman died this year. Not suddenly like the clap of thunder. But more slowly like the dark, billowing clouds that roll in before the storm. But equally as tragic. Poor Jerry and his family. Poor Mac and her family.

That’s the way it is with me. The anguish never completely goes away. It recedes for a while. Some times for a good while. But it always comes back in varying degrees. When I am alone.

I don’t do well with death. No one does you say. But that’s not true. Most people do quite well. They are strong and consoling and willing to share their sorrow with others. I can’t. I never could. Which is why I seldom join in on the appropriate activities that go along with death. And if I do, I do so quickly, quietly, and to no benefit to the bereaved.

Perhaps it was my Italian background. Death was solemn, sorrowful, devastating. To be spoken of with hushed voices and down cast eyes. I can still see my mother lying in that coffin 58 years ago. So many people. So many tears. Even then I needed to be alone to mourn.

Five years later when I was a freshman in college I attended a wake for my best friend’s father. I remember walking into the room where he was laid out. I remember being appalled at the noise and, to me, the lack of respect. People were talking amongst themselves in normal and even higher than normal volume. There were smiles and handshakes and hugs galore. I didn’t know what to do. My friend came over to me and thanked me for coming. He didn’t seem at all upset by the commotion. I was though. And at a complete loss as to how to act. So I mumbled a few words and left quickly. Only as I walked home alone was I able to grieve for my friend’s dad.

Many years later my step mother called to tell me that my own father had died. She asked that I come to her house and join her and my brother to discuss arrangements. I couldn’t go immediately. I had a Physics class to teach. You don’t need to do that my boss said. But I did. My dad would have insisted. I spent a short time with my family and then went back to work. My long ride home was, for me, filled with memories both happy and sad. I think the policeman knew something wasn’t quite right when he pulled me over. He asked what was wrong and I told him. We talked for a while-right there by the side of the road. We shook hands. I thanked him. He told me to drive safely. I still think of dad often when driving alone.

I admire and envy those who can celebrate the life of the deceased. I can never do that. I wish I could. It makes so much sense. But to me I can only wait. And mourn later.

So when it’s my time I want no funeral. No viewing. Cremate me and toss my ashes into the ocean. And maybe, if someone would be willing to do so, a brief morning get together with coffee and donuts. Maybe a prayer (blessed are they who mourn for they shall be comforted) and some kind words from former students for the sake of my grandchildren. Perhaps Megan will keep her promise and sing something for me---You raise me up so that I can stand on mountains--- And lots of tears. Lots and lots. And hushed voices. Perhaps some gnashing of teeth and rending of garments also.

And maybe just maybe if Larry or Maureen shows up – a bit of humor.

Some of you may have sons or daughters leaving the nest for college. I know how some of you may feel. I wrote this in 1988.

            Quite recently I found myself wearing a pin that read “Hoya Dad.” If someone had told me 20 years ago that I would be wearing anything that supported Georgetown University, I would have scoffed. As a member of the St. Joseph’s College booster club and an avid and loyal Hawk, the only things I ever used to say about the Hoyas were too unkind to be printed here. It is testimony to the strong affection I have for my son that I have worn this pin in public.

My wife and I drove him to Washington two weeks ago. We helped him find his dorm; we waited while he unpacked his bags. We took a little tour of the campus and we went to a couple of orientation meetings. Then we kissed him goodbye and drove home.

It was during that two-hour ride back to Wilmington that I realized he was gone for good. Christmas vacations, summer visits, spring breaks are just what they imply – short respites from his new life as an independent young adult.       I had been preparing myself for this for more than a year. Last summer we started with the college visitations, applications, essays, fees, interviews, SAT’s. Every conversation seemed to be centered around deadlines, letters of recommendation, grade-point indexes. Hovering over all of this like some fickle dispassionate god was the dreaded FAF. For the longest time I thought the letters FAF stood for Financial Aid Forms. I realize now that they stand for Frustration and Futility. For those of you who have not yet been through this financial nightmare, let me save you some time. Compute to the penny the absolute maximum you feel that your family can afford for college and still eat regularly. Double that amount and you will have a pretty good approximation of what you will be expected to contribute.

So I had been preparing diligently for my son’s departure, determined not to be emotionally overwhelmed by his leaving. High School Graduation day did set me back a little, but I recovered during those long, hot, hectic summer months. The Thursday before he was to leave, I went up to his room. I sat on his bed while he sat on the floor packing last minute necessities like his Elvis Costello tapes and his Clint Eastwood poster. I wanted to give him one last fatherly lecture. I wanted to talk to him about responsibility and opportunity. I wanted to warn him about the perils of wasted time and late hours and wild women. He looked up at me patiently and lovingly. I could say nothing. I tried. I honestly tried. Finally I just hugged him and left.

I handled myself pretty well that Friday. I don’t think I embarrassed him much in front of his roommate and I didn’t create a scene when it came time to say goodbye. I thought I made the transition quite smoothly. But I made a big mistake the next day. I went into his room. And even though it looked normal – bed unmade, clothes and towels all over the floor – it seemed so barren, so quiet. I noticed some pictures still hanging on his wall. His Little League pictures were there. So was the picture of him and me standing side by side in front of Holy Rosary on his very first day of school. His grammar-school wrestling medals were still draped over his bookcase. Lying in the corner was one of my T-shirts. How often I went into my drawer for a shirt only to find none there because my son had “borrowed” them. We used to fight all the time about my shirts and my sweats and my socks. As I stood in this empty room, I wanted to tell him that I really didn’t mind him wearing my shirts. I wished that I had told him before he left. Later that day, as I cut the grass, I noticed a Wiffle Ball wedged in the shrubbery. How many times I’d had to get up on a ladder to dig out a Wiffle Ball clogging the drain spout. I could never understand why he had to play Wiffle Ball on our front lawn. “It’s tradition, Dad,” I was told. “Shawn and I have played Wiffle Ball here for five years.” Now Shawn is at the University of Richmond; there hasn’t been a game out front for a couple of weeks. As I picked up the ball, I wished so much that they were still on the front lawn, swinging and arguing and chasing line drives through my garden. I put the ball back in the shrub. Maybe he’ll wasn’t to play a game when he comes home.

It is easier to watch television now, since the phone no longer rings every five minutes. Lately, the car needs gas less often. But I also have noticed a more subdued atmosphere around the house. I don’t seem to yell or smile as often as I used to. People tell me that I will grow accustomed to the peace and quiet; and even get to like it. Maybe ….. but I doubt it.

So I’m sitting on the beach and this young fellow sitting near me leans over and says:

“You look like you’ve been married for 100 years. Any advice on how to maintain a stress-free marriage?”

I pondered this for a while. Of course there are many ways to respond to his inquiry. There are all the safe and cuddly suggestions that one can find on greeting cards and in made-for-TV Hallmark movies.

…You are my light that will show me the way
I’ll love you forever and then one more day…

But how about something more tangible ….and more practical.

“OK” I said. “Stay away from quicksand questions.”

“What the heck is a quicksand question?” he asked.

You know. Quicksand. Looks harmless enough but once in it you begin to sink. And the harder you struggle the worse it gets.

“I’m going to need an example” he said.

OK it might go something like this. You are sitting on the beach and your wife turns to you and says :

“Did you like the bathing suit that woman sitting on the blanket near us was wearing?”

Uh-oh!!

“Sure! I loved it!”

“I’m surprised. You usually don’t like one-piece bathing suits.”

“One piece? It wasn’t a one-piece”

“It certainly was. What bathing suit were you looking at?”

“Uhh…What bathing suit were YOU looking at?”

“The woman on our right with her three grandchildren.”

(Now all guys know that no 30 year old heterosexual male is going to notice grandma’s bathing suit. Granny could be wearing a hockey mask, flack jacket, and roller blades while smoking a cigar. He ain’t gonna notice!)

“Oh”

“Why. Which bathing suit were you talking about.”

“Umm…”

“Oh! I know. You were looking at that young kid in the bikini.”

“Well I was admiring the color. I thought you’d look great in that color.”

“You liked the color?”

“Right.”

“What color was it?”

“What?”

“What color was it?”

“Ummm… Red?”

“It was blue and white stripes!!”

See what I mean? Quicksand. In fact stay away from all fashion questions. And Jewelry too.

If your wife asks “Hey did you see the size of that ring Gilda has on her finger?!!” beware.

Because if she asks you about the ring, she isn’t just making small talk. What she’s really saying is “Hey did you see the size of that ring Gilda has on her finger?!! It’s way bigger than this piece of crap you gave me you cheap skate!”

Your best response is “No I didn’t.But that reminds me. We haven’t seen your mother in almost a week. Why don’t you give HER a ring on her cell phone and see if she wants to spend a few days with us.”

And finally you need to realize that quicksand questions are only quicksand for the males of our species. Women are immune. Quicksand questions are like the hula-hoops of questions. No sweat for the ladies. Impossible to navigate for the gentlemen.

Case in point. Four couples are sitting on the beach talking. Up walks this lifeguard and he starts talking to the little kids playing in the sand a few feet over. He was a nice looking young man. He was tall and fit. He had muscles. He had dimples. He was all tan with a mop of sandy hair. The women were impressed. “He could put his flip-flops on my blanket any time.” “He fills out that bathing suit pretty well doesn’t he?” “I wouldn’t mind having him save me anytime soon.” “He’s pretty hot!!”  A bundle of laughs. A few rolled eyes. Friendly banter back and forth. And who could blame the ladies. He WAS a good looking guy. Hell I’m straight but I’d a had a beer with him if he asked me!! The guys didn’t mind at all.

But what if the tables were turned. What if it had been a female lifeguard who had come over to talk to the kids?? “She could put her flip-flops on my blanket any time.” “She fills out that bathing suit pretty well doesn’t she?” “I wouldn’t mind having her save me anytime soon.” “She’s pretty hot!!” The men would have faced icy scorn and be mentally labeled as perverts forever by the ladies present.

Hula-hoops

“ Geesh” my young friend said. “I’d better be on my toes.”

“Just remember”, I told him. “Once women are past their early 20’s they dress not to impress men but to impress other women. Fashion and Jewelry have nothing to do with us. Discussions involving them can come to no good.

Quicksand questions. Stay away.







 

 

My friend Curt is truly a nice man. And while I so admire his generosity and kindness, what I admire most is his ability to sanely deal with his many hours of air travel back and forth from Houston to Delaware. I was reminded of his stamina and patience this past weekend when I went on a little excursion of my own. I really don’t like to travel. However my friend’s son was getting married in Florida and my wife and I decided to attend the ceremony.

Our trip started early on a Thursday morning. We left the house at 5:30AM. We decided to leave our car at the Walley-Park facility near the airport. We had parked there before with no difficulty. But as we pulled up to the gate we saw a sign that read: ”Lot Full—Reservations Only”. Uh-oh. No reservation and no back up plan. I started to panic a little. After driving around aimlessly for a while I drove back to the lot and decided to throw myself on the mercy of the attendant. I begged. I pleaded. I sank to the lowest level of self- humiliation. He agreed to let us in only after I promised to name our next grandchild –boy or girl-after him. Thank goodness the name Rasheen is gender neutral.

We finally got to the airport with sufficient time to check in. I usually use carry-on luggage if I have to fly. But for this trip we needed to check our baggage, which we hadn’t done since the planes had propellers. We got in a line that looked promising. When we got to the receptionist, she looked at us with what could only be classified as disdain. “You have to go over there” she said nodding her head somewhere toward the center of the aisle. “Where” I asked? “There” she hissed and moved on to the next victim.
Nasty woman!
Evil Woman!

We looked “over there” and saw a bunch of people milling about an electronic kiosk. When we got to the kiosk we were next to another couple about our age. They had the same glazed look as we must have had. I looked at the husband; he looked at me and we both shrugged. After three fruitless tries punching in numbers (“I’m sorry we don’t recognize that number”) we finally got our bag tags. We got into another line. We were told to put our bags first on the scale and then onto the conveyor belt by another nasty woman. I think maybe the sister of the first receptionist we encountered. Perhaps they weren’t loved enough when they were children.

Then to security. Things were looking up. We were told that we did not need to remove our shoes. We were not patted down. We get through with our dignity fairly unscathed. Piece of cake. But wait . Where’s our gate? Terminal C gate 31. There are only 31 gates in terminal C. C-1 is right there in front. C-31 is, as our original receptionist might have said, “over there”. Way, way over there. But we made it and the sign at C 31 read “ON TIME”. We settled in and after a reasonably short wait the attendant announced that we would be boarding soon. At that announcement everybody immediately stood up and started crowding toward the boarding ramp. I guess they were afraid that maybe the plane would leave without them if they didn’t get on right away. For me that announcement was my signal to complete my ablutions. At my age my bathroom visits must be carefully and strategically planned.

Then another announcement. The attendant suggested we all sit down because there would be a delay. It seemed that we had a perfectly good airplane. But no pilot to fly it. Thirty minutes later still no pilot. At this point I’m thinking two things. “Hell I’ll fly the damn thing. “ And “Damn there goes my bathroom strategy”. Finally the pilot showed up and we were able to board. But because of the delay we are now at the end of a long line of planes taxiing for take off. We inched along for a while then stopped-and the engine was turned off. “This can’t be good” I’m thinking. The pilot’s voice came over the intercom to tell us that a storm had just moved in and that we wouldn’t be taking off anytime soon. What he had forgotten to mention was that if he had shown up when he was supposed to we would have missed the freaking storm and been on our way to Florida right now!

Then the air conditioning went off.

In a matter of minutes the temperature in the cabin rose precipitously. Two hundred hands reached up to fiddle with that twisty nozzle thingy overhead. Only to find hot air blowing out. We were in sauna mode. In fairness the heat was only on for a short while. Just long enough to incubate the trillions of germs being spewed out by the hundreds of people packed like sardines in this tubular container. And just long enough to work up a healthy sweat. Then the air conditioner returned with a vengeance. The temperature dropped so quickly that my sweat began forming ice crystals all over my body. So there I was. My big, fat body wedged into that tiny seat - freezing and hungry. The detainees at Gitmo would have been appalled at the conditions. But then the pilot’s voice again, apologizing for the delay and telling us that the flight attendants would be coming around with a complimentary snack. “Good news” I thought. “Maybe a sandwich”. “And a beer     maybe”. Not quite. The complimentary snack was a cup of water and a biscuit. Who am I? Oliver? “Please miss, I want some more”. I started to protest but I got a stern “don’t you dare” look from the attendant. I thought maybe a cousin of the two at check-in.

What torture of hell was this? My day started at 5AM. It was now 11AM and I was still in Philadelphia!

Well we finally made it to Florida. When we picked up our bags we noticed that the front compartment of my wife’s bag was ripped open and a third of her undergarments were missing. As we left the terminal I could only think of our return trip four days hence. I started to obsess. But then I thought how much worse it could be. I could be in Houston with poor Curt.

 

 

After learning today that my friend Larry Cylc has retired from coaching I feel obliged to comment on his career. I also feel that any praise on Larry’s behalf needs to be delivered in a manner consistent with his personality. So I do so succinctly, distinctly, honestly, and without flourish.

It is my honest belief that Larry Cylc is one of the finest coaches I have come across in my 50 year association with high school football. He might also be the most under rated and under appreciated.  

Larry’s record speaks for itself. He has six state football championship jackets and has made numerous state tournament appearances. The obvious high points on his resume. What was not so obvious was his willingness to take on struggling programs and begin their turnaround. Sometimes he stayed long enough to enjoy the fruits of such a turnaround. Sometimes he didn’t and let others reap those rewards.

A key buzzword in today’s society is “culture”. Larry established his own culture early on. Under the tutelage of Joe Moglia and after spending most of his early coaching days with the likes of Bill Doyle, Jerry Ambrogi, and Billy DiNardo. Larry’s culture stemmed from one simple fact. He has always considered it a privilege for a young man to have the opportunity to play football. And if a young man wished to enjoy that privilege he needed to agree to certain requirements. Any demand for personal glory needed to be discarded and replaced with a desire for team glory. Any expectation of special treatment needed to be left at home with mom and dad. If a young man wished to enjoy the privilege of playing football then he needed to respect the game, respect his coaches, respect his fellow teammates, respect his school, and most of all respect himself. Larry has never deviated from this “cuture”. And he has never compromised his principles. Even if pressured to do so.

Larry Cylc has risen to great heights from very humble beginnings. He can now devote full time to being the husband, father, and grandfather to his magnificent family. Good luck Larry. It has been a privilege to coach you, teach you, coach and teach with you, and be your friend.

 

I have been blessed to always have strong women in my life. While I was the first member of my family to graduate from college, I was not the first to attend college. My paternal grandmother, despite being a fairly recent immigrant to America and raising three children, attended Temple University in the hope of becoming a pharmacist. When it became apparent that my ailing grandfather could not support the family, my grandmother left school and began working full time. She became one of the first female department managers at Sears, Roebuck and Co.. Nana was cool. She could work till 4 PM on Christmas Eve then come home and put together the traditional “seven fish” Italian meal for 15 people. A smile on her face, a “Manhattan” in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

My wife can pretty much do it all also. A true academic. Pretty as a picture when dressed up. Nasty as an adder when crossed. A great teacher, great mother, great grandmother. And a gourmet cook. No one can squeeze more out of a dollar bill than my wife.

And my daughter. When she was little I would tell her that there wasn’t anything she couldn’t do, nothing she couldn’t accomplish. She needed to take a back seat to no one. She must have been listening. A leader in every sense of the word.

The gender lines have indeed been crossed if not yet completely erased. All of this is for the best. But for an old guy like me—sometimes it’s hard.

It was simpler 70 years ago. On his fifth birthday each boy was given apiece of paper. It contained a list of those things for which he would be responsible. The car, the trash, the lawn, all the tools, the painting, the plumbing, household repairs, etc. A second list included what he absolutely needed to do. He needed to catch and throw a ball (being able to hit it was a bonus.). He needed to be able or at least willing to fight, skate, ride a bike and do arithmetic. And a third list of things he didn’t have to worry about—cooking, cleaning, shopping, fashion, or feelings. And a fourth list of things he was forbidden to do –-like crying, talking in church, squealing on a buddy, being disrespectful of his mom. He could never ask for help. Or directions. And though it was totally appropriate to be as profane as possible on the field or in the locker room, it was never acceptable to be profane around women young or old. But most importantly, his number one priority, was to provide for his family. A guy didn’t necessarily like everything on those lists but there were no options available. I’m pretty sure girls received a list also but since I didn’t have any sisters I never saw one. But I’m guessing it contained things like puppies and ribbons, cleaning products, recipes, make-up tips, colored thread, and doll accessories. I think they needed to learn to cry on cue, always smell nice and never be too assertive. You know. Stuff like that.

There are no more lists today.

My Dentist is female. So is my Physician’s Assistant. My Cardiologist is Male as is my Urologist. A woman cuts my hair. A woman alters my clothes. My florist is a man.

Everyone does everything. But…..There are still two hurdles to be overcome.

Fashion: Even the most foppish of man cannot keep up with even the most average woman shopper. Who really needs all those shoes?

Child Birth: This is woman’s territory. Although women have been doing their best to drag their male counterparts into the experience.

Last fall my friend’s daughter and her husband came to visit. “Guess what” she said grasping her hubby’s hand. “We’re pregnant!”
“Honey” I said. “There is no WE. YOU’RE pregnant. He’s just along for the ride.”
Funny. No Christmas card from them last year.

Let’s be honest. Birthing classes? Breathing support? Come on. Women have been giving birth for eons. You really think they need our help? Tell the truth ladies. I know what you are all thinking. “If I have to be miserable for nine months, so do you!”

Now I wouldn’t dare wander into this perilous discussion if I didn’t have some common ground upon which to stand. My grandmother had three children and one kidney stone. She said she would give birth any day of the week if given the option. I just gave birth to my ninth kidney stone. And like six of its previous siblings I couldn’t pass it. The doctor had to go get it.

I know, I know. It’s not the same thing as having a baby. But it’s as close as we men are going to get. And there are some similarities. Like…..It takes a while for the little buggers to grow. We know what causes them. For the stones --too much calcium. For the pregnancy…well you know. Both cause great pain during delivery. And those involved usually make wild promises during the pain.

“I’ll never eat another piece of cheese as long as I live!!!!”

“I’ll never, ever, ever have sex again!!!”

 Usually, in time, those promises begin to fade away.

“Oh hell. One piece of cheese. What harm can that do?”

“One little kiss can’t hurt anything right?”

But there are glaring differences also. A pregnant woman gets big during the pregnancy but at least knows approximately when the pain will start. She can plan. Inform work. Pack her bag.

A kidney stoner doesn’t get bigger. But he/she also has no clue when the pain will hit. On a plane to Vancouver. At the Mall. In the car. No warning. Just Wham!

And afterward the new mom gets to take home a cute little bundle of joy who will hopefully grow up to be successful and take care of her when she gets old and senile.

A kidney stoner gets to take home a pet rock in a specimen cup.

For me I don’t need anyone to hold my hand and tell me to breath. I don’t want to go to classes to prep. Just knock me out as soon as is reasonable and get the thing out of me!

I thought I’d just let you know that because I got some startling news this week. My Urologist informed me that WE are pregnant again. Two additional little pebbles making themselves right at home in my kidneys.

I know, I know----“Breathe, breathe….”

Written in 1990


The other day I was sitting with a few friends during lunch. We were talking about home and family and things like that. And one of my friends asked me if I was henpecked.

Can you imagine? Am I henpecked? What an incredibly stupid question. First, one almost never hears the term henpecked anymore.(The younger generation has another name for it).  In fact my generation is probably the last that will use the term at all. Now the previous generation used it all the time. There was nothing more damaging to the male ego than to be called henpecked.      

“Get started on dinner, will you, dear? And while you’re at it, how about throwing a load of clothes into the washing machine?” If hubby starts dinner and washes the clothes and is older than 50 he is henpecked. If he is younger than 40, he is one of that new breed of modern man. We who are in our 40’s are in limbo. We have to decide for ourselves whether we are henpecked.

What a dumb question. Am I henpecked? Of course I am. I have been my whole married life and probably some time before I got married.
Sure, I didn’t want to admit it at first. In fact, I didn’t even know what was happening. Early in my marriage certain events should have given me a clue as to my future station in life.

Picture this. The newlyweds go shopping for wallpaper for their apartment. I assumed it would be a joint effort. So I pick up a roll of wallpaper and say: “How about this?” My sweet darling bride looks at me with disgust and utter disbelief. “What?” I ask somewhat defensively. “Oh Paul,” she says condescendingly. “What?” I ask again.
“We can’t put that paper in our new apartment.” “Why not?” I foolishly ask.“Oh, Paul,” she says,”quit kidding around.” She never told me why we couldn’t put that paper in our apartment. I think it was all part of the plot to keep me off balance.

The same thing happens whenever it comes time to buy furniture.
“There’s a nice chair,” I offer. Oh, Paul,” she says, “We can’t put that chair in our living room.”

At first I sulked and pouted at this apparent attack on my right to contribute to the decision-making process. But after 10 years I stopped asking why we couldn’t put that chair in our living room. I would just say “Yes, dear.” In fact, now I don’t even suggest.

I remember when we were looking for our new house. “I like this one,” I would say. “Oh, Paul!” she would say.

Finally I told her to find the house she liked and let me know when she did. Eventually she found one she liked. She couldn’t wait to show me. I walked in the front door. I looked around. “Do you like this house?” I asked. “Yes,” she said. “Why don’t we buy this house?” I asked. “Oh, Paul” she said, “That’s a great idea.” OK, so it wasn’t much but at least I can tell people that I had some say in the purchase of my house.

As I grew into my hen-pecked-ness I realized that certain terms had different meanings to different people. For example, to my wife, the term forever means about 15 years.

Many years ago, not too long after we were married, we had a lovely house with an empty dining room. We had saved a little money and my wife wanted to buy this dining room set. I wasn’t thrilled about putting out the money to buy it but my wife assured me that dining room sets last forever. Exactly 15 years later my wife informs me that we need a new dining room set. “I thought this one was going to last forever,” I protested. “Oh, Paul,” she said, “this set is a piece of junk. And besides, if we get a new one it will last forever.” People often ask me why I walk around with a dazed expression on my face.

But once I realized I was henpecked I didn’t mind so much because I realized that every man in a normal relationship with a normal woman is henpecked. Some don’t believe it. Some deny it rigorously. (And there is nothing sadder than a man who honestly believes he is in control of his relationship with his better half). Let’s face it. Women rule the world. They always have. The only difference is that now they do so openly whereas before they did so covertly. I was the staunchest supporter of the ERA until I realized that it wasn’t a movement started by henpecked husbands. So the next time someone asks me if I am henpecked I’ll tell him a little story I heard a while back. It seems that on judgment day all men could enter heaven through one of two gates. Over the first gate stood a sign that read - “Enter here all men who are henpecked.” There was a tremendous line waiting in front of this gate. Over the second gate stood a sign that read - “Enter here all men who are not henpecked.” A lone man stood in front of this second gate. Finally a fellow from the long line shouted over to this lone man: “Hey, what are you doing in that line!” “I don’t know” the man replied, “my wife told me to stand here

Drove past a field today and saw some kids playing baseball. Reminded me of my LL coaching days. I wrote this in 1987.


            One recent evening I stood on my back porch enjoying the sounds of spring – the birds chirping, the gentle breeze rustling the new leaves, lawn mowers humming in the distance.

            And suddenly I realized one group of sounds to be conspicuous by its absence. There was no sound of bat meeting ball. There was no sound of coach instructing youngster. There was no sound of parent verbally abusing coach. It hit me that an important phase of my life finally had come to an end. For the first time in more than 10 years my family is not involved in Little League.

            Could 10 years really have passed that quickly? I began reminiscing … I went to all the games and just about all the practices – not because I wanted to relive my life through my kids but because I just flat out loved to watch them play.

            Oh sure, I wanted them to do well, but as long as they gave their best effort all the time I was happy. We parents are a funny lot. The next time you are at a Little League game check us out. We really get into it – sometimes too much so. But all in all we love the kids and we love our own kids the most.

            I never will forget my son’s first pitching assignment in the Claymont Little League – my son, my oldest, 9 years old. Pitching for the Expos against the Pirates. I knew it was only an exhibition game but it was his first time. Now I know how they all felt – Mr. Koufax, Mr. Spahn, Mr. Carlton and all those other fathers of great left- handers.

            Outwardly, I was cool. You would have been proud of me. Inwardly I was coming apart. With my Rolaids in one hand and my rosary in the other, I drove to Darley Field, praying to every saint ever mentioned to me by Sister Cyril and a few I made up just in case. And guess what? On a 1-2 count he struck out the first batter. I almost exploded with pride. So what that he hit the next two batters – he was a pitcher.

            So many ups and downs after that day … losing every game one year and winning them all the next. A two-run double in the bottom of the sixth, a strikeout with the bases loaded, reaching over the fence to steal a home run. Allowing a grounder to squirt free. Pitching the team to victory in the championship game. Giving up two home runs to the Mets.

            Those car rides home were something else. But I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

            My youngest was something else entirely – a girl. After a three-year stint in independent league, it was time to move on. To softball, right? Isn’t that what nine-year old girls play? Wrong. Her brother played hardball; well, then, she was playing hardball. Not to further any feminist movement, but because baseball moved faster and looked like more fun.

            Oh, boy, did I hear it in the beginning. But I must admit that because of her sex I took a little added pleasure in her hits and her fielding and her throwing. So did she. She used to love it when the other team would cheer because “the girl” was pitching.

            She’s a scrapper, my daughter. So I had to call her over during one of her games and tell her not to slide headfirst anymore. “But Dad,” she said, “Pete Rose slides headfirst. As far as Melissa was concerned, if Pete Rose did it, it had to be OK.

            I’ll bet Jackie Robinson’s dad or Maury Wills’ dad never had to explain the anatomical differences between the sexes between innings. But she understood and started sliding feet first, except that time when she tried diving over the catcher and knocked herself out.

            I thought all the nervousness was over. We were veteran Little League parents. But when we moved from the Claymont Little League to the Brandywine league, it was starting all over again. There was my little daughter – my baby – drafted into the majors and facing maybe the fastest pitcher in the league in her first time at bat. And you know what that big bully did?   He hit her with the ball. (The young man wasn’t really a bully and he certainly didn’t hit her on purpose, but the story sounds better this way.)

            He bounced a fastball right off her shinbone. Everyone gasped but Melissa just dropped the bat and ran to first. After the game I asked her if it hurt.

            “Are you kidding, Dad? It killed,” she said.

            Why didn’t you rub it then I asked her. She looked at me as if I had been on another planet for a few decades. “Dad, real baseball players don’t rub the spot where they got it.” Sorry, Babe, I mumbled as she hobbled off.

            Highs and lows with Melissa also … hits and errors. Not making one all-star team and starting at first for another. Players not shaking her hand because she was a girl and parents from all teams cheering her success.

            I know what you Little League parents are up against: fast-food meals, if you have time for meals at all. Chances to sell – thank God for grandparents. Vacations adjusted. “Mom, where’s my uniform?” Rain-outs. Strikeouts. Freeze-outs.

            Both my children had their formal school dances this month. I couldn’t believe that these two young adults were those same two scrawny kids I used to hit fungos to.

            “Wanna shag some fly balls, Paul?”

            “Thanks anyway, Dad, but the guys are getting together to play some basketball.”

            “How about you, Melissa? Need some work on digging out those low throws?”

            “Gee thanks, Dad, but I’m going over to Molly’s house to study.”

            Little League is over and I’m feeling kind of old. I need some cheering up. Maybe I’ll go to the field and catch a game.

PS. In 1987 Melissa was the ONLY girl playing in Brandywine LL. Today it is an accepted practice for young girls to play baseball with the boys.           

 

Music genres are an interesting study. Classical music is, well, classic. Its complexity, its beauty, its nobility. It hasn’t changed over the years. And because of its sophistication it is listened to and appreciated by a select group of individuals. The interesting phenomenon is that the music doesn’t change to meet the needs of its audience. The audience grows to come to appreciate the marvel of the music. To a certain degree the same goes for country music. The style has been consistent and the audience embraces the style. Pop music is completely different. It evolves with the audience. And I believe you can tell a lot about America’s young people by their pop music tastes.

A couple of weeks ago my wife and I were at a hotel in Clearwater. As I sat by the pool, which was frequented by many young people, I was forced to listen to what passed for music blaring out of four speakers. Right then I came to a conclusion about these youngsters. I believe that they are either not very demanding or not very focused.

As I sat by the pool I noticed that every song playing had the same beat-the same beat-the same beat. Boom, Boom, Boom, Thump, Thump, Thump. It reminded me of those pirate movies of old where the slaves were rowing in the ship’s hold. There was always a guy with a hammer banging, banging, banging. Boom, Boom, Boom. Thump, Thump, Thump. The only thing that changed was the pace of the hammer.

But it was the lyrics that brought me to my conclusion. Repetition, repetition, repetition.

In my day we had Elvis, Chuck Berry, Smokey Robinson, The Beatles, The Stones, The Temptations…….You had to pay attention to their songs. If you wanted to know where Jonny B. Goode lived, or who came to the party that the warden threw in the county jail, or what was so special about my girl, or what was needed to achieve satisfaction you had to pay attention. You were only told once in the song.

But these songs…… repetition, repetition, repetition. Over and over and over. The same lyrics. One guy needed a touch of your love. He must have REALLY needed that touch because he repeated his request a hundred times. One young lady was given a million reasons to leave which she repeated a million times. Another kept telling us that you have to let it go, you have to let it go, you have to let it go.  Did you get that? For God’s sake let it go already!! One young fellow was a little more threatening. He was chasin’ you down. He was takin’ you down. Don’t say you haven’t been warned. He issued this warning over and over and over…. Repetition, repetition, repletion, boom, boom, boom.

At least in my time you didn’t need to suffer endlessly with a song. If you didn’t care who stayed at the Heartbreak Hotel, or why Maybelline couldn’t be true, or if you had no interest in Sgt. Pepper or his band, or any sympathy for the Boxer or Maggie May no problem. You only had to put up with any one of them for a couple of minutes then you were off to the next song. The tunes coming over the speakers at the pool had no end. Repetition, boom, thump, relentlessly.

I guess the rule of Entropy holds in music as well as nature. Rock and Roll reached its pinnacle when Bee-Bop combined with Motown, and the British invasion in the sixties and early seventies. It has been devolving ever since. First there was acid rock, then Disco, then the mind numbing beat that I just described. And of course rock bottom Hip-hop. Don’t even need to sing anymore. Just talk fast and be aggressive.

I miss the Respect we used to have for the music. When every song was an Unchained Melody, A time When a Man Needs a Woman. I used to Get By With A Little Help From My Friends and Rock Around The Clock. But now I’m thinking It Was Just My Imagination and I may never again find that Bridge Over Troubled Waters. 

 

The question long not asked
But as I sit in this solemn place
Awash with tears, pierced by rays of sun
Guarded by stained glass crusaders
--Daughters crying Mourners sighing—
I feel it rise again from places deep and hidden

The question long avoided
Last asked on that grey November day many years passed
Relentless wind shocked
Frozen flurries stung
--Sons crying Mourners sighing—
It seemed to swell and echo in that ugly hole

The question so overwhelming
And as we search we are bombarded
With well-wishers words too easily spoken
Offered as clues to some gigantic puzzle
--Friends Trying Mourners sighing—
We cry as we struggle to fit the pieces

No easy answer No solution
Just a slender thread of faith
And a remembered smile
To keep us from despair
--Spirits flying Mourners sighing not so often now—
May their souls indeed be free

 

As a young fellow I was all about sports. Well not ALL sports. No one I knew played tennis or golf. No one went skiing. The only hockey we played was street hockey. And there wasn’t much swimming. A day at the beach for us was when the guy up the street opened the fire hydrant and we splashed around until the cops came and shut it down. Not much basketball either. That came later when I was in high school and college. No it was mostly football in the street in the winter and some form of baseball everyday in the spring and summer.

Hardball was played only occasionally. We needed to amass enough guys, set aside enough time, and then find a field somewhere. Our equipment was also limited. A couple of wooden cracked bats usually taped together with black electrical tape. As a matter of fact the balls had most times lost their covers and were also covered with that same black electrical tape. Every once in a while I wonder what miracles we could have accomplished if we had had some of today’s duct tape!

No, most of our baseball was played with a ten-cent “pimple” ball. We could do wonders with that thing. We played stick- ball, wire- ball, wall- ball, step- ball, ledge- ball. Mostly we played a game we called “miniature” where we set up bases in the street, the pitcher would bounce the ball to the batter who would swing with an open hand. We played that for hours. And when the ball went flat, we cut it in half and played half-ball. I loved those games. I was convinced early on that my career would be in baseball. I was convinced that Yogi Berra was really just a place -holder for the Yankees until I got to the Bigs.

I believed I had reason to dream. There were athletic genes in my family. My father was a stellar athlete. Baseball, boxing…. He played semi-pro football. He even had a nickname—“Truck”. But as I got a little older my dreams began to fade. I could tell that the other kids were quicker and more coordinated. They hit better than I did. I think the final curtain came down one summer day when I was 12 years old. We were at the field choosing up sides for a baseball game and the captain of one of the teams said “I’ll take Pomeroy”. I was really pleased to be chosen so early in the selection process until the guy said to me as I stepped forward “Not you. Your brother”. My brother. My younger brother. My eight year old brother. Yes there were athletic genes in our family. They just happened to skip me entirely and land with my brother.

I think that was the beginning of the end for me. One of the biggest regrets I have in my life is that I gave up too early on myself. I think if I had worked harder and not felt sorry for myself I might have been able to make a team. Not baseball certainly. But maybe football. Missed opportunity. I think that’s why I have had some small success as a coach. I was able to make kids believe in themselves and not give up too soon.

Now my brother Dennis—he was talented. He tried out for the varsity baseball team as a sophomore at The Prep. Sophomores didn’t usually make the varsity but he had a real shot to do so. My brother was a lefty and had this old mitt. My father and I were righties so he couldn’t use ours. So as tryouts were beginning my dad came home with this new, lefthander’s mitt. A big expense and therefore a big surprise for my brother. He loved it. Then one day on his way home from school he left his mitt on the el. He came home all upset and told me what happened. We jumped into my car and drove to the el station. We asked everyone if any mitt had been turned in. The security guy told us that there was no way we would see that mitt again. As we drove home I asked him what he was going to tell dad. “I don’t know” he said.

That night at dinner my father asked Dennis how practice went that day. “Aw dad” he said “I got cut”. I almost choked on my macaroni. But my father offered words of encouragement and told him to try again next year. As I think back on that night I’m pretty sure I know why Dennis went down that path. He wasn’t worried that my dad would yell or scream. My dad never raised his voice with us. Nor did he ever strike us. It’s just that we both hated to disappoint him.

My father eventually found out about the glove but not until much later. By then it was too late for Dennis to play on any high school team. However he did go on to play a lot of ball well on into middle age. In a number of different leagues. Basketball and softball mostly. And some street hockey. But when I think back to that specific night I can’t help but think of Dennis’s missed opportunity. Who knows. Maybe HE would have been the one playing for the Yankees.

 

 

Around this time of year many parents have to make decisions about the education costs of their children. I know what a challenge and a worry this can be. I thought I’d share this article with you. I wrote it in July 1989

My home equity bill arrived in the mail today. I sat down before I opened it. I knew what was in it but I sat down anyway.

The balance due column quite simply represented my son’s first year college tuition. I knew that soon the figure would jump appreciably to reflect his second year costs. I also knew that at this time next year my daughter will have chosen her college and her tuition bill will join my son’s third year bill. I couldn’t help but wonder just how my wife and I are going to do it. A friend of mine told me that I was crazy for putting out that kind of money. “But he so much wanted to go to Georgetown” I said. “So what"  my friend said. “That is a luxury you just can’t afford”.

The phrase hit home. A luxury I just couldn’t afford. My whole life has required the determination of what is luxury and what is necessity. It is amazing how the perception of luxury has changed from generation to generation.

Recently I was having lunch with my dad. He went into his kitchen cabinet and pulled out a box of graham crackers. My dad loves graham crackers. When he was a youngster going to school, graham crackers were sold at recess. Three for a penny. They might as well have been three for a million dollars. There were no pennies available for luxuries in my dad’s family. Each day he would watch the kids who had the pennies buy the graham crackers. “Didn’t you ever ask one of those kids for one of their crackers” I asked. He just looked at me and smiled and shook his head. My father is a first generation American. Fiercely proud. I have never known him to ask for or accept a handout no matter what the situation. One day on his way to school he found a nickel. At recess that day he bought 15 graham crackers. He sat on the step and ate all 15 crackers. No trip to Disney World, no dirt bike, no laser tag set could compare to the luxury of those 15 graham crackers.

I had my own idea of luxury when I was a kid. It was just the three of us most of the time---my father, my younger brother and I. My mother was very sick and spent much of the seven years prior to her death in the hospital. The doctor and hospital bills were monumental. Money was tight. Dad seemed to be working all the time to make ends meet. An ice-cream cone at the corner candy store cost a dime. Occasionally I would suggest that we stroll down to that store and pick up a cone of vanilla fudge or butter pecan. “It’s not necessary” my dad would say. Necessity versus luxury. I never complained mind you for I was grateful that we had all the necessities. Some families didn’t even have these. We did. We had food on the table. I had shoes to wear (although I occasionally had to stick an old baseball card in the sole of my shoe to cover up the hole until my new shoes arrived). And I received an allowance which of course I saved until a true necessity arose.

One day we went to visit my aunt. She asked me if would like a dish of ice-cream. I didn’t quite understand the question since I knew for a fact that there were no candy stores close by. She asked again. I looked at my dad for guidance. “Don’t look at your father” she said. “Would you or would you not like a dish of ice-cream?” I looked at my dad anyway to see if I was within my rights to accept such an offer. He nodded. “Sure” I said. My aunt went to her freezer and pulled out not one but two half-gallon containers of ice-cream. I was overwhelmed. She filled a dish for me. When I had finished she asked me if I wanted another. I would have killed for another dish of ice-cream. “No thank you” I replied. “Are you sure” she asked. I was sure. So she put the two containers away. As I recall that day I am certain that no 10-speed bike, no gold watch, no cruise to Bermuda could compare with the luxury of those two half-gallon containers of ice-cream.

My son is a third generation American. Thank God he has had all the necessities and even a few of the luxuries. The other day he rushed in from his day job at around 5 pm. He ran upstairs to get washed and put on a clean shirt before he rushed out to his second job at 5:15. My son seldom complains. But he looked a little bummed out this particular day. “What’s up?” I asked. “How nice would it be if I didn’t have to work seven days a week” he said. “Then I could head down to the beach with my friends on the weekends.” “Sorry son” I said. “But you know what your contribution has to be if you want to stay where you are.” “I’m not complaining” he assured me. “I was just thinking out loud”. Then he kissed me and hurried off to work. Necessity versus luxury.

Many years ago my wife and I decided that everything we had would go towards our children’s education. We agreed that this was necessity not luxury.

Last month we were at a party. Three other couples were there. They were talking about their plans for the summer. One couple was going back to Disney World-for the fourth time. One couple was going on an extended golfing holiday down south. And one couple was going on a cruise. As I listened I knew that there would be no luxury vacation in our near—or even distant—future. But what the heck. I have all the graham crackers and ice-cream I can eat. And who knows. Maybe someday my children will have the opportunity to offer my grandchildren an education AND a trip along with the graham crackers and ice-cream.

 

 

Before we were married , I would pick Trish up and ask her where she wanted to go.

“Let’s go eat” she would reply. Always.

I began to suspect abuse or hardship or bad cooking at home. Why was this tiny girl always hungry? But what the heck—she was playing to my strength! Better a restaurant than that time she took me to that opera. Over the years Trish has managed to instill some culture into this philistine; but Madame Butterfly back then? Stick a needle in my eye. 

When Trish and I married in January of 1969, I weighed 200 pounds. Trish weighed ninety seven pounds. At six feet two inches tall I carried this poundage easily. At five feet six inches tall Trish carried hers even better. Luckily my love for food was matched, passion for passion, by hers. And these dual passions coupled with the fickleness of genetics turned into the perfect storm.

After we got married we moved to our little apartment in Claymont, Delaware which was within walking distance of the high school where I taught. It was one of the happiest times of my life. I would come home around five thirty. We would eat dinner at five thirty. Trish was a good cook even then. Our dinners were hearty and always included desert. In keeping with my former routine, we had spaghetti three times a week. Trish and I would share a pound of spaghetti at each sitting. And I mean split. I felt we should divide everything according to our weight and size which would mean that I would get the larger portion. Kind of like the House of Representatives of food allotment. Trish, however, preferred the Senatorial method of division, giving equal portions to each person regardless of size. Trish won out. On the non pasta nights Trish experimented, and one dish was better than the next. Trish eventually got really good at preparing leftovers. Eventually being the operative word. During this phase of our lives there were no leftovers. 

Then at eight thirty we would have “snack”. Something light-like a pizza. Four pieces for me, four pieces for Trish. Or maybe cheesesteaks or fried clams or grilled cheese. You know---something to tide us over till breakfast. 

Around the middle of April of that same year, I began to feel uncomfortable. I couldn’t walk up a flight of stairs without huffing and puffing. I had little energy and wasn’t sleeping well. Being a bit of a hypochondriac I feared the worst. Malaria? Hepatitis? Heart Failure? So I made an appointment with the doctor. 

“You can be honest with me doctor” I said. “How bad is it?”

“Actually you seem fine to me” the doctor said. “How much do you weigh?”

“Well, I was 200 lbs when I got married in January. I think I might have put on a few since then. 205 maybe?”

He had me step on the scale. Two-thirty-eight! 238! A 2 a 3 and an 8! No matter how I looked at it, I had put on thirty eight pounds in three months. I had stretch marks like pregnant woman get. I was appalled. 

“How the hell did this happen?” I wondered.

The doctor put me on a diet of 1600 calories a day. I left the doctor’s office, went to the hardware store and bought a scale. 

“ Poor Trish” I thought. 

She looked the same to me but God knows how much weight SHE gained. After all, she ate the same things I ate and in equal quantities. When I got home I told her about my visit to the doctor and what he said. I stood on the scale to verify my weight. Then I told Trish that she needed to step on the scale and get her bad news, her rude awakening. Ninety eight and a half pounds! She had gained one and a half pounds! A pound and a half! Her clothes still fit. She had no stretch marks. She was not out of energy. I was incredulous. How could this be? I loved my wife but I wanted her to be fat too! I wanted her to need a stupid 1600 calorie diet also. At the very least I wanted her to feel guilty about not gaining all that weight. Maybe a little sheepish, a little sorry for leaving me alone in this predicament. But no. Just the opposite in fact. I found out a truth that day. Skinny people are rather smug about their thinness. They act like somehow through sheer strength and will power they are able to control their weight. Like they are better than all us fatties. Do you know any thin people? I mean people who are naturally thin no matter what they eat? I’m sorry, you gotta hate them. I know it’s a matter of genetic makeup but it's just not fair. 

So diet time it was. For me going from a million calories a day to 1600 was ….well, unpleasant. But I was willing to try it in the hope of felling better. And physically, I did feel better. But emotionally I was miserable-grouchy, touchy, and pissed-off all the time. However at the end of the week I excitedly headed to the scale for my emotional reward. I lost one pound. Are you kidding me? One pound? The hell with that. I called the doctor and told him in frank, direct terms that if I was going to be miserable, I needed to see better results than that. 

“OK” he said and reduced my caloric intake to 900 calories a day. 

If I was miserable before, now I was in a place that could not be defined in words. And if I was grouchy before, I was absolutely impossible to be around now. I still had dinner-- like a small patty of ground meat with some broccoli or maybe a chicken leg with a half of unadorned potato. And I still had snacks like a rice cake or a hot cup of bullion or a small dish of unsweetened Jello or all the celery I wanted. But nothing that a 237 pound human being might find fulfilling. I learned another thing about my body. It was all friendly and welcoming when it came to allowing those pounds to come aboard; but it was very selfish when it came to giving those pounds back. It took me four months, but I did get down to 205 pounds by the time football practice started in late August. It took a little longer for the stretch marks to go away. 

Trish smugly ate whatever she wanted all summer and bulked up to 99 pounds.

 

When I was very young
I would put my hand in his
And he would lead

As I grew older
We would touch not quite so often
Yet I would put my trust in him
And he would lead

And when the fates had dealt their worst
We stood together –defiantly
And I would draw strength from him

All my heroes were one in this man

And only now
That it is my time to lead
Do I appreciate and understand his love
…and mine

Recently my son stopped by my house to drop something off. I was concerned about him. His shirt was at least one size too small and his pants must have been really old pants because they were too tight and too short. I pulled him aside and asked him how things were going at work. Was he having trouble making ends meet? Did he have any unusual bills he couldn’t pay? I offered to lend him some money so that he could buy some new clothes.

“Dad, what the heck are you talking about” he asked.

“No need to be embarrassed with me”, I said. “I can see what you are wearing. Those old clothes don’t fit anymore. Let me treat you to some knew threads”.

“Dad, these are new! It’s the style. They are called skinny jeans.”

Now I was the one embarrassed. “You mean they are supposed to be tight and uncomfortable”?

“Yes” he chuckled.

“Oh so that’s why all the young men look like they are wearing their little brother’s clothing.”

I’ll be damned!

For a while now all my clothes have been tight and uncomfortable. So I’m not really fat. Just in style.

I have actually been a trendsetter!

Who knew?!

A few days later as I walked in the mall with my wife I saw a pair of those skinny jeans hanging in a store window. Only these jeans were all ripped!

“What idiot hung those things in the window” I asked.

My wife told me that THEY are in style also.

“Can’t be” I said. “What sane person would pay good money for ripped jeans. At least they must be dirt cheap”.

“Actually” My wife said “they cost more that way.”

I know I’m a geezer. But this has to rank up there with the dumbest styles ever to be perpetrated on the gullible, conformist public.

Right up there with pants sagging down below your butt. Did you ever try walking like that? Well you can’t really walk . More like waddle.

Right up there with everything polyester from the 70s. (The 60s were really funky too but you had to love those mini skirts.)

And if you really want to go way back- right up there with the Nehru jacket.

But the silliest fashion trend I can remember comes from the 80s.

Padded Shoulders

I think I can piece together what happened. Some financial geniuses were sitting around their conference table discussing ways to make money.
Genius No. 1: “I’ve got it. Let’s change women’s styles again. After all, we haven’t done anything really drastic in that line for weeks.”
Genius No. 2: “Yeah, but it would have to be a really drastic change if we want to make some real money.”
Genius No. 3: “I know. Let’s take all the dresses, all the jackets, all the blouses and stuff padding in their shoulders.”
No. 2: “I don’t know. I don’t think we can pull off something that ridiculous".
No. 1: “Sure we can! They fell for the sack dress, didn’t they? And think of the profits if it works. All their present clothes become obsolete. No padding.”
No.2: “But how in the world can we get them to rush to the stores and buy these things? The stores have mirrors, you know. They are going to see how silly they look".
No. 3: “Simple. Do you remember the old Six Million Dollar Man TV series? When they wanted him to be running fast, they ran the film in slow motion. We tell them that by having big broad shoulders they look thinner. Their waists looks smaller.”
No. 2: “Hey, you know, it just might work!”

Did it ever! If you walked into a restaurant in the 1980s and saw a group of professional women having lunch you would know in a minute what was missing. A guy in a striped shirt with a coin preparing to decide who was to kick off and who was to receive!

Which brings me back to the miniskirt. There is nothing wrong with miniskirts as long as they stay within the realm of good taste and as long as the right people wear them. In fact, it is my belief that all fashion options should be open at all times to both sexes and to all age groups.

But….let’s be sensible for heaven’s sake!

I say we require that every clothing store hire a normal, average human being to act as a “Truth Consultant.” His/her job would be to prevent anyone from leaving the store looking like an idiot.In my case, for example, if I tried to leave the store in a tight tank top or a pair of those skinny jeans, the Truth Consultant would have to stop me.

“I’m sorry, sir, we can’t let you leave the store looking like that. You look like the Michelin Tire Man. And besides, people are trying to eat out there in the mall. Now, go back to the racks and don’t even look at anything unless it has at least one X in front of the size.”

Of course these consultants would have to temper their remarks.

“Not that, ma’am, you look like a hippo” probably would have to be replaced by something more genteel.

But think how much more confident we would be when we finally did leave the store. And we could actually wear the clothes until they wore out. We would be free from fashion slavery.

How great would that be for us husbands? We would no longer have to watch our wives standing in front of a closet chock-full of clothes and utter those immortal words: “I can’t go. I don’t have anything to wear!”

 

Unfortunately in today’s athletic climate a team’s won/lost record has come to matter more than the young men and women who play for that respective team.

Certainly the Archmere Football Program has always prided itself on its commitment to excellence and its overall success. But this commitment to team excellence has always been partnered with a commitment to assure individual growth. Archmere Football has always striven to raise its players to a greater understanding of what it means to be a man. To work with others. To think of others rather than of oneself. To sacrifice time, energy, and emotion in pursuit of a common goal.

This has been the Archmere mission for the past 45 years. And there has been no greater steward of this sacred mission than Coach Jerry Ambrogi. From his first days on the field as a player in 1972 to his last days on this same field in 2015 Coach Ambrogi has always striven to be the best example of what it means to be an AUK. No one worked harder. No one demanded more of himself, his players and his fellow coaches than Coach Ambrogi. He was generous to a fault. He was funny, sarcastic, stern or lighthearted whenever the need arose. He loved Archmere Football. And most of all he loved all of you.

John Adams said that the only kind of man worth knowing is that man who is willing to make a commitment and willing to demand a commitment of others. Coach Jerry Ambrogi was a man worth knowing. We are lucky to have had that opportunity.

Time passes on. Coach Ambrogi will be only a legend to the future generations of Auk football players. We all owe it to him to make sure that we pass on to those generations the tradition of Archmere Football that he and others have held so dear.

Twas the week before Christmas and the timing seemed right
To head to New York for a show and a night
With the economy tanking and luxuries rare
The pundits all tell me there’s no money to spare
To the Big Apple I drove feeling quite sure
That prices are down with bargains galore
Few crowds I assumed as I headed up north
While options for me would aplenty burst forth
But upon my arrival what sights did I spy
Just a sea of humanity ten miles wide
Every age and religion and color and height
They filled in behind me so I couldn’t take flight
The bargain I searched for I knew was a lie
Paid $24.95 for a pastrami on rye
To the theater I shouted for a nice peaceful stop
But all seats were taken at a C note a pop
When the show was all over I wedged myself free
To look for a restaurant for my sweet bride and me
But I soon found out to my utter dismay
That reservations for dinner were scarce on this day.
So we walked and we walked like beggars at night
Till we found an establishment that pitied our plight
For a mere good king’s ransom we managed to dine
On pasta and olives and the cheapest of wine
We walked back from the restaurant -no taxis were free
Since the streets were all gridlocked didn’t matter you see

As we passed all the vendors the people the stores
Everything was for sale you just had to pay more
The peanuts
The Prada
The scarves and the hats
The hotdogs
The paintings
The balls and the bats
The Gucci
The shoes
The pretzels and beer
The comic
The mime
The song and the cheer
So next morning we left with nary a pause
If this is recession then I’m Santa Clause

 

 

Fear can be a crippling emotion, especially in the anticipatory phase of an event or happening. I have felt fear many times-fear of striking out-fear of rejection when asking a girl out on a date-fear of not having the funds to provide for my kids education-fear of sickness or death or loneliness or abandonment or a whole myriad of other everyday fears. I don’t mean these kinds of fears. I’m talking about the fear that haunts your dreams and curbs your appetite. I’m talking Bogeyman under the bed, Monster in the closet, Crazed Killer outside your bedroom door kind of fear. Devils and Vampires and Aliens from outer space. Psycho kind of fear. 

When I was 12 years old I took my 8 year old brother to see the movie “Psycho”. I was freaked but he was shaken. He wouldn’t take a shower for weeks. When he took his bath he left the bathroom door open. I ridiculed him mercilessly. I kept telling him what a baby he was for being afraid of taking a shower in his own house. And then I bided my time. And sure enough over a month later I heard the shower go on when he was upstairs. I quietly took my ruler out of my schoolbag, crept upstairs, jerked the curtain back with the ruler raised, and ……. Well you know the rest of it. I had no idea the kid could scream so loud! My brother was not amused. Neither was my father. I found that out when he raced up the stairs in lightning fashion, Who knew the old guy could move that fast? So I was grounded. I forget for how long. But it was worth it. The kid was always torturing me and getting away with it. So I served my time stoically and without rancor.

For me the ultimate terror was Sister Cyril the second grade teacher at St. Martin of Torres elementary school. Before I even entered the first grade, I heard the rumors, usually passed along by the older kids in a hushed almost reverent whisper. 

“Watch out for Sister Cyril!”

Fair enough. I will steer clear of all territory in or around second grade. At least for a year. 

So off I go to my first day of school. First grade with Sister Maureen …and one hundred and five other six year olds all in the same classroom. Honest. Can you imagine? I think there must have been about 25 safety code violations by today’s standards. No problem back then. The desks were all together in rows with no space between desks. So to get to my seat, I went to my assigned row and slid down the seat until I reached mine. Students to the left of me students to the right of me….. I think Rudyard Kipling wrote a poem about this kind of courage and valor. If I had to go to the bathroom I was told to hold it until recess. If I really had to go, all the kids next to me had to slide out of their seats so that I could get out and repeat the process so that I could get back in. Needless to say, going to the bathroom was frowned upon. Thank God my prostate was not a problem back then. If someone got sick and vomited, which happened more frequently than you might think, a specific procedure was followed by students to alleviate the disturbance as quickly as possible. There was a lot of student butt sliding involved and a bucket of sawdust and damp rags. In no time, order was returned. So was the offending child in almost all cases. No need to call a doctor or a parent for a little oral voiding.

So how, you might ask, did Sr. Maureen keep one hundred and six little children under control all day? Simple really. She gave us a very short speech on our first day.

“Boys and Girls”, she said, “there are quite a few of you in my class. It is my duty to God and to this school to teach you to the best of my ability. I will not be able to spare the time to reprimand you if you disrupt this class in anyway. So if you do disrupt this class, you will be sent down to see Sr. Cyril.”

I am pretty sure these weren’t Sr. Maureen’s exact words but the message was understood by all no matter what words she actually did use. So there it was. 

We had all heard the stories, the rumors.

“She killed a kid once, you know” 

Be good or be damned. And I was good. Until that fateful day. 

I’m not sure what I did actually. I might have asked the kid next to me for a pencil. Maybe I poked him or he poked me. Maybe we both giggled. Or maybe we both committed mass genocide. It didn’t much matter. We received the maximum sentence.

“You Two” Sister Maureen said looking in our direction.

“Oh please God not me, not me, not me.”

“Paul and Jonathan---would the both of you please come up here.”

Instantly a hush fell across the room like the passing of the eye before the storm. Then the sounds of sliding butts across the wooden seats as our fellow students raced to empty our row and get as far away as possible from the two of us.

We tiptoed to the front of the room too stunned to cry and hopeful, ever hopeful for a reprieve. For mercy.

“I want the two of you to go down the hall to room 211, knock on the door, and tell Sister Cyril that you were disrupting my class ” Sister Maureen said in a quiet voice completely devoid of emotion.

You’d think the dear lady would have shown some vestige of regret, remorse, sorrow, something as she sent two six year olds off to meet their doom!

As we stepped out into the hallway and heard the door close behind us, I was faced with my first major, life changing, decision. I looked to the right, up the hallway toward room 211. Then I looked to the left where there was a short staircase that led to the front door – and freedom. By now Jonathan was crying softly. I did not make my decision rashly. And this habit of deliberating before acting has stayed with me my whole life. Sometimes for the good and sometimes for the bad. I will admit that I seriously considered flight. I could be down those stairs and out that door before anyone realized what happened. But then I realized that if I went home, I would need to face my father. Sister Cyril-my father; Sister Cyril-my father. No contest really. So I turned right and headed to room 211 with Jonathon in tow. When I think back to that moment I can’t help but feel that some music playing in the background would have been appropriate. How about the music from Jaws when someone is in the water and the shark is near by. Or how about some of that Darth Vader melody? But no music was playing. Only our footsteps could be heard. Dead men walking here. And then our timid knock on the door of room 211.

The door finally opened and there in the flesh stood Sister Cyril. All five feet of her.

“What do the two of you want?” she cackled pointing a crooked finger at us. 

I swear, to this day, every time I see the Wizard of Oz movie I think of that moment. She could have been saying “Want some fire scarecrow!!?”

“What do the two of you want?”

“Sister Maureen sent us” I splashed out through my own tears as Jonathan cried pathetically by my side.

I think I also threw in some apologies and some promises and possibly a bribe. I can’t really remember. But I do remember what Sister Cyril said exactly. Word for word. Verbatim.

“You’re lucky that I’m giving a test and don’t have time to deal with the two of you now. But if you every come to my door again in the middle of the day I will hang you both by your thumbs!!”

Then she slammed the door in our faces. Jonathan and I stopped crying almost immediately. We looked at each other in disbelief and then back to the closed door. I’m not sure if I can explain the feeling. Relief just doesn’t do it justice. Exaltation might fit except exaltation is usually accompanied by some form of celebratory demonstration. There was no such demonstration. We walked back to our room in total silence. We knocked on the door to our first grade classroom and were let in by Sister Maureen. She said nothing. The students said nothing although all eyes were riveted on us to see if there were any tell tale scars. Some butt sliding to let us in and then again to fill the row but that was it. No one spoke of it ever again. My fellow students never asked what happened and we were not about to bring it up for fear of drawing additional attention to ourselves. 

Three side notes. Jonathan and I were never close friends after that. We had seen each other at our weakest moments and did not want to be reminded of them. I didn’t stray an inch from the straight and narrow for the rest of the year. I figured I might need my thumbs in later life. And finally I needed to face the reality that since there were two second grades, half of our class would be in Sister Cyril’s class next year. That third point, I admit, did cost me some sleepless nights over the summer as the Sister Cyril stories and rumors persisted and became embellished. But I had endured that first encounter and survived. And the following year when I did indeed land in Sister Cyril’s class I came to realize that her bark was more ferocious than her bite. She was stern but a good teacher and I actually enjoyed her class. And never again felt fear the way I felt it on that fateful afternoon.

 

 

In 1964 I was asked to write a poem for my senior English class at the Prep. The poem at the bottom is what I wrote. I received a B for the effort.
Four years later my brother needed a poem for HIS senior English class at the Prep. Different teacher. He didn’t feel like writing one so I gave him mine to submit. I didn’t mind him borrowing my poem. But it ticked me off that he got an A for it.


       Thanks, I Needed That

The prom of senior year is here at last
And students run in expectation’s glow
As visions of the joy to come
Help wash away the memory of the snow

And when alone with nature’s lovely gift
A ring does tempt you from your shaking hand
And when you reach to offer what you own
The moon breaks through and shines on a garbage can