Author: Paul

Gravity pulls steadily on the sand
The lowest grains hurry toward the opening
And fall with energy, randomness
Through the greatest distance
Through the greatest time
With no appreciation for the grains that follow

Those along the central plane descend more slowly
Aware of their descent
Aware of those that have already passed through
Barely aware of those above
Moving relentlessly lower
But too caught up in the process to truly appreciate it

And the grains sitting highest in the globe
Have the greatest time to contemplate the movement
Knowing that they will eventually have the shortest fall
Before they reach their final destination
Understanding that their descent happens much too quickly
Before they end somewhere on the mound

Pity that once we get the hang of it
We can’t flip it over and try it again.

 

 

Did this year’s election cycle blues drag you down?

            Were you tired of those political commercials that jumped out at you from the TV screen? Did you find offensive the countless signs, posters and stickers that engulf the nation every fourth year? Did the endless stream of nasty, unsolicited rhetoric on Facebook make you angry? Well, cheer up: I have come up with a new game to help relieve election-year malaise. I hope to perfect it before 2020. It is called “zealot baiting.” It is great fun.

            The rules are really very simple. First you must find a political zealot. A Democratic zealot is a person who believes that all Republicans hate poor people and have direct ties to the Ku Klux Klan. A Democratic zealot believes that all Republicans are rich, stuffy and boring; that they keep their hair cut short, wear horn-rim glasses and three-piece suits; and that they are Bible-toting, intolerant fanatics. Democratic zealots don’t need to watch the debates or the conventions because they will vote for the entire Democratic contingent – even if the Ayatollah himself were heading it.

            A Republican zealot is equally easy to spot. He or she believes that all Democrats lean toward, if they are not directly connected to, the Commie Left. A Republican zealot believes that all Democrats have no idea what the real world is all about. That they drive around in eco-friendly cars on their way to yet another protest march when they should be out working hard like the Republican counterparts. They believe that Democrats truly care for the underprivileged as long as somebody else pays the bill. They wear their hair long, their clothes wrinkled, and they probably have a member of their family or a close friend who is on some form of entitlement program. Republican zealots don’t have to watch the conventions or the debates. They will vote for the entire Republican contingent – even if Vladimir Putin himself were heading it.

            You can’t always spot a zealot simply by sight. A standard question usually is enough to determine if you have a likely candidate.

            “Who do you hope to support in the next election?”

            If the person says something like….”I’m not quite sure yet. I think I’ll wait until I am reasonably certain as to where each candidate stands on the issues and then decide”….You have found an intelligent voter. They are no fun at all. Excuse yourself quickly and continue your search elsewhere. But if the person gets red in the face, begins to blink quickly and starts to sweat, you have found a live one. And here is where the fun begins. Determine which party the zealot supports. This is very easily done. This person will verbally subject you to all the wonders of his or her party and all the evils of the opposing party. It is your task to keep the zealot raving. High scores are awarded to those who can keep the zealot excited for the longest time and to those who can get the zealot to change the greatest range of color. (Once I got a zealot to change from pure white to midnight blue in five seconds – a personal record.)

            Everyone, of course, has his own technique. Personally I can keep a conversation going with a few well-placed questions. If I am talking to a Republican zealot I usually start him/her off with something like….”Gee it was great to see Jimmy Carter at the last convention, wasn’t it?” I follow that with….”I hear Obama is planning to install the ACLU as an official branch of the federal government before he leaves office.”   And if I really want to shake things up I throw in something like….”I hear it’s going to be Hillary-Bernie in 2020.

            If I am talking to a Democratic zealot I might start with….”Wow, that George W really knew what he was doing didn’t he?” I can follow with….”Who do you like better as secretary of state: Jerry Falwell or Pat Robertson?” And if I am in a particularly nasty mood I have only to utter two words to assure myself victory….”Donald Trump.”

            So if you were feeling rather discouraged during this past campaign, if all the mudslinging and name calling depressed you, try my version of “zealot baiting.” It is fun, stimulating, and best of all we get to do it again every four years. By the way, who do you like in 2020?

 

 

written in fall 1972

Your smile renews my spirit
And gives my life meaning
While your tears drown my soul
When you are happy I grow
Your presence is my warmth
You have touched me in a way
I was not aware possible
And when you go
As someday you must
You will take with you my heart
For you stole it
The day you were born

written in spring 1990

Who will hug me when you’ve gone
And sit upon my knee and say
How much you love me every day
Who will hug me when you’ve gone

Such a tiny bundle resting in my arms
So alert
Pablum and Pampers
Cuddles and Bunny and dolls seldom used
Your eyes followed me everywhere
I knew I was number one as I rocked you to sleep

Who will kiss me when you’ve gone
And hold my hand and muss my hair
And tell me just what’s right to wear
Who will kiss me when you’ve gone

How soon it seems you were off to school
So bright
Stiff pedals and ground balls
New puppies and science projects
You always brought your questions to me
I knew you loved me more than Han Solo and Pete Rose

Who will cheer me when you’ve gone
And laugh at all my jokes each night
And take my side in every fight
Who will cheer me when you’ve gone

And suddenly-overnight-a young woman
So beautiful
Gear shifts and prom dresses
Suzukis and state tournaments
Our time together more limited and more precious now
George, Steve, Mr Jordan—much stiffer competition
But you still asked me to lock your ring

Who will miss me when I’ve gone
And think about me now and then
And with some memory smile again
Who will miss me when I’ve gone
Only you….

written in fall 1970

Often I have wondered what is love
Real love, total love, selfless love
I have searched fruitlessly…

So I asked the Theologian
Who spoke of abstracts and generalities to the point of boredom

Unsatisfied I asked the Philosopher
Who spoke of grand plans and wonderful ideas till my head ached badly

Bewildered I asked my friends and cherished ones
Their mere presence came close to satisfaction
Yet I knew that in my love for them hid a shadow of selfishness

And just before I dismissed the whole idea as hopeless I asked God
And he sent me a son
And I am satisfied

written in spring 1988

He sits and computes frantically
On this beautiful Tuesday morning
A handsome young man

When he looks up he sees me smile
He does not understand the smile
Maybe someday he will

As he works I ponder his future
A future that was for so long in my hands
I realize suddenly that my influence is almost over

No longer is he a child
With those child’s problems
That I so eagerly longed to share

Soon he will be gone
He will still be son and I dad
But the world will be his to explore…alone

They all compute frantically
On this beautiful Tuesday morning
These beautiful young men and women

How they have grown…much too quickly
They will always be my children
And how I love them so

 

 

   As a summer local I have come to love the lazy July days by the shore. The cool breezes, the refreshing ocean dips, the boardwalk strolls. I can even put up with the crowds, the land breezes, and the long lines at the supermarkets. The only thing I really hate is the annual invasion of the Severely Entitled. Please don’t confuse these individuals with the Maddeningly Inconsiderate-those who take up two parking spaces instead of one, or put their chairs and blankets two inches from yours on the beach, or let their kids run around unsupervised kicking sand everywhere. No, the Maddeningly Inconsiderate are merely a nuisance. I am talking about our most vile yearly plague.

Locals and regular visitors to our shores know the proper beach etiquette. Get to the beach when you can. Find parking. Locate a spot on the beach taking into consideration those fellow beach goers who have preceded you. Fair practice laws closely adhered to by the pure of heart and spirit. Ah but these rules don’t hold for the Severely Entitled. For you see, their vacation is more important than anyone else’s. They are entitled to the best and they are determined to get it! They arrive at the beach at sunrise, set up camp in a prime location, then drive home to do whatever it is they want to do and return to the beach whenever the mood moves them. This practice started simply enough. A couple of chairs at water’s edge—a small footprint on a rather large, moderately populated beach. But as is true with all entitlement programs that go unchecked, it has grown into something obscene and inappropriate.

As a scientist I became fascinated by this facet of human behavior. And purely out of curiosity I began doing some research. I usually arrive at the beach at around 8AM each day so I can document certain happenings. This specific July day for example two young men set up two huge tents at water’s edge at 8:15AM then left. The tents took up approximately 594 square feet of prime space. The men returned with their families at around 12:45 PM—four and a half hours later. So far this is the 2016 leader in audacity. The 2015 winner was a family that set up in a space occupying 1170 square feet left unattended for five hours. But the all time leader came from the summer of 2014—2100 square feet set up at 8:30 AM and not used until 2:30 PM. Amazing don’t you think?

Again, purely out of curiosity and in the spirit of scientific research I began engaging these people and those surrounding them in conversation. I have drawn some interesting conclusions: Locals and most Delaware residents abide by the rules. Pennsylvanians for the most part do so also. Must be their Quaker background. Peace and love and all of that. Surprisingly so do most visitors from our nation’s capitol. DCers don’t expect a reserved beach spot (but they do expect the water to part for them when they go into the ocean). Marylanders are tougher to read. They seem to split right down the middle. In my limited study it seems that the worst offenders are from Virginia, I think they are still mad at us Delawareans for not declaring for their side during the War of Northern Aggression.

It also seems that frustration is growing among the average beach goers. They seem more resentful towards the usurpers. Just the other morning a woman came to the beach with her two grandchildren at around 9AM. Faced with a series of unattended groupings she decided to rearrange a few to make room for her own. The few people on the beach at that time applauded. Now I know that this doesn’t quite equate with tossing all that tea into the Boston harbor; but it does represent a bold step toward independence. (After all, the Severely Entitled are nasty, hardened veterans in the war against civility—think Hessians!) Perhaps Bethany Beach will be our Lexington and Concord. Maybe the revolution has started. Beach Patriots arise! Stand up to the usurpers! If they want a guaranteed spot let them go to one of the gated communities and pay those condo fees!

All across the country citizens are becoming more and more disenchanted with the Severely Entitled. Let us join our brothers and sisters and continue the fight in the name of those freedom pioneers of Bethany Beach! What better time than now to perpetuate the spirit of revolution and independence!

 

P
A granpa they said now how can this be
When I look in the mirror it’s still only me
That handsome young man who for many years could
Run all those miles and chop all that wood
A model of youth who rose before dawn
And played hoops with the kids after mowing the lawn
Sure now I can’t run or chop quite so much
Or compete with the kids or wrestle or such
But a grandpa you say can it really be true
Has the time really come that I start again new
With a bike and a ball to catch and to throw
O my there’s so much that he just has to know
Be a pal he can count on someone to come through
To be able to slip him a fast buck or two
To drive him to school and watch him perform
And tell him to me he is always the star
A granpa is it this may be all right
Someone I can spoil and then say goodnight
Someone to cuddle while he still is a lad
And someone to cheer him when he’s feeling sad
A grandpa I am that’s why I glow
For my grandson is coming whom I am longing to know

J
She grasps my finger with her tiny hand
And holds on valiantly as I shake it about

She follows me with her eyes
And laughs when I make silly sounds

She does not protest yet
As I kiss her cheek and neck

She rejects the bottle I offer
And seems to enjoy my clumsiness

She sleeps –at peace— against me
As others sit by and talk

She fits so remarkably well
In the crook of my arm

It is somehow different when I hold her
I don’t know why

Only that she is a wonder
And I am fulfilled

E
He looks so tired in the picture
And tolerant of the tubes from his mouth and nose
You see he has had a rough go so far
Coming early like he did

But he has battled
And is entitled to be weary
The old man hates to see him like this
Helpless—both of them

But he progresses
And soon the old man will hold him
And whisper his love
And promise to make it all up to him

And he will not remember
But the old man always will

W
I am afraid that the exchange will not be equitable
For my joy is already abundant
And you will give me more in our time together

You have come late to my party
A so pleasant surprise
Always with a smile

As you grow I will fade
We will pass in the day/night
And I will have you with me always

For you perhaps a fading memory
And stories I hope
Of the man who loved you

I love to read! I got hooked early and the urge stays with me today.  I particularly love the classics. But it seems that the classics have fallen out of favor with teachers and students in today’s fast paced society. Perhaps they lack the action or the pathos needed by today’s youth. It makes me sad.

Recently, however, a friend of mine put me in touch with a web site that offers a solution, “Alternatively Combined Books”. So I offer the following for consideration:

• “Jane Eyre Jordan”—Plucky English orphan girl survives hardships to lead the Chicago Bulls to the NBA championship.
• “The Scarlet Pimpernel Letter”—An 18^th century English nobleman leads a double life, freeing comely young adulteresses from the prisons of post-Revolution France.
• “The Remains of the Day of the Jackal”—A formal English butler puts his loyalty to his employer above all else, until he is persuaded to join a plot to assassinate Charles deGaulle.
• “Singing in the Black Rain”—A gang of vicious Japanese drug lords beat the crap out of Gene Kelly.
• “Planet of the Grapes of Wrath”—Astronaut lands on a mysterious planet, only to discover that it is his very own home planet Earth, which has been taken over by the Joads, a race of dirt poor corn farmers who miraculously developed rudimentary technology and evolved the ability to speak with gorillas after exposure to radiation.
• “Of Three Blind Mice and Men”—Two drifting brothers have their limbs hacked off by a psychopathic farmer’s wife. Did you ever see such a sight in your life?
• “Green Eggs and Hamlet”—Would you kill him in his bed? Thrust a dagger through his head? I would not, could not kill the king. I could not do that evil thing. I would not wed this girl, you see. Not get her to a nunnery.

I thought of one myself that might be good to add

• “Star War and Peace”—A young Jedi knight and two droids travel back to early 20th century Russia to save the Russian Army from destruction and to lead the Rebellion against the Czar’s Empire.

How about you?  Any suggestions??

Our dog died last night. We had gone out to dinner and when we got home I found her on her pillow in the family room.I knew something was wrong as soon as I entered the house. Her labored, raspy breathing that had defined her existence these past months was missing.

I knelt down and petted her and called her name softly as I might often do. But this time there was no response. I wrapped her in her blanket and we took her to the Ocean View Animal Hospital. Her last car ride.

The Doctor shook my hand and told me hat they would take good care of her. I was too distraught to ask his name so that I could thank him later.

As we drove back home I couldn’t help but notice all the dog hair in our car. That damn dog left hair everywhere.

I couldn’t fall asleep for a long time last night. But at least I would be able to sleep in since there wouldn’t be a damn dog barking at 5:30 to be let out. Funny thing is I got up at 5:30 anyway. I went to the family room half expecting her to be there staring up at me.

Trish and I had been debating for weeks when we should put Snoopy down. Her quality of life had diminished appreciably.  She could hardly walk. She was deaf. She had lumps and warts and had trouble breathing. But each time we would decide it was time, Snoopy would rebound enough for us to delay the inevitable.

Snoopy was two years old when Melissa asked us to watch her for a while. Snoopy was Melissa’s dog. “A while” turned into 14 years.

Snoopy had a good life. She slept with us up until the last 18 months. She couldn’t manage the steps anymore and began to have “accidents”. So we made a place for her in the family room both at home and at the shore. She was always with us.

We had to rearrange the furniture and pull up the carpets to accommodate her. Trish slept in the family room the past three weeks to keep Snoopy company. This summer had been hard on Snoopy. The heat and humidity were difficult for her. And the frequent storms would just terrorize her. She’s at peace now.

This morning I sat on the porch and tried to remember the Snoopy of old. She was a joy most of the time. But occasionally she would get on a scent and take off. More than once we had to scour the neighborhood searching for that damn dog. But we would walk and wrestle. Trish and I took her everywhere with us.

But all I kept seeing in my mind was the image of her lying there on that pillow. I hope she didn’t suffer at the end.

How could I feel so bad about some damn dog.

I don’t know. But I loved that damn dog.

And I miss her

 

When reflecting on one’s past life no memories are more poignant or more vivid than Christmas memories.

Memories of friendships and love. Of hidden treasures and calendar watching. Of long Christmas Eve evenings with bicycles and doll houses and the Star Wars paraphernalia with thousands of pieces. Of childhood wonder and hope and glee. Of memories of a youth long past but rekindled through kids and gloriously grandkids.

For me at least once during every Christmas season I am drawn back to the Christmas of 1959. My mom had passed away a month earlier so the atmosphere in our tiny row home in South Philly was subdued. To make matters a bit more Dickensesk, the heater in our house broke. So there we were –my father, my younger brother, and I- standing around the tree in our winter coats trying hard to pick up each other’s spirits. For the longest time I always referred to the Christmas of 1959 as the base line against which all Christmases would be measured. “ On a scale from zero to one hundred…..” ; “On a scale from the Christmas of 1959 to the Christmas of….”.

But as I grew older and had my own family I began to see the Christmas of 1959 in a different light. I began to see it as one of faith and determination. Of strength and true love. As I looked back I realized the marvel that we had a Christmas at all. A tree all decorated. And gifts all wrapped for each of us. Toys and clothes and stockings full of goodies. How did my dad pull it all together. Working two jobs six days a week, 16 hours a day how did he manage. I know he didn’t get any help. Maybe Santa pitched in after all.

I don’t know how he did it. But I do know why he did it. It was important to him that his boys, especially his youngest, would have as normal a Christmas as possible. Ok maybe it wasn’t exactly The Gift of the Magi but I believe that as the three of us headed off to church that morning we were able to more richly experience the true meaning of the season.

I am afraid it’s hopeless. I just don’t get the fashion thing. It has always been this huge unsolvable puzzle that makes rocket science seem like child’s play in comparison.
It got worse recently when I went outlet shopping with my wife—something that I almost NEVER do.
Here’s: how the scene plays out:
We go into a clothing store. And there lying on a table is an array of button-down collar shirts. The sign reads Special….Three shirts for $189.99.
Gotta be a mistake I’m thinking so I ask the saleslady about the sign. She assures me that the sign is correct and that the sale is really a great deal because the shirts usually sell for $79.99.
“APIECE!?” I ask.
“Yes” she replies.
Wow. I’m thinking must be made out of silk and cashmere with some gold threads running through by American workers with a great shop boss. So I pick up the shirt and read the label.
100% cotton. Made in Malaysia.
Now I’m really confused. Last week my wife bought me a button-down collar shirt at Macy’s for $9.99. I read the label.
100% cotton. Made in Indonesia.
I’m thinking those poor workers in Indonesia better get better union reps or maybe try and move to Malaysia!!

Then I ask my wife why someone would pay $80 for a shirt when they could get one for ten bucks.
“Better Quality” she says.
“So they’ll last longer?” I ask.
“Right” she says.

Ohhhhh!! I might be on to something here. My shirts cost around $10 apiece and last a minimum of six years. By extrapolation the $80 shirt should last almost what– 50 years!!! I do some quick calculations… my wife’s age, a woman’s life expectancy in the Middle Atlantic region, health records….. If she buys a couple of shirts today, she’ll never have to buy another one for the rest of her life!

So I start over to encourage her to buy a couple of these $80 shirts. But I see another table containing button down collar shirts with a sign that reads Half Off. Not only that. There is another sign directly under the first one that reads Take an Additional 60% off marked price. I pick up a shirt and read the label.
100% Cotton. Made in Malaysia.
But these shirts now cost $16.

So I ask my lovely wife:
“How come these shirts don’t cost $80?”
“They did in October” she tells me. “But the colors are not in style for spring.”
“Still better Quality”
“Yep”
“Last a million times longer”
“Yep”
“But you can only wear them for five months before they go out of style?”
“That’s Right.”
So by now I’m dazed. I start walking toward the door. I just want to get to the sporting good store where they speak a language and use math that I can understand. I almost made it too. But…

“Wait” she says. “I want to check out these new sweaters.”

When I was a young fellow I was a huge baseball fan. So were my father, my brother, all my cousins and uncles and all my neighbors. My friends and I could pretty much tell you the starting line-ups of all 16 major league baseball teams. We knew who led the leagues in home runs and RBIs as well as which pitchers had the lowest ERAs. We all had our favorite players and we argued who the best players were. (To this day I still say Willie Mays was the best I ever saw play!)

My first love was the Philadelphia Athletics. And even when they broke my heart and moved to Kansas City in 1955, I pledged eternal loyalty not only to them but to the entire American League. This put me on the outs with most of my friends who immediately embraced the Phillies and became National League supporters.

In 1960 we didn’t have much to fight about. The A’s finished last in the AL and the Phillies finished last in the NL. That is until we reached the World Series.

Yankees-Pirates

I was in the catbird seat here. I KNEW the Yankees would whip the Pirates. No contest. They had Mantle and Maris and Ford and most of all Yogi Berra. (I really liked Yogi. He was just holding down that catcher’s spot until I was ready to take over. My dream was to, one day, catch for the Yankees.) I was pretty smug about the up coming series. I kept telling my friends how badly the Pirates were going to loose. They were tired of hearing me crow.

Even when the Yanks lost the first game I wasn’t worried. After all they came back to win the second game 16-3 and the third game 10-0. I became even more obnoxious.

Then the Pirates won the next two close games. But not to worry. The Yankees came back to win game six in another blowout 10-0. Now let’s win game seven and put this season to bed.

I was in school that day and information on the game trickled in bit by tantalizing bit. An announcement over the loud speaker. Scoring updates from the nuns. I rushed home as quickly as I could. When I left school the Yankees were loosing. On the subway some guy had a radio and told me that the Yanks had tied it up in the top of the ninth. I ran the four blocks from the subway to my house.

Just in time for the bottom of the ninth.

Ralph Terry’s first pitch to Bill Mazoroski was a ball high. I mentioned to my 9 year old youger brother that Terry had better keep the ball down in the strike zone. Which he didn’t.

I remember it like it was yesterday. How was this possible? The Yankees were a better team! They scored twice as many runs as the Pirates! This was stupid! I really wanted them to win. And I REALLY didn’t want to face my friends after all my trash talking over the past weeks.

That night at dinner I mentioned to my dad that there had to be a better way to make sure the right team won. My dad told me that the Pirates won under the rules that had been established for everyone. “You can’t retroactively change the rules just because you don’t like the outcome”.

I am always amazed when I realize how many things my dad taught me about life.

For example:
Play by the rules today. If you don’t like those rules then you must work to change those rules for tomorrow. But to bellyache over what has already happened and to try and assign blame makes you look small and petty.

My dad wasn’t around for this election cycle. Too bad really. There are quite a few people who could have learned much from his insight and wisdom.

Hi, Pupes.

Merry Christmas.  I created a new website for you, because I thought it would be a great place for you to post your stories, letters, articles and any other information that you create.   I will help you figure out how to use this … and how to spread the word so others can see what you write!

I know how much you like big, expensive gifts, but I thought this was a better idea for this year.

Love,

Meesers