Patapalooza

When I was ten years old I formed a harmonica club with two other neighborhood kids, Manny "the Deli" Feinstein and Willie “no-fangs” Fong.  Growing up in a predominantly Irish-Italian neighborhood there was a Pizzeria and Hoagie/Steak shop on just about every corner, run (of course) by Italians.  If you wanted great food you frequented them and would never want to rely on good old Irish cuisine (ever try a corned beef and cabbage on soda bread?).

Manny, on the other hand, introduced another touch of world delight, the Kosher Hoagie.

On Saturday mornings, when the club would meet, he brought along a Kosher delight for himself and took pre-orders for others that he sold for a quarter each.
Thus the handle "the Deli". 

He convinced his mother that he really needed all this food as he was famished by the time practice ended.  His mother, not suspecting a ruse, was more than happy to make a few extra but eventually she took Manny to the doctor worried that he had a digestive tape worm because he claimed starvation, had been overindulging on Kosher Hoagies, but never gained any weight.

Eventually he had to fess up, and the supply ended much to the joy of the Italians.

Manny and I were on the same level as harp players, we conquered “Hot Cross Buns” and were now ready to tackle something a little more challenging.

Willie “no-fangs” Fong was a really fun kid to have hanging around.  He lost his two front teeth in normal fashion, but they never seemed to grow back.  He loved the harmonica, and played with all the heart of his idol, Little Stevie Wonder. He had only two roadblocks to becoming an outstanding performer, he was totally tone-deaf and he never understood that each hole in the instrument had a blow and draw note. 

Willie only knew how to blow, and blow he did.

We liked him a lot so he hung with us and we somehow worked around his dysfunction.

After a few months of meetings we were invited to play before an actual audience. 

The local youth club was having a talent show and asked if we would perform a song.

At our next meeting we agreed to play “Moon River” a current top 40 hit by Andy Williams. Although still at the elementary level, we were confident, that with just a little practice, we would be able to tackle this because we already progressed through “Row-Row-Row Your Boat” and “Three Blind Mice”and we would not have to bend any notes like a real blues player.

“Moon River” seemed like a safe bet.

The result was 3 kids with lots of heart who needed much more practice. 
Somehow Willie Fong sounded better than his two semi-pro partners.  It was a very funny performance, or so the audience believed.

Willie Fong was so delighted that he couldn’t stop bowing.

I bring up this story, as it was my 1^st real experience performing before a live audience.

 

Three years’ prior I was to play a part in a school play and I bolted right before the 1^st act.  No I did not get cold feet!  Sister Cecilia B. DeMille insisted I have makeup applied before going on stage.  I refused and returned to a seat next to my parents.  My mother was horrified that I quit but when I told my father of my rebellion, he smiled, knowingly, and I gained a powerful ally.

I wasn’t gonna be a second-grade sissy wearing lipstick. I would have had to spend the next month fighting my way through the neighborhood.

Now we finally get to St. Patrick’s Day.

As I mentioned, our neighborhood was predominantly mixed, if you consider almost exclusively Irish and Italian Catholic residents a total composite of American life.

The wealthy Italians (the Pizzeria owners) had their own elementary school, St. Joseph Pesci, just up the block from our school. St. Attica’s.

At St. A’s March 17^th was almost a holy day of obligation (the “Pesci’s had Columbus Day).

I never really shared all the enthusiasm as some of my school friends as I was a half breed, ½ Irish (Mom) and ½ German (Dad) with a little Lenape Indian thrown in.

My school chums were mostly 1^st and second generation Irish-Americans. 

My ancestors arrived in the early wave of the potato famines and settled in the Pennsylvania coal towns of Schuylkill County. My elders never spoke of the "old country". Their memories were of 6 year old mine workers and the Molly Maguire's. 

I was so clueless about my heritage I couldn’t understand why people emigrated because they had no Irish potatoes, after all, man does not live by coconut, sugar and cinnamon alone.

By now I enjoyed singing, having been enlisted into the all-boy parish choir.  A few of my choir friends asked that I join them in forming a quartet to perform Irish songs at the “Patapalooza” talent show, the grand finale of the day’s activities.

They needed me because they were still boy-soprano’s and my puberty arrived earlier leaving me to become a squeaky alto.

Until testosterone eventually fine-tuned my vocals I was now the Willie Fong of the St. A’s “Patapalooza Extravaganza”.

The parish took Patapalooza practice with all the seriousness of a Russian Olympic Ice Hockey team.  We even had a former professional voice coach brought in, Sister Rose Kathleen Sinead Seamus Shannon O’ Malley, directly from County Cork.

Sister O worked us like dogs.

We got to skip classes prior to the show to practice-practice-practice. We had a repertoire of about 6 songs and even today I can sing each from memory as the themes were all identical; mother, homeland and death.

The show went as expected, every act was a hit, the audience (filled with Guinness and Irish Potatoes) enthusiastically applauded and I was certain to take a bow like Willie Fong.

Afterwards the family went to Gadaletta’s for Pizza.

The Irish say that on March 17^th, everyone is Irish so wear something green, enjoy the day, sing “Danny Boy” and be sure to take a bow like Willie Fong.

Then order a pizza.

Watch out Drones!

James Thurber, in his 1933 classic “My Life and Hard Times” speaks of his Grandmother’s horrible suspicion that electricity was dripping invisibly all over the house. 

As Mr. Thurber explains: "It leaked, she contended, out of the empty sockets if the wall switch had been left on. 

She would go around screwing in bulbs, and if they lighted up she would hastily and fearfully turn off the wall switch and go back to her reading. 

Happy in the satisfaction that she had stopped not only a costly but a dangerous leakage".

Fast forward to 2014 when the Mrs. Jay Gerard is in constant apprehension of internet “Peeping Toms” and spends an inordinate amount of shoe leather running a muck fastening index cards to any technology containing an available camera. She also believes Windows 8 allows the microphone in her laptop to listen-in on all her conversations, even when shut down and stored 3 stories up.

As I write she has blackened all household window panes and is using a screw gun to secure particle board as additional cover-up to prevent predator drones from gaining ground . She has littered the house with aluminum-foil hats too!

I haven’t the heart to tell her Spookya Radio recently had a discussion regarding hidden spy cameras in flat screen televisions.  If I do I can expect walls covered with 30 gallon trash bags.

I am just not as frightened as others when it comes to thinking that there may be forces out there who wish to use today's technology to catalog my daily routine for future manipulations.

First, I am somewhat flattered as I could never imagine that my boring life could be of interest to anyone. Heck I don’t even want to think about it and I gotta live in it.

Second, I am way too lazy to spend time taking all these precautions. If it’s money they seek, good luck, if it’s photos, again good luck.

My wife and kids called me “Mr. Gadget” as my love for technology, especially what may be on the horizon, has always been an interest. This is why Batman has always been my geek super hero of choice.

Jack Nicholson’s “Joker” in the movie jealously lamented “Where does he get all those toys”?

As much as I do like toys, I always resisted upgrading to a smart phone.   

Phone conversations are not my preferred method of communication. Face-to-face, then Skype are surely better. I do like texting as I can keep phone conversations to a minimum and found this to be a preferred method of communication by many people today.

Well this week I was issued a new company phone by my newspaper, a Samsung Galaxy 4 and I am not only elated, I am totally sold.

My new toys of choice are the apps, I can’t seem to get enough. It is as if I can now discard a whole table full of technology and carry my life everywhere in one convenient little rectangle. 

And I don’t have to be a twelve-year-old girl to read the display or work the keyboard. It is adult-friendly!

I am now Batman in my own home. I was awaiting my wife to play the part of the Joker and jealously lament “where does he get all those toys”?

Instead I found it today on a table, index cards fastened securely and wrapped in aluminum foil.

Watch out drones...she knows you're out there and she's coming after you next!

Bill's #1

Bill Gates is number one again!

I just heard the headline of the day that Bill just regained his title as the richest man in America.

Seventy-six billion and not only the richest but also along with his spouse, Melinda, are quite the philanthropists.

Here is the official "real wealth" pecking order:

1. God

2. The Pope

3. Dysfunctional British Royalty

4. The owner of Dubai

5. Bill Gates

6. Some other rich guys

7. Oprah

8. Gay Guys

9. Everyone else on the planet

10. Me

When I heard the news today that Bill Gates regained his title I was passing by a Dunkin Donuts, one of the few businesses that causes me to irk when I see their “tip jar “for the service provided; wrangling a jelly donut, placing it in a bag and handing the contents to me expecting favor.

Look I am all for the “little-guy”, my heart goes out for those who take lower wages but provide excellent service in order to come close to a possible “living wage”. I tend to over-tip for real service and I wonder just what those in the pecking order would leave in a Dunkin Donuts tip jar for a jelly donut.

God-eternal life (not too shabby) and a Mc Donald’s French fry coupon.

The Pope-The new guy, Frankie, seems to favor the common folk so I would suspect he would leave a shiny quarter. He doesn’t have the same power as his boss, no eternal life, but he could give you a little blessing or a hearty handshake.

Dysfunctional British Royalty-Tip for what? We thought jelly donuts just appeared from the air.

The owner of Dubai-watch closely as he may have his hand in the jar.

Bill Gates-well he has a philanthropic streak. He would probably be very generous.  I hear that he has been known to leave thousands for a hamburger, pizza delivery and paperboys and millions for bloggers who suck up and speak very kindly of him (jaygerardtoday.blogspot.com).

Some other rich guys-Nothing. “How do you think we got so rich”

Oprah-Give the entire store-staff a car and trip to Disney world.

Gay Guys-I am not certain they ever eat jelly donuts.

Everyone else on the planet-look away and pretend the jar does not exist.

Me-I would be removing any pennies to make exact change.

Blow America

I promise you, dear readers, that eventually I will refrain from talking about this year’s Pennsylvania winter, but again it is truly the major topic of conversation.

We are about 48 hours away from another massive storm now brewing in the Pacific and it is racing eastward ho across America about to dump another estimated 12 inches plus on our head.

Local municipalities have exhausted road-salt supplies. Home Depot has begun digging a moat around the garden center to keep at bay the crowds of customers vying for the last few available bags on a pallet.

Trusting that prayers to the Patron Saint of Hopeless Causes may provide relief, a local order of Nuns began selling St. Jude metals.

My daughter and son-in-law feel so bad we are dealing with all this they have generously offered to fly in and support an army of snow shoveler’s from Costa Rica and have then set up a tent city in our backyard for the duration of the season.

I was hoping for an in-law suite in North Carolina but they’re too smart for me.

Our Media Publishing Company had a contest for their employees. I entered in the hope of winning the grand prize; Circus tickets for my local grandgirls.

The contest was to describe your most favorite winter memories and what snow activities you found appealing.

There was the usual gag-provoking and nauseating cast of characters:

“I just love taking my family on a long walk wearing our snow-shoes”

“I enjoy building igloos for all the neighborhood orphans”

“We all go sledding from sun-up to sunset on dead man’s hill then cozy up in front of our fireplace with hot cocoa”

And on and on it went.

There must have been dozens and dozens of entries just like that.

Yours truly, the “contrarian”, submitted the following:

My favorite winter memory knows that spring and summer is just around the corner.  What I enjoy most after a snowfall is to sit back in my laz-y-boy with a nice cup of coffee and watch the bright sun melt all of that horrid white stuff.

The contest ended but unfortunately the Circus tickets were no longer available and the grand prize was 4 Harlem Globetrotter tickets.

I will be going in March.

I do believe that just cursing the darkness is pointless, I always find a candle to light.

I have a possible solution to ward off the impending doom now marching eastward from the left coast.

If EVERYONE in America, and I truly mean us all will go outside on March 1^st at noon (Eastern time), take a real deep breath and blow really hard towards California maybe we can somehow push back the storm.

   

We will be as one, united against the elements.

Like “Hands across America” from 1986.

We can call it “America Blows 2014”.

We may even request help from our allies in Europe, a kind of payback for WW2.

Hawaii, please stand down as your assistance would be counter-productive.

Now start huffing and puffing please.

American Blowers-When you are finished moving the elements check out the Harp Players tab to see some of the greatest Harmonica players past and present. I am updating and adding great harp blowers.  Click on and enjoy!

Lotto Fever

Another giant Powerball lottery and everyone in the office pool missed again.

I was trying to calculate just how much I would net had us corporate minions hit the big time

.

After all State and Federal taxes, and taking a cash buy-out on a $400 Million plus we would net around $100 Million.

Split evenly I would net somewhere around 30 dollars (we have a REALLY large pool).

For added insurance, and out of personal greed, I decided to purchase my own ticket.

You can’t win if you don’t play…and can’t if you do!

Just think, $100 Million Dollars!  What would I do?

First, I have a big family and they would surely be given something. 

I expect the kinfolk would swell to epic proportions before all the checks were finally issued.

I am certain that I do not have a cousin Pedro from my Aunt Patricia’s bloodline. I’ll be spending an inordinate amount of time chasing “newly-discovered relatives” away with a large stick.

I will probably have to disconnect the phone to avoid every scammer with my phone number, and I expect all those “Nigerian lawyers” in my email SPAM will personally arrive at my back door to tell me how they will make me even richer.

Of course there is my 5 Grandgirls future to consider.

After all is totaled I expect to clear about 30 dollars.

Well, back to work.

Grandapreneuer

I am amazed to see bright young entrepreneurs invent and bring to market products and services that catch on so quickly they become billionaires before they can grow their first full beard.

I would love to create a unique app, game or social media site that would propel me into putting a down payment on a small Caribbean island.

Growing up I was the local lemonade stand, paperboy, snow shoveler, recycler anything to make a few bucks. I am excited to see this kind of enthusiasm in others, especially when I now witness this in my firstborn grandgirl.

Last week Number One informed me that she was going to “sell things” in order to raise money to buy items for her rapidly growing doll collection.  Her parents constantly turn-over their entire household contents via Craigslist so I thought she was considering selling some of her toys or games on-line, but she had a different idea.  She would go door-to-door and take orders for a much needed staple.

The conversation in paraphrase:
Number One- “Poppy, would you like to help me raise money, I am selling things and taking orders”?
Me-“Really what are you selling”?
Number One-“Toilet paper”.
Me-(with a very hard-to-maintain straight face)-“Toilet paper, really how much”?
Number One-“Only $3.99 a roll or 2 for $6.00”

Her father tried to convince her that the only person who would pay that much for toilet paper would have to have an immediate and very desperate need.  He was also concerned that she, too, would follow in their footsteps and empty out the household supply leaving them with a future, unwanted and desperate surprise.

Number one can often be somewhat hard to convince so she may or may not seek another avenue.  She may re-tweak and repackage her original plan.

Check out Craigslist for “expensive-designer” toilet paper.  If you see it help out a little future Zuckerberg and buy a few rolls.

Maybe one day she’ll build a hut for her Poppy on her small Caribbean island.

No Bowling In Dairy Please!

I have resigned myself to the truth that I will live the remainder of my life without any real understanding of anything mechanical, technical or possess knowledge for a repairable skill set.

I stopped watching and drooling over the Shopsmith infomercial.  I will never build furniture, at least a piece that is usable.

I am amazed that I have no real insight as to repercussions from misuse of “mech-tech” things in my life, no matter how small.  I would be the guy that has to be reminded to first unplug the appliance prior to using a butter knife to remove the housing.

Today,millions of Americans living in the new “snow-belt“(Pennsylvania),continue to be glued to local television news-models holding rulers measuring snowflakes.

What I lack in some skills I have needed strengths going into a survival mode when it comes to natural disasters, especially snow-storms. 

My spouse, the true engineer (who possesses the mech-tech skills I lack) would stand out in the snow, as it piles up around her dazed and confused as to her next move.

You need to go out and fetch her before she becomes a Popsicle.

I have found North Carolina to be the poster-child for lack of snowstorm prep. Before I continue to appear to be insulting to the Great State of Tar Heel, I am attempting to instill into the population survival skills so they too do not become Popsicles.

I really love North Carolina, the country is beautiful and the people I have met are so very nice.  I am truly pleased that 3 of my grandgirls live there.
 

I would be proud to call NC my 2^nd home.

I watch, in horror, snowstorm videos of the great citizens of Raleigh-Durham in a struggle against all odds pushing cars along highways in an attempt to get home.

We all know what comes next; we need to find a blameable person for this disaster.

A few years’ ago we spent Christmas in Greensboro with our grandgirls and their handlers.  On Christmas Eve snow fell and by the morning we looked out the window to what appeared to be a Thomas Kinkade painting.  It was all too beautiful and peaceful until the other shoe fell.

My son-in-law informed us there was only 1 snowplow in the entire Piedmont Triad and if we need to get to our hotel it would be required that we grab a shovel, remove snow from a 150’ driveway then proceed to clear a path along 2 streets (uphill...both ways!) to a main road.  

Snow is really just an afterthought, tax dollars never allocated.  They are not prepared.

This week I went into full prep mode, certain to gather my French-Toast ingredients 2 days prior to the masses, vehicles gassed-up, windshield cleaner-reservoirs filled, new batteries applied, technology all charged-up. 

I was ready to handle the next wave of this years’ “storm-of-the-century”.

I even had rush shipment on a Valentines gift to be certain the UPS guy could deliver one day ahead of the storm and I would not have the lame excuse that “your gift is arriving soon, honest!”.

There is an elderly woman who knows I spend some time each day walking in the elements and was concerned that I would slip and fall so she purchased a gift for me, slip-on shoe stabilizers made for walking in icy conditions.  I must say I was skeptical at first but L.L. Bean surely knows their stuff. I am so truly thankful for the present and have barely removed them over the past few weeks.  

This causes conflict when I forget to remove them upon entry into my foyer.

 I was food shopping for the impending doom (usually done at 5:30 AM) in our local 24/7 supermarket while normal folks actually sleep, gathering a few last minute items.

I was moving along holding onto one of those “mini carts” when it happened, I became a human bowling ball in the dairy aisle.

Cart overturned, groceries and reading glasses scattering in all directions while I rolled down a newly waxed linoleum highway like a curled up armadillo.

Fortunately there were no old ladies at the end or I would have made a 7-10 split.

As I lay there wondering if I had a witness, trying desperately to recall my lawyers phone number, I came to the realization that the blameable was yours truly!

Not paying attention to my wearable tech-mech I forgot to remove my L.L. Bean stabilizers, the cleats and waxed linoleum flooring were not made for a good marriage. 

It was at that point that I was happy to not have a witness and hoped that security cameras were not capturing the next potential America’s Funniest Home Video grand prizewinner.

I quickly picked myself up, cleaned up my own mess and slinked on through the self-serve aisle as quickly as possible.

Let me know if you find this disaster on You Tube.

It will probably be titled “No Bowling in Dairy You Idiot”.

  

This Date in History

My boss, Joseph A. Carter and I usually have an open season on any topic of discussion.  We know each other well, have worked together for many years and are as polar opposed on as many subjects as were are in agreement on others.

Regardless he refers to me as the poster-boy of contrarianism, and he is wrong of course.

Actually his observation is somewhat true, I rarely follow the herd, nor do I care if daggers are hurled in my direction because of my oppositions. 

I am content.

So today is the golden anniversary of the Beatles invasion into the US, and reliving the anticipation as we all gathered around the old Philco black and white awaiting their first appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show.   

I had a recent discussion over our mutual affection for the boys from Liverpool when something in the timeline hit home.  Joe mentioned that he was a great fan of the Fab Four from day one, I, on the other hand, had a liking but did not really become a fan for another year.

You guessed it, I was a kid contrarian!

My conversion to mega fan did not take too long, especially since girls my age were already smitten and the pangs of puberty dictated a lessening of contrary opinion if I were to make any inroads into the estrogen jungle.

Contrarians can also be pragmatic if the dangling carrot is the correct one.

The discography of the Beatles is a most impressive body of work, with songs covered by so many artists.   

Awards and kudos abound and deserving so.

I think I know every song they ever recorded, and they play periodically in my mind.

I have even caught myself singing some of their “songs-we-need-to-forget”, too few to mention. They may not have batted 1000 but they at least hovered in the 900's.  

Even the greatest among us can have their less than stellar moments giving all of us mortals hope.

Many thanks to the Beatles for 50 years of great music and memories.

NOMOSNOW

Here it is just one day after the Official Pennsylvania Varmint, Phil, prognosticated 6 more weeks of winter, and I am looking at an additional 8+ inches of a heavy wet snow continuing to blanket an already much-shoveled driveway.

I have only one thing to say to the fur ball, Revenge is best served…Boiled!

If you get to Punxsutawney before I do, and are able to trap that little rat-witch, I have a great recipe for Boiled Marmot.

Enjoy!

Gobbler's Knob

Had I been raised in the town of Godforsaken Minnesota, or some other icicle on the map of the US, I would not be irate when the weather spokes-model/meteorologist on local TV flubs another prediction.

After all, when winter arrives do we really need to know it will be cold and snowy in Montana, Idaho, Minnesota or parts of the world where kids take dog sleds to school? We expect it!

In this part of Pennsylvania weather prognosticators try their bestest to read all the latest data, consult the experts in their field, view satellite feeds while chewing their nails and still have a less than stellar track record.
 

I have better success asking my magic 8 ball if I will need to shovel and salt my driveway tomorrow.

In recent weeks, the whine-of-the-day overheard everywhere is about weather folks being compensated big bucks for doing their job incorrectly.  “After all, how come they get to keep their jobs when if I made the same mistake over and over I would be fired Blah Blah Blah Blah etc.” is the cry of the masses.

Frankly, I am almost as tired of hearing that, as I too am guilty of saying it!

We here are obsessed with weather, in particular snow and ice. Even the slightest mention of a small accumulation has us clearing store shelves of milk, bread and eggs then we French-Toast connoisseurs stay glued to our flat screens watching newscasters stationed on every street corner holding rulers and yardsticks giving us minute-to-minute snowflake counts.

Where did this madness originate?

I remember in the early 1980’s when the Weather Channel was launched.  I recall one of my brothers-in-laws stayed glued to that network, 24/7, watching satellite maps over and over again. He had a paving business and needed to know how to schedule his work day.  I could certainly understand his obsession but never believed that anyone else would have an interest to the degree it would warrant a whole network and actually make a profit.
 

I was the same guy who never believed people would pay for television, radio or buy bottled water when you can get it right from the tap. I put all of my investments where I knew it would make me a fortune; 8 track disco tapes.

Tomorrow, February 2^nd, is the biggest weather day of the year in Pennsylvania, “Groundhog Day”!

There will always be those state cheerleaders who tout the benefits of living or visiting the Keystone state but honestly it boils down to really only two attractions, Punxsutawney Phil and the Liberty Bell.

Now before I get to the rodent, let me sidetrack to the bell.

First understand the Liberty Bell just ain’t what it once was.  If you are making travel and hotel plans to fly across the continent to see a piece of Americana in the here and now, stay home and watch something on Netflix.  When I was a kid, you saw the Liberty Bell in person, at Independence Hall.  You could actually touch it, put your fingers in the crack and take a picture postcard home with a little patriotic pride in tow.

I am uncertain just where the real bell is currently housed but I believe it is kept in a secure enclosure, protected by armed guards from a special government agency, and miles away from the viewing area. Actually you are only looking at a hologram.
This must be true as I believe I heard about it on Conspiracy Radio. 
You are permitted a quick glance, then you are whisked away out of the viewing area.  If you attempt an over-the-shoulder second look you may find yourself in front of a judge and then in orange overalls picking up trash along the Schuylkill expressway.

Now onto the sleeping rat.

If you watched the Bill Murray movie ‘Groundhog Day” you most certainly were not exposed to the true Gobbler’s Knob festival that is Phil and the townsfolk of Punxsutawney, including the deep dark secrets of the flea-infested marmot and the festivities.

Some lesser-known tidbits that may or may not be factual:

• Phil is a cross-dresser.
• Phil does not actually see a shadow and scamper back into a hole.  He reads a proclamation then whispers his prediction to the chief Mucky-Muck of the “Inner-Circle” the protectors and servants to the fur ball.  Yes, Phil does speak in High German.
• Members of the Inner-Circle have all been secretly selected by his highest himself, hand plucked from the finest of the Masons and Illuminati that Pennsyltuckey has to offer.  The “IC” as the boys call it are really just fun loving varmint guards who let Phil do just what his whim wants. Think Elvis or Justin Bieber.
• Catholics are prohibited from joining as it is a secret society, with a special handshake, and they may actually be Occultists.
• There is no parking at the Knob, you can either take a bus from the local Mc D’s in town or hike the 1 ½ mile UPHILL walk.  Check your magic 8-ball for the weather.
• No alcohol is permitted in Gobblers Knob and if found will be confiscated and consumed by the local police and the Inner-Circle.
• Yuengling is the official beer sponsor of the event. (If you are passing through Pottsville Pennsylvania, take a tour of the plant)
• Phil is 45 years sober.
• Phil’s success rate is only 40% about the same as the weather spokes model with satellite feed.
  
  

Happy Groundhog’s Day.  

Spring will eventually arrive.

Happy Birthday 5

One day, when I was just a very young boy, my mother asked my preference about THE upcoming event i.e. “would I prefer a little brother or sister”?  My honest response was “neither, I want a dog”!

I was the oldest of the litter, and there were 4 of us by the time I was six.  My parents eventually deposited 2 additional mouths around the kitchen table totaling a family of eight.

I honestly admit my self-centeredness, believing deep-down that I was actually an only child despite the reality of a shared bedroom with 2 brothers, one bathroom for 8 people and trying desperately to somehow understand why all these aliens keep appearing in my life, demanding my attention, and all I want is from them is to stop gnawing on my Army men.

Sibling relationships are complex, and birth order does complicate matters. Despite all of the childhood drama I am often amazed as to how we became very close, with none of the smoldering embers that eventually ignite to destroy relationships in other families.

These issues are never so evident as what I now observe with my 5 grandgirls.

My youngest, one of the Southern Belles, turns one year old today.  She is so close in age to her sororal-twin sisters, and a little bigger and more active than most her age, she is often thought to be a triplet when people see them together.

The twins know better. 

Grandgirl 5 wants so badly to “fit in” and excited just to be with them. She doesn’t utter a protest when they confiscate her toys or push her aside when they are playing together and she is just a little too curious and wants to be involved. She remains a sweet happy little girl.

In all fairness to her two oldest sisters, they are also so sweet with many moments of kindness and caring to their clinger-on, but overall she is a third wheel.

Dear number 5, have a Happy Birthday.  Enjoy your special day and have fun opening the presents we sent to you.

With any luck you’ll be able to play with the toys we mailed, and get to eat a piece of birthday cake.

But hurry before the twins swoop in and take it.

Snow Business

Snow has always been the domain of children.

As I watch another snowfall this week, realizing it is not just a nightmare that somehow transported me to some God-awful part of Minnesota, I long for a warmer climate that I know somehow is just around the corner.

If you live in a snow-infested region of the world, and you are an adult trying to recapture your childhood with your skiing, snowmobiling et al., please try not to pretend that you really enjoy your life.  Just blame your ancestors for raising you there and crawl back into your igloo.

I do enjoy watching the children sled down the “giant hill” that is my backyard careful to avoid a crash into our pear tree.

We who have had white winters always recall the bestest and most frightening snow hill, and I am glad that I can provide a group of 4 year-olds lasting memories. By the time they are 6 they will all agree that my hill is no higher than a hump of snow-covered mulch, barely sloped enough for a marble to roll down. They will move on to their eventual thriller wondering what all the excitement was about.

I did enjoy snow days, as all children do, getting off from school, sledding, snowball fights and making a few extra bucks shoveling.  The secret to making top dollar was to get an advanced shoveling contract with the neighbors in the row homes.  There was nothing in writing, only a verbal promise to do a good job, include a street parking space (always a deal closer) and a promise that you will not have to ring their doorbell at 5AM (as you did the last snowfall). They can just pre-pay.

The nice thing about snow removal in a neighborhood of city row homes is you can make a ton of money quickly and any resident who does not contract at least can provide you with a pavement where you can store their neighbors’ snow.

I long for a neighborhood youth entrepreneur, a go-getter to knock on my door and ask for a contract.  The only kids who come around are the fund raisers with their cases of chocolate bars. They must have some underground secret language, probably texting one another about the chunky guy in the 2^nd house who will always buy a couple of boxes.

Hey I don’t eat them all, they get hoarded in the basement, stored on IKEA shelves awaiting the upcoming clash-of-the-classes I keep hearing about on Conspiracy Radio.

I need something to serve up along with my cases of Dinty-Moore.

None of the neighborhood kids shovel snow, nor make an effort. Those who will work are usually the reluctant ones with parents who wish to instill a strong work ethic. 

We did have a little boy, Ryan, who asked if he can remove our snow. Ryan promised to do a good job, be sure to give us a parking space, and if we prepaid he would not ring our doorbell at 5AM.

In reality Ryan’s mother, Susan, did most of the snow removal.  We actually helped her.  Ryan wandered off and went sledding in our backyard.  He was only 4.

He never returned until a few years later when he was selling school fund raising candy.

Now we have Peppermint Patties.

Resolutions Revisited

Hey New Year life-changers, are you still there?

I am not a farmer, although Pennsylvania is my home, this transplanted city boy, now fully country, has picked up some Amish-speak that dwindled here from Lancaster County and earlier European times.

One phrase is:  “Make hay while the sun shines” comes to mind as fitness experts, e-cigarette makers and diet guru’s frantically work to separate you from your unemployment check as January quickly closes in and their hottest sales month comes to an end.

Many years ago I substituted a Bacca addiction (tobacco you Yankees) with a new oral fixation-FOOD!

There have been relatively few products or programs on the market that I have not tried, believing their magic beans possessed the weight loss secret of the ages. I have been bamboozled by the best of them.

Older, wiser and a little less well funded (and yo-yo dieting pounds heavier), I have developed an inner-radar detecting the most bizarre current fat shedding schemes on the planet today.

I heard one of the latest scams provides you with a little pill, so powerful, that you must follow the ingestion schedule on the bottle or your weight will disappear so quickly you could dissolve into nothingness overnight. 

Plan B-You may have to reduce your intake to only one daily, or even less, so be very careful.

I guess their plan C will be just licking the thing when the mood arises.

Oh yes, by the way, the pills work best with a sensible eating plan and 30 minutes of walking daily.

I often thought that when the day arrives, and I finally reach my Nirvana of less poundage, I would impart my wisdom and journey between the pages of a softbound cover, $19.95 available on Amazon (the PBS fund drive version has 8 DVD’s and a workbook).

I too can help millions from my beach house on my private island, an airstrip for my personal jet, and wealth rivaling the average 20+ year-old Grammy-Award winner.

The following year I will need to lampoon it on this blog.

Clint the Dog

OK it has been 3 days since the New Year.

How are those resolutions doing?

I once tried a New Years’ resolution and broke it within minutes.

There went that year!

This reminds me of when I was an elementary school student at St. Attica’s and Sister Chuck Norris explained the “giving-it-up-for-lent” thing. I couldn’t make it work the 1^st year but caught on quickly and was able to successfully convince my mother, for years, to refrain from serving liver for dinner during lent. 

Sandy, our mutt, was dismayed as I couldn’t sneak the dreaded organ under the dinner table for at least 40 days (excluding fish-Fridays).

I often wonder if those who make and keep a New Year’s resolution are actually happy at their achievement, you know that “be-careful-what-you-wish-for” thing.

I want follow up stories, let’s see the future events to those who have determination and willpower, are they really happy, fulfilled? Am I jealous?

When I was 17 our family moved from the inner city to the country.

We had land, trees and fresh air.  I loved it. My sisters thought the world had ended.

A few weeks after we settled in, a family from the city was able to find our home, unscheduled, and bring us a housewarming gift; a beagle named Clint.

The story goes like this; their oldest daughter joined some religious group and was way too busy selling flowers at the airport to care for the pooch.

They made the offer in front of 6 kids whose family mutt passed recently.

What could my parents do but say yes, since the gift bearers already had my brother holding the leash, my sisters had the dog food dish and the city slickers were already in their car, skedaddling away and burning more rubber than NASCAR’s finest.

They “just knew” we were hurting for a little puppy.  Bye-Bye!

Almost immediately we began to understand just why they could not maintain order in the neighborhood as a beagle has a few quirks we never before witnessed in the mutts we formerly raised. Beagles like to run, run and run. They are very independent, and can be warm & friendly but really do not listen. They have their own agenda. You accept them on their own terms.

We actually moved into a small village, very close knit with families who stayed there for generations.  We were outsiders and the locals were very curious as to our intentions and behaviors.

Clint certainly gave them much fodder for tongue wagging.

A hungry beagle is somehow able to escape multiple chains with cunningness greater than that of Hannibal Lecter. A hungry beagle is able to sneak up and steal the bagged lunch of children waiting for the school bus, not just once but multiple times.

In these days children are taught skills to be made aware of dangerous strangers. 

In my day the cry was “look out, here comes Clint”!

Mr. Kulp, our neighbor, certainly was not impressed when Clint decided to acquire the last piece of his chocolate cake when he had to leave his porch to go answer the telephone.

Clint was not just an eating-machine, he got plenty of exercise when he de-leashed and chased cars throughout the village. He was forever teeth-bearing; back hunched barking and growling furiously at the car tire of the moment.

Villagers were furious; cries of “why can’t you keep that dumb dog in your yard” were echoed throughout the neighborhood. Petitions signed, complaints issued but Houdini the hound continued his rebel ways.  The “new guys” in the hood were certainly all the talk at the volunteer fire company.

The reason why I bring up the story about Clint is that he is reminiscent of what can happen when you get what you want.  I always wondered what would happen if he actually caught up with a moving car tire.

He eventually did catch a tire (or should I say the tire caught him) and subsequently has been buried in my parent’s backyard for decades.

Rest in peace, Clint.

Happy New Year!