Thursday, January 9, 2025

WHAT HOUSE DID YOU GROW UP IN?

 

What House Did You Grow Up In?

For me? 530 Alden Avenue, Westfield, NJ. A suburb of NYC. That’s us in 1949. “Judy, Sue, Kenny Hugh. We all love you.” Mother would sing. I was a year old when we moved into that house. Fifteen years later we moved out to a new development near the end of Lawrence Ave, in an area we used to call “Egypt Hills”. It had been a barren, open field of dry straw grass where we hunted for insects with Mr. Ferguson, the Entomologist. His son Donny and I were best friends.
I thought we were rich moving into a new, split level out there. Everything sod green where the parched earth had been. Mom bought a new cage for her sun yellow canary that came with a matching yellow cover, a sure sign to me that we had gone big time.
Dad had a law firm at #5 Broadway, Mom ferried him to and from the train station five days a week. A goodbye & hello peck on the cheek, in or out, punctuated each ride. Dad’s idea of casual was a sports jacket on weekends, his uniform for pulling crabgrass in the front lawn while swearing under his breath about the world going to hell.
Mom was in charge of us kids, Dad brought home the bacon. You could do that in those days. Mom always made us “a good breakfast” to start the day. Eggs, bacon, toast, Kippered Herring, Cod fish cakes. Dad lived on Kent cigarettes, coffee and stress. He was exempt from Mom’s breakfast rules.
I walked to and from Franklin Elementary School five days a week, memorizing the irregularities in the sidewalks, playing a game with myself of only looking down to know my location. Sycamore trees shed their bark on both sides of the streets.
Donny Ferguson lived across the street. He and I rode our bikes like a couple of maniacs, racing down to the Mountainside News Stand every Saturday when we each got our $1.00 allowance. Cards in the spokes helped up pretend they were motorcycles even though they sounded like cards in spokes. Ten 5 cent candy bars and five 10 cent comic books. We spent all afternoon on his screen porch with Superman and a sugar high.
David Callahan lived behind us on Bradford Ave. We ran the smooth dirt path between our two houses, barefoot in the summertime. At night, fat slugs squished up between our toes when they came out to cross the path in the cool dark.
We strung a telegraph line between our houses. Bedroom to Bedroom, our first e-mail.
Choir practice at St Paul’s three nights a week, Boy Scout meeting at one of the guys houses twice a month. Dad was smart. He never hosted one. I still have the plywood Santa we cut out in Robbie Rink’s basement though. We finally got to finish them even though Jimmy Siebert had said the “f” word when a splinter went into his thumb and Mr. Rink almost had an aneurysm. He said that was the end of our meetings, no more. Where did you kids ever learn to talk like that? We met in his basement again two weeks later, finished cutting and painting our plywood Santa and no mention was ever made of the evil language.
When Joe, my sister Judy’s first boyfriend came over to our house one night, sporting a crew cut and looking like one of the Kingston Trio, he carried a huge suitcase with him. Laying it carefully down on the ottoman at the foot of Moms big living room chair, we all gathered around as he opened it up to reveal two panels of flashing electronics straight out of a Buck Rogers movie. It was the first tape recorder I had ever seen. Totally magical stuff.
Christmas days, Easter baskets full of candy, a bottle of liquid mercury from Mr. Robinson, the paint chemist who lived next door.
Our dark, musty basement had stairs with no backing. They allowed the long bony arms of the pale monster to grab my ankles if I were to only walk down, but I didn’t, I flew. Quickly throwing open the door to the furnace room, I scurried over to the lone hanging bulb and pulled the string furiously before dark creatures could grab me. The bulb was always burnt out. It never worked. I would freeze with panic, spider webs covering my face and hair, deciding my next move. All senses on full alert as I listened for shuffling feet. That’s when the huge oil furnace, covered in peeling layers of asbestos insulation like a fat grey leper with curls of dead skin hanging loose, would fire up. WHOOMP! When that thing lit up we both jumped two feet into the air. I still get a tachycardia rush with the memory.
Those were the days of Ant Farms, BB guns, white rats that got loose and colonized the entire third floor, fat tire bikes, a brand-new Ford Fairlane 500 with rocket wings…
Sister Sue wrote on the wall by her bed: “Elvis is 24!” It looked like it said that Elvis was only 4 though because the plaster wall was so spotted and damaged from a particularly wet squirt gun fight that ended with water balloons. The cream-colored wall looked like the spotted, flaking legs of my Aunt Jeedie. When she was in the old people’s home.
Elvis made his debut on Ed Sullivan
Weenie, our attack dachshund, got loose and tried to protect the entire neighborhood from the trash truck by running backwards and biting the wheels. Not a good plan. That truck turned poor Weenie into a hairy Frisbee.
Mom and I sat on the front stoop and cried when I got home from school that day.
We played “Ain’t no bears out tonight” after dinner on Summer nights until it was too dark to see and we all had to go back inside.
George Harris had a pet Raccoon that bit everything and everyone. I had rats, turtles, dogs, cats, snakes, toads, fish and birds, but a biting Raccoon? No way.
Flying June bugs on a long thread with a noose around one rear leg, catching fireflies in a jar, smearing our faces at night with luminescent war paint from sacrificial lightning bugs.
The smell of cap guns.
The whole neighborhood was excited to learn that one of our own, Jeffery Hamlet from up the street, would be on The Howdy Doody Show. After Buffalo Bob finished speaking with Mr. Bluster, the camera panned the peanut gallery. With families up and down Alden Avenue on the edge of their chairs looking to spot Jeffrey, there he was! His forefinger buried so far up his nose it looked like he must be scratching his brain. Oblivious to the camera, he slowly pulled nose oysters out from those damp cavities, examined them closely and licked his finger clean. A proud moment for the hood. Hell, even I was grossed out.
On his tenth birthday, David Callahan and I watched Steve McQueen fight “The Blob” in the Rialto Theatre.
Teresa from one block up. pulled the top of her bathing suit down in Kerry Hill’s back yard when we were all running through the sprinkler. We were both only nine but it still seemed like a big deal back then.
I regularly dragged a beat-up red wagon filled with coke bottles down to the Mountainside Drug store to recycle. Two cents each.
At a middle school dance in 1963, I was flopping around out there on the floor with a girl I didn’t know, but whose words would be forever burned into my brain: “You sure know how to Mash Potatoes!”
That was a turning point. Time to put away childish things and embrace even more childish things. I was ready for the big time, High School and a new house.
After suffering through the humiliation of riding the school bus for my entire sophomore year, much like the human equivalent of my dog wearing a clown collar, I bought a motorcycle as soon as I turned 16.
Back then I looked 14 and got stopped by every cop in town whenever I went out. In wintertime my hands were frozen into useless claws for the first three periods at school. Even so, a small price to pay.
New house, new ride, new school…I was cool
I assumed childhood to be in the rear-view mirror, that I was an adult by then, no clue that it would be another 20 years before I learned to legitimately carry that mantle.


Saturday, December 14, 2024

AMVETS SALVATION

 


Being around a lot of people for all of my working life, co-workers and customers, I learned to behave as an extrovert. Got good at it. But as a card-carrying introvert, I need more down time, more alone, recovery time, than most.

I’m the guy who goes to a party and wonders how soon I can leave. Most people dream of their upcoming vacations, leaving home for destinations they believe will take them away from their daily lives, far from home. The grass is greener syndrome.

Not for me. Home is my happy place, warm & reassuringly familiar. On vacations or family get togethers, I love seeing everyone, but I’m always counting-down the days, happy when it’s time to head back. Home to my lair.  

In full retirement five years ago, I mostly looked forward to not having to leave the cave at all.

That became unhealthy on many levels.

When Carla was out working, I started drinking too much. If she was out of town on an assignment, I often went several days without hearing any other voice than my own, talking to the dogs. A little step into crazy town. Knowing it had to stop, I banished alcohol from my own house, and decided to try a different approach. That’s when I wound up at our local Amvets club, a veteran’s group, with a bar. One, maybe two drinks and out. That’s been almost every day for the last four years.

But here’s the thing I didn’t expect…it was the people there that saved me. The comradery of a familiar group that comes from all walks of life. A Bell curve of  varied lifestyles, beliefs and approaches. So refreshing. Very quickly our differences fade into the background as our common ground, Veterans, and community, takes the stage.

A few drinks, some laughs, the football game, poker, bingo. The bright machines with flashing lights that call out to people looking for a little Vegas action. Old reruns of Wagon Train over here, Pandora country music over there. Didn’t that guy go on to star in Gunsmoke? Checking in on how the knee operation went, maybe a new house or dog. I’m sorry to hear about your brother.

Congratulations, support, sympathy, friendship.

Excited that the oyster roast Ed pays for out of his own pocket every year is coming up soon. A Christmas dinner today. Karaoke laughs every Saturday. The bingo, the endless dishes that the ladies group puts out for every event…all more nourishing than just food or drink.

It's family, and at this point in my life, on the day-to-day, it’s my fresh air and sunshine, even though it’s inside a darkened bar that smells of smoke. Swapping the latest stories, going for a laugh…it means everything to me.

Many, many thanks to my AMVETS group. Humanity without division. We’re all more alike than different.

I needed that.

Can I buy you a beer?

 


Friday, November 1, 2024

Note to Orlando

 






Orlando

2:51am. Coffee, a Trulieve chocolate drop, bustling about in the kitchen, gathering ingredients for sweet potato chili. Set the crock pot on low for eight hours or four on high. You know the drill.  Alexa playing old Moody Blues stuff. Thinking about Brooke being gone, remembering a time we all shared so many years ago. It seems I generally entertain the same memory points, ones I’ve revisited for 50 years, the rest of it streaked and unclear, a dirty window to a familiar but unspecific swirl. Another cosmos far, far away.

Maybe I’ll kick it up a notch,  Oye Como Va! Images of you turned to the record player, bellbottom jeans sweeping an acrylic carpet made of orange sandpaper. 

There was a cigarette machine at the bottom of our stairs. It came as a surprise to me recently when I realized that I hadn't seen one in years.

Peace & Love my friend...

Wednesday, May 22, 2024

Rumspringa

 


 

A friend in his 70’s was patting himself on the back for having completed a few days of productivity. He was proud of acting like a responsible adult, actually getting shit done. Apparently riding a wave of “fuck off” days as he called them, is more his norm.

A good boy, but only briefly.

That made me smile with admission of the fact that after I fully retired four years ago, every day for me is a “fuck off” day. Never inserting a “responsible adult” day, I’m like Snoopy lost in dance.

A permanent Rumspringa.

Sore from pinching myself about today, the only productivity day I’ll even consider, is tomorrow.

Satchmo sings in a never-ending loop:

“I see skies of blue, and clouds of white
The bright blessed days, dark sacred nights
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world”

If I had known it was going to be this good, I would have retired in my twenties.


Friday, January 5, 2024

“We got married in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout.”

 

“We got married in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout.”
That was on a cold January day in the front parlor of a Justice of the Peace 45 years ago. She was 21, I would turn 30 some eight days later.
We immediately moved to a shack on 38 remote acres of Ohio woodland. A gift from my brother and commuting distance to Ohio University. Our closest neighbor was a half mile away, living and raising her brood in a Tepee.
On that birthday night, my brother generously offered to buy us a lobster dinner to celebrate. We were to meet in town. But Carla and I had never lived together before, so I learned my first lesson in “Carla time”. Things happen when all the stars align for her, but not until then. Our 7pm dinner became, 8, 9, …maybe tomorrow.
I crashed.
At 3am, she woke me up to present the birthday cake she made for me. No easy task with a broken-down antique wood stove that had been converted to propane. The tank outside leaned drunkenly up against the front stoop.
No pluming or running water.
More like a bread bowl with a liquid center than cake, but in the middle of the night, with my bride of eight days, that thing tasted like euphoria.
It was better than any lobster dinner could ever be.
I hadn’t been looking for Betty Crocker or a maid. Actually, I hadn’t been looking at all. But along came this girl. So quick and bright, totally out-of-the box, the author of long articulate letters back and forth before we married.
I was powerless.
In his song “Galway Girl”, Steve Earl asks: “what's a fella to do?
Because her hair was black and her eyes were blue”
It’s like that, only with Carla it was freckles on her knees and hair that smelled Ivory soap.



Tuesday, December 26, 2023

Family Ties...

 

2021

I try to please her most of the time, but it's not enough. Her need is more visceral, deeply imbedded by shared DNA.

Best I can do is to take her to the source of her longing, watch her drink deeply of that linear connection, past, present, and most importantly, future.

Carla's active mind drives her too hard, too fast. Exits and opportunities blur. But not here, not now.

These peak moments allow her to pause and be present, completed by a human connection as old as our species itself, a bond that answers all questions of purpose and path.

Peace.




Saturday, November 25, 2023

Thanksgiving Morning





 At 9am, this four-olive bloody Mary assures me of getting the healthy breakfast I need… packed with liquified vegetables, it's hard to beat. (Yes, Hannah, I went to the gym first.)

Two is better than one. Eight olives. Like them, I’m stuffed!

Later today, the club will deep fry 20-30 turkeys for people who booked a space on the sign-up sheet. Then at 3 o'clock they’ll serve a full turkey dinner for any AMVETS members who want one.

Carla is working eight hours today, gets an hour off from 5 to 6 tonight, and then she goes for 24 hours straight at a different job. So I'm coming back this afternoon to get a to-go box.

We’ll have a nice sit-down 20-minute Styrofoam Thanksgiving dinner together.

And yes, I’m very thankful!