A Lazy Old Man

A lazy old man from The Shores,

Wraps his dog round his neck while he snores.

Sitting up on the couch,

With a dog-induced slouch,

He feigns sleep to avoid all his chores!

Choose Your Path, Which May Be No Path At All...

Christianity, Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism...there are many major religions to choose from if one decides to choose at all. From the sidelines it seems extremely presumptuous for any one of them to say that their religion is the only true path. But it is necessary for each to do so. Without true belief, there is no value. You have to join a club if you have any expectation of having the epiphany of the club’s experience. Belief becomes reality for the individual and the group.

Some of us believe there to be many paths to the same place; all valid, all of great value to the participants. Human ego has a problem with viewing death as the end of the individual. Of course matter returns to matter and life begets life, but our “soul”, the essence of “me” is what we desperately want to believe will go on forever. We think that it can’t just blink out at the end of life, a flame no longer burning. So we attribute God like mysteries to address our own inability to understand or accept the finality. American Indians didn’t understand the sun and viewed it as a god, giver of life. We collectively demand a big story to address a big issue. All these years after the Kennedy assassination the conspiracy theories drag on. How could the life of a man of such high stature be extinguished by a man of such low stature? It needs to be balanced in our minds. It must be a conspiracy; a lone gunman couldn’t pull that off. But time and time again we’ve seen investigations that tell us that is exactly what happened. One guy in the right place at the right time managed to do the seemingly impossible. We just don’t want to believe it.

I was raised a Christian in a Christian nation. Had I been born in India I assume it would be different and most of my peers would be Hindu. That’s just a twist of fate. Like most people, I hope there is a “life after death”. I hope to see my friends and family and pets again. One of my daughter’s best friends died unexpectedly several months ago and everyone said the inevitable: “she’s in a better place”. Bullshit. This beautiful young girl should be here with her family and friends. This is the better place; this is heaven or hell depending on how we use our time and how we view the ride. Do I hope I’m wrong? Of course I do. Unfortunately I believe that it is what is, what we see is what we get, and that can be heaven or hell... and naming it can make it so.

24 Hours

OK, it's been a good day.. That’s not unusual but I still like to acknowledge it. Being acutely aware that my first 60+ years seem to have passed so quickly, I try to take time to appreciate the steps along the way, and try to make each one count. If I ask myself: “What is the best possible use of my time right now?” the answer may well be something like: eating ice cream (although that one doesn’t really work for me because I don’t like the stuff, I think it’s nasty.) or maybe just sitting on the deck and watching the birds around the lake. It doesn’t necessarily have to be tied to great productivity. Smelling the roses is important. That said, I do love to be able to put a line through the items that I constantly make note of on my ever changing “to do” list. I never scratch out the completed tasks to the point of illegibility, that wouldn’t have the same visual impact as it does to be able to actually see the completed item and give myself a mental pat on the back for having completed that particular task. Obviously I'm a man without a mission, trying to justify too much time to sit and think about how little time there is.

Around dawn, I put air in my bike tires and went for a ride after feeding the dogs and taking them out for a walk in the park that begins at the back gate. Sasha, our standard poodle, has a new toy that looks like a long, flexible cane with a cup to hold a tennis ball on one end. That thing is designed to help me throw her ball 3-4 times farther than I am able to throw it by myself. So Sasha now knows that she needs to run far and fast before looking over her shoulder for the ball. She is built for speed and that new ball launcher makes for some serious dog exercise. Now Kira, the Rottweiler mix, is a different story. She doesn’t run, so don’t push her to do so. Kira takes her time and just likes to poke around without any stress or silliness like chasing some stupid ball. We believe that Kira’s father was a full-blooded Rottweiler and her mother was a pot-bellied pig, but Kira is sensitive about the specifics of her lineage so we try not to discuss it in front of her.

After my ride, I cut out the dead stalks and branches from the landscaping, raked the back yard, and filled in the Armadillo holes in the front yard. The Armadillos like my yard more than any other yard on the street and our lawn looks like a shell pocked war landscape. At Home Depot the plant lady tells me that it is because of the grubs under the grass. Apparently the Armadillos can hear the little guys as they wiggle around several inches under the topsoil. Each hole they dig to go after the grubs is about 6 to 10 inches deep. Having had no success with my Have-A-Heart trap baited with Boars Head all beef hot dogs, and after letting the dogs chase the armadillo under the car several nights in a row, I knew that I had to spread grub poison on the lawn. No grubs, no armadillos. I do have a 22 caliber pistol and a good flashlight which provide a very effective alternative approach to Armadillo removal but there are some uncomfortable and messy issues with that solution. The neighbors aren’t delighted with 3am gunshots in our hood nor the bath-robed, wild-eyed, guy doing the shooting. So I spread the poison two nights ago. Yesterday when I filled in the new holes I noticed that there was a grub about the size of my thumb in the bottom of each hole. They seemed to be squirming in their death throes. I think the poison was starting to work and they must have dug themselves out of the dirt trying to escape it. All of this was very gratifying and gave me some reason to believe that my Armadillo invasion may soon come to an end. I’m told that Armadillos aren’t too bright and apparently their taste is suspect as well; those grubs are very nasty looking, certainly no match for Boars Head all beef hot dogs in any taste test by sensible people. Obviously Armadillos don’t qualify.

Later in the day I watched a new UFC (Ultimate Fighting Championship) show that I had recorded the night before. When Carla’s not around I play the sound portion of the show over my stereo and make the walls of the house vibrate with the roar of the crowd when someone gets knocked out. That was right around 4pm, so Carla had gone to work and that house was all mine. UFC goes very well with a nice, cold India Pale Ale, so the formula goes: UFC + IPA= GUY HEAVEN. But unlike the stereotypical males portrayed as shallow, housework impaired idiots on most mainstream TV, I got just as much enjoyment out of cleaning the refrigerator and cooking dinner afterward.

The second refrigerator sits in our laundry room/workshop area and was stinky from some soup that thawed out too quickly in a plastic baggie and dripped chicken broth down the shelves and into both vegetable crispers. I removed and washed all the shelves and wiped everything down with a warm solution of water and baking soda. When everything was dried and put back into place, I went back to the refrigerator throughout the course of the night just to open it and marvel at it’s sparkle and shine. Mainly though, the refrigerator cleaning was just a time killer while the Lamb Shanks baked. Before I tackled the cleaning, I braised Lamb Shanks in Olive Oil after rolling them in freshly chopped Rosemary and fresh ground black pepper. I removed them to a plate and braised carrots, onions, and diced garlic in the same pan and used red wine to deglaze it. Then the Lamb goes back into the pan along with some more wine and some beef broth. I put the lid onto the Dutch oven and put it into a pre-heated oven at 350 degrees for 3 hours. That Dutch oven is Mandy’s cast iron pan that she used in Charlottesville for all those years that she worked for Grandma and Grandpa. I use it all the time.

The 3 hour cook time gave me plenty of opportunity to clean the refrigerator, hang some tools in my workshop, clean an old brass soap dish that Carla brought home from the Goodwill store, text Hannah and Ruth several times, take the dogs out for their late exercise, and hang a new laundry line in the back yard. After cleaning up and crossing off some of the now completed chores from my “to do” list, I steamed some fresh Asparagus to accompany a plate of Lamb Shanks and a skinny loaf of French bread that I had picked up earlier at Publix. A glass of red wine made the dinner complete. Just excellent.

I slept from 9pm to 3am when Carla came home from work and climbed into bed with me. Her hair was fresh from the shower and she smelled great. We talked excitedly about our day, our hopes, plans, expectations, the kids…enjoying each others company and warmth in our wonderful bed…just as we have for over 33 years. It was a great 24 hours. And yes, I need a serious hobby or job or something...

Athens Alabama, 1968

"The invasion of Athens by the incoming students from the North in 1968 was a harbinger of social change which would sweep through the South in the coming years."

That’s what an article said in the “Style” section of the Athens Courier many years later. Of course we had no clue at the time that we were storm troops destined to accelerate a clash of cultures and ideologies that was to “sweep through the South”, and the nation itself. That Pan American turbo-prop bringing kids from New Jersey into the Huntsville airport may as well have been a military transport dropping paratroopers behind enemy lines. My friend Art Mazzucca dove in by way of his 1964 mustang. It could have been a Sherman tank bringing armed forces from the Northeast. The incoming troops didn’t speak the language of the South any more than the Athens locals spoke ours. But it was much more than a culture clash of North vs. South. These particular Northern invaders had been listening to the music and messages of social change. Robert Zimmerman had been croaking his predictions to this crowd for a few years now and they dressed in bell bottom pants and wore longer hair as a visible sign of their support of his heresies. Many of them had a little something special wrapped in Zig Zag packaging and tucked deeply into the toe of an extra pair of shoes.

No, Athens wasn’t ready for this invasion at all and the invaders had little understanding of the impact their arrival was to have or the strong feelings it was to ignite.

Ohio the Wonder Dog & Car Detailer

Many years ago a friend & I were returning from an Eric Clapton concert in my brand new Mazda RX7 turbo after having had too much fun, and apparently too many adult beverages & beanie weenies for my friend. Halfway home, without warning, his head started to spin in circles like Regan in the Exorcist and he projectile vomited beanie weenies all over the seat & dashboard of my new car. When we got to his house, I pushed him out onto the yard and drove home to bed. The next morning I braced myself and looked at the damage. The car was sitting in the sun, baking. Every crevice of the passenger side bucket seat, every stereo control on the dashboard, the right side sun visor, the pocket in the door... everything stunk and was chunky with hot beanie weenies. I knew that I faced hours of highly unpleasant clean up work. That’s when my wonderful German Shepard nudged my leg and showed a more than passing interest in helping me out. Perfect. I opened both car doors and went inside the house. My dog “Ohio” detailed that car for several hours, her long tongue being the best possible tool to get into those crevices and around those stereo knobs. She even got the spots on the ceiling. Later, a quick wipe-down with Lysol completed the job. Best damn dog I ever had.

Group Home Breakout...

The group home had been in chaos ever since the breakout over a week ago. Two burly male nurses were doing their best to track down the escapee, but it was tough. He could be like a chameleon, he could blend right in. They knew he loved boats though and they were slowly working their way through the entire marina. A successful capture would require all of their training and all of their psychological skills to net this nut. For now, all they could do was to keep looking at every passenger they encountered, examine every face; they knew there just had to be some kind of a clue…

Taylor's Pork Roll

An old friend from high school mentioned Taylor’s Pork Roll on his Facebook site the other day. It planted a seed in my head that immediately took root. It’s like someone whistling a jingle or a song hook from a TV show that you’ve heard a thousand times. Not even as subtle as a Trojan Horse, it doesn’t disguise itself or sneak in, it just walks boldly right into your brain, friendly as hell perhaps but it totally takes over. You hear that jingle all day long, over and over and …over. That’s how it was with Rich Bartel’s reference to Taylor’s Pork Roll. Once he got me started, I mentally grilled it, fried it, made sandwiches on hamburger rolls, and slathered grainy mustard on thick piggy slices of it. So I found myself at 4am pushing my mind’s eye to retrieve the image of the Wal-Mart cooler where sausage & bacon live to see if I remembered any Taylor’s Pork roll there. No luck, I really don’t think they stock it. Rarely do I see it carried in Southern stores. Mostly it is a Northeast food item. Ground pig parts. It’s just that when you grill it or fry it a bit aggressively, the burn marks add flavor that is enhanced by the ooze of caramelized pork fat and sugars…Like my friend says: why are the very unhealthiest foods the most delicious? I don‘t know but think it best to exercise moderation in all things, including moderation.

So, yes I love that fabric covered roll of mystery pig parts ground up and pressed into service for all of mankind to enjoy…but apparently only if that mankind happens to live in the Northeastern United States, preferably New Jersey. Certainly it would be a plus if the enjoy-er had a name like Vinnie or Tony and also wore a wife beater T-shirt that hugged his upper torso and made him look a bit like a pork roll himself. But mostly it’s all about childhood memories, and about Mom. Because Mom was always there to see to it that we had a “good breakfast”, and Taylor’s Pork Roll played a part in that. Cod Fish cakes, Kippered Herring…lots of scrambled and fried eggs… In those days that was apparently a key to predicting success in the day ahead. Kind of like the New York suburb version of poking through chicken entrails, the better the breakfast, the more we could predict that we would have a good day. Cereal would certainly translate to just a fair day and of course no breakfast was a certain recipe for disaster. I think Dad probably just had several Camel cigarettes for breakfast so it’s amazing that he didn’t rush right out and butcher a neighbor or two. Of course we don’t really know just what he was up to every day when he “went to work”. I mean that “going to work stuff” was such a shield it could pretty much cover all bases. Once Dad was in his suit there was no questioning his intent, and when the train brought him home 9 hours later to smoke a Camel or two for dinner, he was equally bulletproof. He had done his job. He had donned his suit of armor, rode the iron steed into the city, fought the good fight for his queen, and now all he asked for was a Coke, a Camel, and maybe a little bubbly Lawrence Welk on TV.

Dad cared about dinner about as much as he cared about breakfast. But Mom cared, she cared big time. If we all started the day with a “good breakfast” we ended it with an equally “nice dinner”. Often dinner was a meat item, a starch like potatoes or rice, and of course, a vegetable. Usually the veggies were cooked in a pressure cooker that had a round metal hockey puck riding the steam shot from a valve on the lid. It controlled the internal pressure, bucking up and down, whistling and spitting like a cowboy trying to ride a bronco of hot compressed air. That pressure cooker had a safety valve too. It was a very small circular ring of soft metal that could blow out into the ceiling if ever the steam got too explosive and tried to bust out the walls of the pot itself. I was truly conflicted about that valve, always wanting to see it blow, but I thought it best to stay clear of any potential trajectory just in case. Mostly I remember Mom cooking frozen blocks of chopped spinach in the pressure cooker…oh, and also frozen blocks of horse meat to feed the dogs.

Mom wore pearls, and a dress, and Channel No 5. She used two matching gold hairpins in her blond hair, wore a big diamond wedding ring, and two small “safety rings” to keep the big ring on tight. One safety ring ran a full circle of small diamonds around her finger, the other one was rubies, I think. Those safety rings fascinated me for some reason. Mom never sweat, she was never dirty or disheveled, she never swore or even raised her voice, but she was the boss over Dad, and he was the boss over us kids. For me, Mom was about the prettiest lady there ever was, something like Grace Kelly. I remember seeing her at a cocktail party wearing a colorful tiara and looking like royalty, which seemed quite appropriate for her. Actually though, Dad looked a bit like Prince Rainer. I remember from the newsreels that Prince Rainer smoked a lot too.

After dinner was over, I would pick up Dad’s silver ashtray and empty it into the trash can under the sink. When I rinsed it under water the face of the eagle on the Mexican silver dollar in the center of the ashtray would shine brightly from the frequent abrasion of burning tobacco and Pernica’s bi-weekly cleaning with Gorham’s silver polish. Tarnish never had a chance to build up. Our house was that way too. Untarnished, because of Mom. She was my best friend and my security and my protector. If a wild Wolverine had come running at any of her kids, it would have gone badly for the Wolverine. Of course it was good to remember the pecking order if Dad started to rumble to much in our direction; Dad was boss over us kids, and Mom was boss over Dad. So ultimately, it was Mom’s world, I liked that. She ran the show with quiet strength, organizational skills to shame any corporate CEO, and unconditional love for her brood. Every kid should be so lucky to grow up with a Mom like that.