How many words do you figure it would take to sum up your life? A thousand? Two thousand? In my case I discovered, to my horror, it was only about four hundred … at least to sum things up between high school and now. Recently, I spoke with a longtime friend who is debating whether or not to attend his 50th high school reunion this year. After I had finished laughing at him about being older than dirt, he reminded me that my 50th was next year. I stopped laughing.

I have never been to any of my reunions because I’ve managed to stay in touch with most of the people I really cared about and I guess I’ve heard too many stories about the tall-tale competitions at such affairs. I’m comfortable with what I’ve actually accomplished and never felt the need to impress anyone beyond Vigi or myself. Besides, who needs to squeeze into a rented penguin costume and shell out a hundred bucks-a-head just to gawk at a bunch of old folks gawking back at you … all wondering who’s who because nobody looks remotely like anybody remembers them?

It isn’t that I haven’t been curious about the people who made up a huge chunk of my social world back then … I was simply never a joiner. Neither were the friends that I’ve stayed close with through this last [Gulp!] half-century or so. In fact, about the only thing any of us ever joined besides the Jazz Club, the school paper and a sports team or two, was the group of kids that didn’t want to join anything! Wel-l-l … I guess you can’t get away from it altogether.

Anyway, in a fit of persistence, some pesky web site had been flooding me with e-mail invitations to sign up and contact others from my graduating class, whose curiosity had already been coerced by the site’s free membership deal … free until you wanted to read the note a former classmate might have sent. It looked legit enough, despite all the singles ads around the edges … but before I talked with my buddy about the reunion I was having none of it. Now, suddenly, my mind shifted into second gear and I was back in my Ford flathead-8. A wave of nostalgia started the butterflies in my stomach dancing and, before I realized what I was doing, I filled out the on-line form and was quickly separated from about 50 plastic George Washingtons. I joined.

As I searched the site I really didn’t recognize many familiar names but, out of respect for hallowed halls, pom-poms and all things holy, I uploaded a couple of ‘before’ and ‘after’ pictures, took a quiz about my interests [most of which weren't listed] and wrote a bio about what I’d been doing since high school. That was my first shock. I always thought I had lived a pretty full life but apparently not … not if I could cram it all into 400 words! That anyone could distill an entire life down to a mere five paragraphs was frightening, especially when that life was my own!

A week or so passed before I received an e-mail saying there had been three new visitors to my ‘page’. It turned out that one name led to a surprisingly familiar face. The lady in the photo had hardly changed at all. In fact, she looked even better than back in school! Where were all the old fogies I expected to find? Then, in her ‘comments’ box, I noticed three little words left by a self-confessed female friend, “Nice picture Beth.” MEOW! You could hear the claws cut the air! Maybe it wasn’t her most current picture or something might have been tweaked a little … or maybe life had simply treated her with kid gloves. In any case, it engages the mind to see ‘Harry High School’ still with a twinkle in his eye, even though his whiskers have grayed more than a little!

To shorten the story and keep your eyes from glazing over, it is sufficient to say that I forged ahead and did find the fogies I was supposed to. Even where there hadn’t been close ties, we were genuinely happy to make contact. It was comforting in a way, like an old shirt on a chilly night, as good times with good people began to peek through the cobwebs shrouding the intervening years. I even unearthed my old yearbook for more forgotten names. It’s amazing how many people have simply slipped away, leaving only a puzzle of familiar faces.

My journey back to that far galaxy, which I’m happy to say still continues, has led me to a couple of conclusions. First, it’s okay to look back, maybe even healthy … as long as you don’t stare. Next, my forgotten friends, who have now found a home in a place called school chums, deserve their own positions of honor beside my longtime pals of past and present. Finally, that warm wash of nostalgia I feel when I immerse myself in those carefree days is actually a kind of mourning. If I’m honest with myself, they weren’t all that terrific. I’m only remembering the good stuff.  I don’t think I’m missing the proverbial ‘good old days’ as much as I am mourning the loss of my youth. I left being young back there somewhere, in a simpler time on a different planet.

Maybe that’s the best reason of all to consider going to the reunion next year … not to rediscover old times or even resurrect old feelings but just to spend a few hours with some old friends who remember leaving something back there, too.

Look for Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast links under
“Recent Podcasts”… also check out my Podcast Page.

A few days ago the season of Lent began and many Christians throughout the world received a thumbprint of ashes upon their brows as a symbol of mourning and penance, serving as a reminder of our mortality. Then they spent the rest of the day hoping not to run into too many clowns who tell them “Hey, you’ve got dirt on your forehead.”

A friend with a penchant for turning phrases once told me, “The only things that separate us from the animals are meaningless traditions and mindless rituals.” I’ve never been much on rituals but traditions make me feel comfortable — they’re a part of the glue that sticks us together, especially those of us that walk upright on two legs.

One such tradition requires individuals to make some sort of sacrifice during the season of Lent, which ends with Easter and a healthy overdose of whatever was sacrificed. Goats or sheep are out-of-bounds these days and virgins went out of style with the Pagans so, typically, this takes the form of simply ‘giving something up.’

Around my house, the item was frequently more self-serving than it was sacrificial. Mom used to give up things like cake, ice cream or an entire meal. Since at 92 she has already misplaced her girlish figure, she is now more likely to undertake a penance like saying extra rosaries or increasing the number of people on her prayer list. Vigi, in her reserved, Midwestern manner, pretty much plays religion close to the vest so I really don’t know exactly what she does about Lent. It’s one of the few things we haven’t really shared and I’ve learned better than to peek at her cards when they’re face down on the table.

Me?  I usually give up Lent for Lent. Somewhere along the line I soured on formal religion but I’ve always tried to maintain a good relationship with The Man upstairs. Even though, in my book, the two aren’t necessarily related, it’s important that we all believe in something greater than ourselves. I call him God. Just like there are no atheists in foxholes, you might notice how the older we get the closer to Him we become. It’s a little like parents getting smarter as their children age. By any other name, He gives me perspective.

Everyone should be free to believe whatever provides them with the strongest ‘center’ — just don’t expect me to believe the same way you do. The guy who rings my doorbell on Sunday morning, or pokes his finger in my chest to make a point, is not going to sell me anything whether he’s peddling books, insurance or damnation. You see when it comes to things eternal, I don’t want to find a detour sign on the pearly gates because I listened to somebody else’s interpretation of the roadmap instead of  my own good conscience. I’d much rather do the driving. There’s no question how much my Mom’s beliefs mean to her and I’ll always be grateful that, as I was growing up, she let me think for myself in these matters.

We couldn’t get her to a church or bring a priest to the house Ash Wednesday, so I took a thumbfull of ashes from the fireplace and made a small cross on her forehead. She said it wasn’t palm fronds and I wasn’t a priest — I told her it was oak and that I loved her. She is now looking forward to Easter.

Look for Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast links under
“Recent Podcasts”… also check out my Podcast Page.

by Guest Blogger Dick Summer
Dick Summer has one of America’s most comfortable and familiar voices. He was a top radio personality on the NBC Radio Network and in New York City and Boston.  His five highly successful “Lovin Touch” books were published by Random House and Bantam Books. He’s also my friend.

Once upon a time, a pretty, talented young lady by the name of Connie Francis sang a tune called, “Stupid Cupid.” If you’re a member of the Louie-Louie Generation, you remember it well. In honor of Valentine’s Day, I took a very un-scientific poll of a bunch of Louie-Louie Generation friends of mine, and the results shocked me. More than 90% of them…both sexes…just kinda’ blew Valentine’s Day off.  One guy even said, “That Cupid stuff is just stupid.” No. It’s not.

I like Valentines’ day. As a member of the Louie-Louie Generation I’ve had enough of Cupid’s arrows stuck in my backside to re-supply the Indians at Custer’s last stand. And some of those arrows really hurt. But as Big Louie, his own bad self, the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation always says, “Kiss the boo-boo, learn a lesson…and move on. Or better yet, get someone to kiss the boo-boo for you.”

The first arrow Cupid shot at me had the name “Jeanie Campbell” on it. She was 6, and I was 7.” It hurt a little…and I didn’t even understand why. But it taught me I could take a little hurting… even the kind I didn’t understand. It sure wasn’t stupid. It was an important lesson. Through the years, some of that little guy’s arrows with other names on them went pretty deep. Lots of boo-boos needed to be kissed. Fortunately, my Lady Wonder Wench is the number one boo-boo kisser in the world. Well, my world anyway.

One of the guys I talked to said, “I’m too old for that kind of thing.” Big Louie went nose to nose with that guy. Louie told him, “You’re never too old as long as you have enough moving parts.”

I like Valentine’s Day. You get to tell somebody, “I love you.” And maybe you’ll get to hear it back. Lots of times it gets sexy. It comes at the beginning of baseball’s Spring Training season. “My Funny Valentine” is a great tune. And it’s not very expensive. What’s not to like?

There’s a history to Valentine’s Day. It seems there was a priest by the name of Valentinus, who lost his head courtesy of Claudius the Cruel on February 14^th in the year 269 AD. Supposedly, Father V. healed his jailer’s blind daughter, fell in love with her, and left a note for her in his cell the night before his execution. The note said, “I love you. From your Valentine.”

Most holy people get a little uncomfortable about romance. Especially the kind where there are fingers and flesh involved. One Christian web site has come up with an idea to keep our minds off our fingers and flesh, by selling “Valentine’s Day cards from God.” It seems to me that us simple Louie-Louie Generation guys could call God excessively stiff competition. No pun intended.

And the Pickle Puss People have come up with a competing day for people who don’t want any part of romance. They call it “Singles Awareness Day.” The initials of Singles Awareness Day, I think appropriately are SAD. I think SAD is…sad. Men and women belong together. There are some exceptions of course  and God bless them too. Let’s just say lovers belong together.

But it’s romance that keeps lovers together, not a relationship. There’s a difference between a relationship and a romance. Businesses have relationships. Lovers have romances. A relationship develops. A romance explodes. A relationship makes progress. A romance makes sweat. Mutual sweating is a great help in keeping the people who are doing the mutually sweating stuck together.

Dick’s Details Quiz. All answers are in my Valentine’s Day podcast.

1. Dirty hands can give you a cold. What can give you a warm?
2. How much does the “Average American” eat in a year?
3. What naughty thing do ¾ of American women do with their bras?

Dick’s Details. They take your mind off your mind.

Once upon a time there was a pre-Louie-Louie Generation guy who was injured in a fist fight in the navy. Maybe the nasty guy took a swing at him because he had a funny name. The injury left him with a slight lisp. He had big ears too…and and a big heart. Not exactly the makings of a career as a movie star. But that’s what he became…the biggest movie star of his time. His name was Humphrey Bogart.

Some younger Louie-Louie Generation folks may not remember him but the rest of us will never forget him. Especially on Valentine’s day. He made a lot of movies. But mostly…we remember an old black and white film called, “Casablanca.” One of the things that made the film was that it featured a tune that I hope will never go away. “You must remember this, a kiss is still a kiss, a sigh is still a sigh. The fundamental things apply, as time goes by.” Bogart and his co-star Ingrid Bergman really got it right in Casablanca.

In one scene, he looked at Bergman, who was possibly the most beautiful woman in the world at the time…he looked right at her…for a long time…and he smiled that crooked smile…and he said, “Here’s looking at you kid.” And they cut to a tight shot of Bergman’s face, as she filled the screen with her eyes.

There’s the story of a Valentine’s Day dinner with my Lady Wonder Wench that I think Bogie and Bergman would have understood in this week’s podcast. Maybe you’ll understand it too. I hope you’ll at least give it a listen…especially if you’re feeling a little like Cupid is a real mean guy. And just in case you could use a little Valentine’s Day back rub, there’s one waiting for you in the podcast too.

Cupid isn’t stupid. And as every Louie-Louie Generation member has experienced a few times, the little guy’s arrows can be weapons of mass destruction. But I think if you like the idea of doing some serious mutual sweating…and sticking together…you may have to take a chance and change your tune.

“Stupid Cupid” isn’t going to do it for you. You might try that tune the Association did. They called it “Cherish.” You don’t hear that word very much anymore. It’s a good word. And slightly sweaty.

Or, if you’re a really big fan of the mutual sweats…turn up the steam and get into that tune the Troggs did…”Wild Thing…You Make My Heart Sing.”  Or better yet, Peggy Lee’s “Fever.”

Unfortunately, according to my “Stupid Cupid” poll, an awful lot of people, even some in “good relationships” have “Lost That Lovin’ Feeling.” It’s a big loss. A terrible quiet. An awful power failure.

Do you suppose some of it is due to a lack of guts? Are so many people just afraid to stand up and tell Cupid to take his best shot?

I know that sometimes…when there’s only one “Wild Thing” left in the wreckage of a romance…that hurts. Bad. But even if you’ve “Lost That Loving Feeling” you haven’t lost everything. Remember that gorgeous song from the musical Cats:

“Memories, all alone in the moonlight,

I can dream of the old days,

Life was beautiful then.

I remember the time I knew what happiness was,

Let the memories live again.”

Memories count too.

So thanks anyway, Jeannie Campbell…wherever you are.

Look for Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast links under
“Recent Podcasts”… also check out my Podcast Page.

It was a bone-chilling night and I had just poured myself into my favorite chair in front of a toasty fire. “Hon — I can’t believe I forgot to pick up another jar of sauce on the way home.  Can you run out real quick and get one?” the voice pleaded from the kitchen. “Sure,” I said scrunching my face into an invisible wince, “if I can use your car, since it’s already warm and it’s in front of mine anyway.” She agreed and we had a deal.

Vigi is a neat, clean, organized person.  Everything has a place, even if she frequently moves that place without notice. I, on the other hand, am the slob. I just put things down when I’m through with them. Then to make matters worse, two minutes later I can’t remember where I put them and have to ask her for help. It’s amazing. I can remember things from last month or when I was five like they were current events, but where I put the car keys she handed me only a minute ago can suddenly become a mystery worthy of Hitchcock!

I think, more than a guy thing, it’s an older guy thing — something in the wiring where the solder isn’t keeping the connection as snug as it used to. What I find even more amazing is that Vigi can usually divine the location, even if she wasn’t on the scene at the time. I think that’s a woman thing — something in the wiring and I’ll bet they use circuit boards because women’s connections seem to stay more intact, particularly in matters of lost and found. Or do they? It’s important that you’re aware of the positioning here in order to understand my shock and confusion with what I encountered next.

Hatted, jacketed and key in hand I opened the door to her little blue chariot and a shoe immediately attempted an escape through the opening. I blocked its path and peered into the darkness, feeling like Indiana Jones discovering a lost cavern. I had not entered this place for a long time but, slowly, a sense of familiarity crept back, providing me with the courage to press on. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, provided by a single small lamp on the ceiling, I could see that my wife was clearly in league with terrorists who had been conducting demolition training in there.

Shoes were strewn across the floor. Some had tall heels, others short ones.  One poor sole had no heel at all — probably a battle casualty. It was a rainbow of leather and a few colors even matched! There were Kleenex boxes, umbrellas, a snow scraper and other commutation survival items everywhere. As I eased myself into the seat behind the controls, I discovered a hidden plastic console which divided spare change from lipsticks, Chapsticks, napkins, nail files and other sundries all from each other — reminding me of the dividers on my favorite kid dish that kept my vegetables from becoming too chummy back when I was just emerging from my Pablum period.

Perched at an odd angle in the cup holder, just beyond a half-eaten cruller, was a plastic-lidded container with the word Dunkin’ lettered on the side. I carefully reached past the empty cup to the ignition, inserted the key and continued my mission, which by now had taken on several unanticipated twists. Why would an orderly woman of impeccable habit inside her habitat do this to a perfectly innocent vehicle whose only passion in life was to carry her cute little caboose safely through traffic between home and work?  Did she feel any remorse about this? What other secrets had eluded me during the past [nearly] thirty-two years?

I returned with the sauce in about twenty minutes — cold nose, ears froze and mind perplexed. My inner voices all agreed that I should simply forget what I had seen but once my Indy Jones hat was off I was just plain, my mouth runneth over Fred. “How come your car is such a mess?” I blurted out. Oops! I could feel my spine turning to My-T-Fine [butterscotch, I think].

“I live in there twelve hours a week!” Veege replied. She was right. She worked halfway across the state. “What’s your excuse?” I tried to explain that trailer hitch covers, bungee cords, crinkled pistol targets and odd size pieces of wood are standard equipment in most guys’ vehicles but she wasn’t buying it. My fireside chair beckoned warmly and even the voices had begun to whisper. Discretion being the better part of survival, I retreated to the recliner and extracted most of my foot from that slit below my nose.

The rest of it came out when she dropped her purse into my lap and asked, “Wanna’ look in here?” A few years ago, my natural wiring would never have allowed me to pass on a gauntlet like that but, after all, this was the woman I love — besides, I’m a good learner and spinal pudding can sometimes be the best anti-freeze on a cold night. I simply replied, “No thank you sweetie,” and she smiled.

Look for Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast links under
“Recent Podcasts”… also check out my Podcast Page.