This is for anyone who has had a teacher who inspired them to be their best – John Busswood

One day a teacher asked her students to list the names of the other students in the room on two sheets of paper, leaving a space between each name. Then she told them to think of the nicest thing they could say about each of their classmates and write it down. It took the remainder of the class period to finish their assignment, and as the students left the room, each one handed in the papers.

That Saturday, the teacher wrote down the name of each student on a separate sheet of paper, and listed what everyone else had said about that individual.  On Monday she gave each student his or her list. Before long, the entire class was smiling. “Really?” she heard whispered. “I never knew that I meant anything to anyone!” and, “I didn’t know others liked me so much,” were most of the comments.

No one ever mentioned those papers in class again. She never knew if they discussed them after class or with their parents, but it didn’t matter. The exercise had accomplished its purpose. The students were happy with themselves and one another. That group of students moved on.

Several years later, one of the students was killed in Vietnam and his teacher attended the funeral of that special student. She had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before. He looked so handsome, so mature. The church was packed with his friends. One by one those who loved him took a last walk by the coffin. The teacher was the last one to bless the coffin. As she stood there, one of the soldiers who acted as pallbearer came up to her. “Were you Mark’s math teacher?” he asked. She nodded, “Yes.” Then he said, “Mark talked about you a lot.”

After the funeral, most of Mark’s former classmates went together to a luncheon. Mark’s mother and father were there, obviously waiting to speak with his teacher.
“We want to show you something,” his father said, taking a wallet out of his pocket “They found this on Mark when he was killed. We thought you might recognize it.” Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn pieces of notebook paper that had obviously been taped, folded and refolded many times. The teacher knew without looking that the papers were the ones on which she had listed all the good things each of Mark’s classmates had said about him.

“Thank you so much for doing that,” Mark’s mother said. “As you can see, Mark treasured it.” All of Mark’s former classmates started to gather around. Charlie smiled rather sheepishly and said, “I still have my list. It’s in the top drawer of my desk at home.” Chuck’s wife said, “Chuck asked me to put his in our wedding album.” “I have mine too,” Marilyn said. “It’s in my diary.”

Then Vicki, another classmate, reached into her pocketbook, took out her wallet and showed her worn and frazzled list to the group. “I carry this with me all the time,” Vicki said and without batting an eyelash she continued, “I think we all saved our lists!” That’s when the teacher finally sat down and cried. She cried for Mark, and for all his friends who would never see him again.

The density of people in society is so thick, we forget that life will end one day … and none of us knows when that one day will be. So please, tell the people you love and care for that they are special and important. Tell them now. Tell them before it is too late.

Sometimes even the simplest things can mean so much!

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Some guys can sit for hours, staring at row of colored lights with the same fascination a child has for the shiny new quarter his grandpa’ just gave him. Provide another row of buttons to turn them on and off, and he’s yours for life. That is, unless he prefers cars, boats, motorcycles or quad-runners. Of course, to fully appreciate this second group of attractions, you can’t have spent your youth in a semi-urban setting like, say, Brooklyn. The one in New York. My friend Dick is originally from Bay Ridge, and even though he now lives in the country, he remains more of a lights and switches kind of guy. It’s understandable … after all, he dated on a subway train instead of in the back seat of a ‘52 Ford. How is he supposed to relate?

Me? I’m a motorhead! I was brought up in a time and place where the roar of leg pipes was music, we measured horsepower in cubic inches [instead of liters like soda pop] and a V-8 was an engine, not a juice drink. To this day, one of my favorite sounds is the rumble of forty-three slightly dented steel chariots during a restart at a NASCAR race! The other is the sound of Veege whispering sweet somethings in my ear. Hey, guys are allowed to have a sensitive side too ya’ know!

Which brings me to my pet peeve at this time of year. Enter the female. Who says that Valentine’s Day is just for girls? It’s not like it’s Mothers’ Day or anything! Frankly, I’m tired of having every ad on radio, TV or in a magazine tell me to hurry up and do something nice to show how much I love ‘her’.

Apparently, I have several choices besides buying the house, setting off a chain reaction of kids, running shopping mall errands and showing up every night for dinner. For instance, I can give her a giant stuffed bear that has more hair than I do or a pair of furry leopard skin pajamas complete with hood, feet and a tail. ‘Scuse me, but just how am I supposed to fight my way through all of that … and by the way, she has a very fine tail of her own, thank you!

Then my choices widen. There are the usual flowers and candy of course … which my radio warns me are clichés to be avoided, unless of course I get her the one hundred blooms bouquet for only $29.95. Gee, that’s cheap enough so I can still afford the ginormous chocolate covered strawberries, drizzled and dipped in colored sprinkles, chopped nuts or little shards of crushed candy. But what about me … us … the guyz? I don’t hear anyone telling the girls to give us any stuff.

With all due respect to St. Valentine, Hallmark, and their advertisers, Vigi is a true romantic and enthusiastically promotes the spirit of, “It’s OUR day!” Maybe it’s because she hangs out with a guy who likes massages as well as ‘muscle cars’ … or maybe it’s because we’ve been lucky enough to get beyond the ‘hoodies’ and the ‘footies’ and berries with pituitary conditions. She has sent me flowers, given me candy, and even a Kermit the Frog once when I was in the hospital. He still hangs upside-down over the computer for literary inspiration.

We’re about 60/60 in the ‘remembering occasions’ department and nobody has to remind us how or when to celebrate. No one needs to create occasions for us, either. Oh, don’t get me wrong, Veege and I have different wiring all right. I mean, that’s the way Ma’ Nature rigged the game, right? But sometimes, when the bone in my head switches off and our wires finally cross, it’s even better than flashing lights!

HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY

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Click for the ultimate in ‘Green’

Green has always been a pleasant color. Christmas trees are green, the soft grass tickling your toes in the backyard is green, some of the most nourishing veggies are green and my money is green … at least most of it. They’ve been mixing in other rainbow-like hues lately and making it look more like Monopoly money. That’s a good balance though, because it spends more like Monopoly money everyday, only I don’t have any hotels on Boardwalk or Park Place.

So how come, all of a sudden, ‘Green’ has become a politically correct religion and we’re being pummeled about the head and shoulders with it like a piñata? Ever see one of those lunatics risking his life in a ‘Smart Car’ doing his bit to save the world … or one of those expensive hybrid numbers that gets a bazillion miles-to-the-gallon but only travels about 30 miles before it starts sucking gas again? My personal favorite is the curly-fry lightbulb that requires HAZMET cleanup if you happen to break one on your living room carpet!

Someone sent me an eMail that seems to fit right in, having recently witnessed a young mother trying to balance an infant and a small variety of groceries, after telling the supermarket checker she preferred neither paper nor plastic to carry them home. I don’t know who originally wrote this but I wish it had been me. It’s brilliant!

Checking out at the store, the young cashier suggested to the older woman, that she should bring her own grocery bags because plastic bags weren’t good for the environment. The woman apologized and explained, “We didn’t have this green thing back in my earlier days.” The clerk responded, “That’s our problem today. Your generation did not care enough to save our environment for future generations.” She was right — our generation didn’t have the green thing in its day.

Back then, we returned milk bottles, soda bottles and beer bottles to the store. The store sent them back to the plant to be washed and sterilized and refilled, so it could use the same bottles over and over. So they really were recycled. But we didn’t have the green thing back in our day.

Grocery stores bagged our groceries in brown paper bags, that we reused for numerous things, most memorable besides household garbage bags, was the use of brown paper bags as book covers for our school books. This was to ensure that public property, (the books provided for our use by the school) was not defaced by our scribblings. Then we were able to personalize our books. But too bad we didn’t do the green thing back then.

We walked up stairs, because we didn’t have an escalator in every store and office building. We walked to the grocery store and didn’t climb into a 300-horsepower machine every time we had to go two blocks. But she was right. We didn’t have the green thing in our day.

Back then, we washed the baby’s diapers because we didn’t have the throw-away kind. We dried clothes on a line, not in an energy gobbling machine burning up 220 volts — wind and solar power really did dry our clothes back in our early days. Kids got hand-me-down clothes from their brothers or sisters, not always brand-new clothing. But that young lady is right; we didn’t have the green thing back in our day.

Back then, we had one TV, or radio, in the house — not a TV in every room. And the TV had a small screen the size of a handkerchief (remember them?), not a screen the size of the state of Montana. In the kitchen, we blended and stirred by hand because we didn’t have electric machines to do everything for us. When we packaged a fragile item to send in the mail, we used wadded up old newspapers to cushion it, not Styrofoam or plastic bubble wrap. Back then, we didn’t fire up an engine and burn gasoline just to cut the lawn. We used a push mower that ran on human power. We exercised by working so we didn’t need to go to a health club to run on treadmills that operate on electricity. But she’s right; we didn’t have the green thing back then.

We drank from a fountain when we were thirsty instead of using a cup or a plastic bottle every time we had a drink of water. We refilled writing pens with ink instead of buying a new pen, and we replaced the razor blades in a razor instead of throwing away the whole razor just because the blade got dull. But we didn’t have the green thing back then.

Back then, people took the streetcar or a bus and kids rode their bikes to school or walked instead of turning their moms into a 24-hour taxi service. We had one electrical outlet in a room, not an entire bank of sockets to power a dozen appliances. And we didn’t need a computerized gadget to receive a signal beamed from satellites 2,000 miles out in space in order to find the nearest burger joint. But isn’t it sad the current generation laments how wasteful we old folks were just because we didn’t have the green thing back then?

We don’t like being old in the first place, so it doesn’t take much for some young smartass to piss us off with a lesson on ecology when, in fact, we actually wrote the book!

On behalf of all the selfish older folks who spent countless generations destroying the planet, may I simply add … Amen!

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It occurs to me that I’ve had three great women in my life: One who taught me what was possible, one who showed me what I didn’t want, and one that helped me find what I really needed. Most guys are lucky to experience even one great woman, so I guess I’ve been blessed with more than my share! They were all significant influences in making me the man I am today so if you have any complaints, in a few paragraphs, you’ll know who to blame.

About the time I started closing in on the ripe old age of five, my mom thought about enrolling me in parochial school, so I could get a healthy dose of religion along with my readin’, writin’ and ‘rithmetic. Fortunately, she was a very smart lady and well ahead of many of her contemporaries in the kid-raising category. Before surrendering me to the nuns, she sat in on a couple of classes to see exactly how and what the other crumb-crunchers were being taught.

The wee folk were busy working their crayons, little tongues clenched between teeth, intent on fine tuning their sense of security by staying inside the lines on the page. Suddenly one of the Sisters snatched some poor kid’s paper out from under his Crayola and held it up for everyone to see, laughing loudly with a distinct note of mockery in her tone. “Look at this class … a purple monkey! Who ever heard of a purple monkey?” Apparently my mom not only heard of one but had no problem with seeing one. She was so horrified at the Nun’s behavior that she marched me straight over to the nearest public school and signed me up for a lifetime of secular education.

Heck, back then we used to say The Lord’s Prayer and The Pledge of Allegiance right there in the classroom … right there in front of the flag and God and everybody! I guess that was good enough for her. It was certainly good enough for me … although I stumbled around this planet for thirty-three more years before I figured out that, not only were purple monkeys okay, but it was actually preferable to color outside the lines! If you’ve ever wondered why I frequently talk about taking such bold liberties, while the rest of the world is merely content to ‘think outside the box’, now you’ve got the inside skinny. It’s more than just an expression. It has become a way of life.

Shortly after making the transition from puberty into adultery, I met a young woman who appeared to be perfect in every way. I passionately pursued her until she caught me. Unfortunately, people change, and over the next nine years she developed a rather annoying habit … every time I’d pick up a purple crayon, she’d remove it from my grasp, replace it with a brown one, and hand me a new coloring book! You know, I’ve never figured out where she was able to buy so many boxes of crayons that were all the same color.

Eons seemed to pass, and I had almost begun to believe the nuns might have been right, when a new lady sashayed into my life with a ginormous box of Crayolas. She handed me a big blank sheet of paper and said, “Let’s draw some pictures!” I brought her home and even Mom said I could keep her, especially once she saw my purple monkeys. That was nearly thirty-four years ago and Vigi is still showing me colors that weren’t in that original box. Now, that’s a ‘born day’ reflection that keeps on shining … and the only thing about her that has ever been brown is a backless dress with white polka dots she reserves for long walks on sunny summer afternoons.

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My concept of retirement was to be able to do all the things I’ve always wanted, without worrying about being successful at them or having to impress anyone. That included working at my own pace, not someone else’s. I’m amazed at how many of my friends are working longer and harder in retirement, ‘gratis’, than back when they were collecting a pretty decent paycheck for their labor!

My friend Bob volunteered for the Coast Guard Auxiliary, became some sort of high-ranking VIP and works twice the number of hours he did when he was teaching. Bill maintains a military museum and gives motivational speeches. He used to be a Bank Veep. After an illustrious career with the Navy Department, my cousin Dale returned to his Alma Mater to do mentoring … among the many other activities he has dug his teeth into at The University. There are more, including some of Vigi’s girlfriends, but I’d rather not cause your eyes to glaze over.

The problem is, how do you know if you’re retired? Sometimes it’s hard to tell. Like most people, these three guys had an advantage … there was a line of demarcation between career and retirement. It may have been a party, a bonus, a gold watch or just the physical change of scene from wherever they were to where they are now. Whatever the farewell, one day they left, got up the next morning and their lives were clearly different. Neither my friend Dick nor I are that lucky.

I don’t think either of us ever meant to retire. For me, it just sort of happened. Dick? Well, he’s still working despite being my senior by a few years. I’m not sure whether he’s afraid of making the transition or of not having enough resources once he hangs up his Rock ‘n Roll shoes. As far as those almighty ‘bucks’ go, I’m sure even Donald Trump won’t feel he has enough when his time comes. It’s all relative.

Like myself, Dick was in radio and when no one needed a couple of savvy old dudes anymore, he started his own radio-related business, primarily working out of the house, also like myself. This meant we were already spending copious amounts of time at work, within the same four walls, among the same electronic debris where we’d spend our retirement! Since he still has his shoulder to the wheel, he has yet to experience the mental turmoil that I did … in fact, that I’m still facing. Good luck Dick!

There were no fanfares, no parties, no ceremonies … just fewer clients and a diminishing income, as I quietly osmosed into a retired-like state over a period of several years. My only recollection of any line of demarcation was the sound of my last patron slamming down the phone, refusing to pay the amount of my invoice for a rush commercial I had stayed up all night to finish. He’s not on the radio anymore, either.

About a month ago, I was verifying my employment status to a small girl wielding a large stack of forms, and she asked, “Still work for Mediacorp Productions?” From out of nowhere I heard someone say, “Not anymore, I’m retired.” Darting a glance or two around the room, I suddenly realized it was me. That was the first time I ever said it out loud. Geez, what a creepy feeling! I always figured, someday, someone would just find me slumped over a microphone at some radio station in Topeka or someplace.

So, is retirement something you’re ever really ready to do? If you don’t like what you’ve been doing, it’s probably a no brainer. If you love your work, it gets a bit more complicated, and sometimes you don’t even get to make the call. I guess, in the final analysis, it’s something very personal … and the only important thing is that on the long road between first tooth and last, you simply keep moving!

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.

It wasn’t until after I graduated from home that I was able to grasp why so many people made such a big deal out of December 31st. As a kid, I didn’t have much to go on since my parents didn’t drink or party much … although, even for them, New Years Eve was sort of an exception. They used to concoct a thing they called a ‘highball’, which contained about seven ounces of ginger ale and a half-ounce of some sort of whiskey. I suspect this was the rye and ginger I discovered in later years and quickly replaced with scotch and soda. Anyway, as soon as I stopped falling asleep in somebody’s lap by 10 o’clock, they let me stay up to watch the famous ball drop at midnight in Times Square. For anyone from out-of-town, that’s in New York. Once I stuck a big toe into puberty, they presented me with full celebration rights … only I don’t think I ever got the full half-ounce of liquor.

In those days Guy Lombardo and his Royal Canadians were a fixture on everyone’s television, if they had one. I don’t know if they were actually royal or even Canadian but they were said to play, The Sweetest Music This Side of Heaven. I never figured out how anyone knew that, either! At 12 o’clock sharp they’d play “Auld Lang Syne” while six or eight guys lowered a shimmering ball atop the Times Building (Allied Chemical after 1961), to the cheers of a seething mass of human gel in the street below. My family would clank glasses, kiss, and I would be told to stop nursing my drink and go to bed. Happy New Year, kid!

The formal Lombardo celebration lasted several more years until they couldn’t dust it off anymore. When something gets really dusty it’s either called a tradition, an antique, or it’s simply tossed aside. Elegant gowns and tight hairdos were tossed aside in favor of less formal attire and replaced with Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Years Eve … sort of a counterpoint to The Sweetest Music era. Now, after forty years of passing for “The World’s Oldest Teenager,” they’re having to dust off Dick Clark. Last year, he looked almost life-like!

Through all the changes and my own half-century odyssey from evenings with my folks, to large parties, small gatherings and finally quiet times with close friends, three things have remained constant on New Years Eve. We always watch the ball drop at midnight, everybody sings Auld Lang Syne and I’m still counting on my fingers. Oh, I’ve clearly made it past the new millennium but now there’s something even bigger and badder trying to come between me and centenarianhood. A calendar. Specifically, the Mayan calendar.

You may have heard … it runs out of days December 21, 2012 and many who study such events, in lieu of holding gainful employment, predict one of three things will happen. There will be a great apocalypse and the world will end; there will be a number of cataclysmic events but the world will not end; the Mayan calendar will just roll over like the odometer in your car, begin again, and nothing will happen. My own theory is that the poor dolt who created five thousand years worth of calendars in the first place developed a godawful carpal tunnel syndrome and had to stop writing.

I’m not ready to make a bucket list or anything, but just in case I’m wrong and the ‘woe-is-me’ crowd is onto something, Vigi and I are going make a point of enjoying the Times Square ball drop just a little more than usual this year … and at midnight sharp, after listening to some of The Sweetest Music This Side of Heaven, we’ll “take a cup o’ kindness yet for Auld Lang Syne!” For anyone from out-of-town, that roughly means “Times Gone By.” (See last year’s 12/31 post, “A Cup O’ Somethingorother”)

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

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Chanukah was different because it usually seemed to coincide pretty closely with Christmas and everybody was off from school … even the kids that celebrated holidays with names most of us never heard of, until ‘political correctness’ came to town a few years later. In those days you were either a Christian or a Jew and nobody was offended by wishes of “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Chanukah,” even if you got it wrong. In my neighborhood, the Christmas tree and the Menorah lived side by side. In fact, a few Jewish people celebrated both occasions.

When I was around nine or ten, I remember my friend Carl proudly inviting me over to see his Chanukah bush! At the time, I didn’t see why it was such a big deal. I mean, by any other name a Christmas tree is still a Christmas tree, right? As I came to understand later, Carl’s family was more the exception than the rule. I used to feel sorry for the Jewish kids at Christmastime. There we were, laughin’ and scratchin’ with our new bikes, scooters, skates, Flexible Flyers and trains from Santa Claus … and those kids had nothing. It was like they were poor or something. They just stared at all our stuff and marveled at our big, broad grins.

As the years passed, three revelations replaced my pity. First of all, I discovered that these kids got presents for Chanukah just like the rest of us did for Christmas … only at a slightly different time and without benefit of a jolly old elf to deliver them. Second, they not only celebrated Jewish holidays but Christian ones too, which meant they had twice as much time off from school as the rest of us! Finally and most important of all, I came to know it isn’t the glitter that matters, it’s the substance.

Particularly where Christmas is concerned, I hear a lot of grousing about “the commercialism, the stress and the spending that is such an integral part of the holiday.” I’ve even read articles about people ‘opting out’ of the celebration altogether. It’s sad that some confuse the tangible with the spiritual, the shopping mall with the manger … and for them the glitz and glitter has become the traditional way to celebrate. Many view Christmas, itself, as a tradition rather than the historically significant occasion it represents. Christmas contains traditions the same way the Fourth of July has fireworks but its true meaning goes far beyond mere repetition, even over a couple of centuries.

By the way, for those who advocate beginning “a new tradition”, whether to do with Christmas or something else, by definition it’s a conflict in terms. Declaring a practice to be a tradition without first having it re-occur over a reasonable period of time is like looking through the wrong end of a telescope!

Oddly enough, in their determination to avoid potential hassle and expense, people are rediscovering the magic instead of the frustrations of The Holiday. Instead of gifts, which she can’t afford, one single mom has her kids writing letters to each other that they’ll open on Christmas morning, She says, “We’re going to tell each other what we love about our family. And that’s it.” There is nothing wrong with giving a homemade present, a letter, a song or some other form of personal expression. In fact, there’s everything right with it and, often, recipients prefer such gifts! Do you suppose the pioneers hitched up the ol’ Conestoga and ran out to Sears or the Apple Store to pick up a last minute something for the kids … or might they have had to use a little more imagination?

Some of my most cherished memories are connected with Christmas. To me, it would be unthinkable to deprive anyone of the joy that is to be found at this wonderful time of year, if you are willing to look for it. I can’t imagine not celebrating Christmas anymore than I can imagine a clean-shaven Santa or a child without a toy. Christmas or Chanukah, Christian or Jew … at the end of the day, it really doesn’t matter how you celebrate or what you believe, it only matters that you do!

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.

The reason my chest was puffed up bigger than the turkey’s wasn’t so much the incredible meal, meticulously prepared by my incredible bride of some thirty-three Thanksgivings, or even the fact that I was surrounded by a small gaggle of kids and grandkids, only one of whom managed to spill anything that would repattern the tablecloth. It wasn’t even having my Mom, now easing her way toward ninety-four, raising a glass of wine with us and providing a toast in her parents’ native Slovak. It was something much bigger, yet so small I don’t think anyone else even noticed.

Vigi had heaped the table with every imaginable Thanksgiving delight, to the point of overflow onto a convenient sideboard. With appropriate gratitude offered to the Lord and before I could even warn my taste buds, I found myself the salivating recipient of the turkey platter … then the mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, stuffing and so forth. Without so much as a word between them, my two sons [at my immediate left] collaborated to see that I was the first to receive each serving plate, before anyone else! Of course Vigi, [to my immediate right] was next … then the rest. The organizational chart says that I’m head of the family but frequently, as the years whizzed by, I wondered if anyone had ever read it.

This gesture of respect was never taught to them, nor ever demanded … any more than I could have demanded the love that was so clearly behind it. At a time of life when many of my achievements seem to feel as though they were authored by some phantom, and self-doubt often interrupts reason, these two characters elevated me to the level of King Arthur, himself, presiding at the Round Table! It never happened before, and may never again, but the only way they can fully grasp the importance of their act is to be blessed with such a moment themselves. I wish it for them both.

As the meal progressed I looked and listened with growing pride to the conversational ebb and flow of four family generations … giggles, eye rolls and all. The little girls were now young women on the verge of accomplishing great things, my boys were beginning to sport the slightest touches of gray as middle age nibbles at their hairlines, and even Vigi’s sumptuous feast paled a bit in the glow of the royalty consuming it.

Most parents do the best they can to raise their children properly … to instill a traditional value system and an ethical sense of right and wrong. You may have noticed kids don’t come with an instruction manual and most people that have written books about them don’t seem to have any of their own. With so many potent outside forces that shape who these new adults become once they’ve graduated from home, all that remains is the hope you did something right along the way. When the table is cleared and dishes done, the things for which to be truly thankful are the ones, like this, that let you know you did.

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Mischief night, of course, was a blur of soaped windows, T.P.’d trees and doorbells rung by giggling pranksters sprinting away into the night. Whenever we got tired of the usual games, a pilgrimage to see the old mansion on Harrison Street always put the spring back in our step … but somehow, on Halloween, it was a spiritual obligation. We’d line the curb, with wide eyes riveted to its mysterious peaks and spires.

I was about eight and very impressionable when it came to stories about ghosts, goblins and creaky old houses. I frequently slept with a night light on around that time of year. Then there was the gang: JoJo, Lenny and Joanne. JoJo had a problem saying his “L’s” so lemon would come out “Yemon” and yellow became “yeyyow”! Lenny was born with one leg little shorter than the other and walked with a limp, which elicited a flood of compassion from his schoolmates … you know how kind kids can be. He sort of hung out with us because we didn’t seem to notice … at least we never said anything.

Joanne had kittens. Joanne always had kittens, since one of her three cats was perpetually pregnant. Where most little girls pushed dolls around in their baby carriages, she wheeled a carriage of kittens through the neighborhood. They were her children … just ask JoJo and Lenny who were frequently corralled into playing “house” with her. Fortunately, I always had something more important to do when the mood turned domestic.

Probably most of the fascination with the old house on Harrison had to do with our parents warning us never to go inside because it was dangerous. While parents were concerned about their children crossing a busy street and a hundred year old house that was on the verge of collapse, word spread among the kids that the place was haunted.

There were even stories about more adventurous souls who dared to go in but never came back out. Legend held that, as the sun was setting, you could sometimes see the silhouette of an old man with a long beard in one of the windows. Of course, no one knew any of the kids that disappeared nor had anyone spoken directly to a kid who actually saw the silhouette … but quenchless curiosity and limitless imagination kept dauntless explorers like ourselves coming back, albeit glued to the near curb, hoping for a glimpse of what might lie beyond the far one. We faithfully kept what was judged to be a safe distance, until one particular Halloween eve when a ‘double-dog-dare’ issued by a sneering cowboy and a snickering nurse, plus some prodding from a witch’s broomstick, moved us to the other side of the street.

It was almost dark and our trick-or-treat candy runneth over, as we clasped hands and made our way between curbs. We said it was for safety during crossing but, with the old house now growing as large as its legend, each of us secretly needed assurance that someone else was there. A single streetlamp dimly lit our way, casting four crouching shadows on the lawn. We kept low and crept quietly to the porch steps. I remember thinking that I never realized how much noise dry leaves could make.

We stood there for a while, just staring at the splintered wooden door with the large rusty knocker and a gaping hole where the knob used to be. By now, even the murmur of the small band of onlookers gathered across the street had stopped and all we could hear was the dancing, wind-stirred leaves. To our amazement, Joanne pulled a kitten from inside her coat and hugged it tightly. No one even asked … we were too busy trying to screw up the courage to climb the steps. Finally, on the count of three, we all went together. They creaked under the weight of our odd little quartet, just like in the movies.

With another three count, JoJo eased the door open and we shuffled slowly off the porch and went inside. It creaked, of course, as haunted house doors do … but it was more of a groan that lasted forever. A web of some sort brushed across Joanne’s face! She dropped the kitten and muffled a scream with her hand. Shafts of moonlight streaming through shattered windows, were just enough for us to trace the little feline’s path down a long hallway and we decided to follow. The difference in the length of Lenny’s legs produced a strange cadence that echoed on the ancient wood floor.

As we reached the end of the hall we froze in our tracks, saucer-eyed and slack-jawed at the specter that confronted us. In a windowless room off to our right, there sat an old man in a rocking chair next to a blazing fire. His face looked like leather and his scruffy white beard hung clear down to his belt. Despite his well-weathered personal appearance, he wore a neatly pressed bright red coat with a double row of shiny brass buttons down the front. His beige pants were tucked tightly into a pair of shiny black boots and the whole ensemble was topped off with a very colonial looking tri-cornered hat. Joanne’s kitten sat in his lap, purring louder with each stroke of his gnarled old hand.

At the sight of his terrified young visitors, the leathery old face broke into a nearly toothless smile. In a very proper sounding accent he said, “I’d like to offer you children some tea, but you see, I seem to have run fresh out!” His bright blue eyes and gentle manner were an unexpected surprise and soon put us at ease.

He said his name was Benjamin and the five of us talked for a very long time. We shared our Halloween bounty with him and he told us stories about the Revolutionary War and the founding of America. I never liked history very much, but Benjamin made it interesting. He assured JoJo that he would someday grow out of his speech problem and explained to Lenny that he was probably a heroic soldier wounded in another life … that’s why his one leg wasn’t quite like the other. All in all, we had a pleasant visit but it was getting late and we were already going to catch heck from our folks for staying out past suppertime. We said our goodbyes and smiled and laughed all the way home, with our temporary secret tucked away safely inside.

The next morning, having confessed the details of the previous night under threat of permanent grounding, four eight year-olds stood along the curb with our parents across from the old mansion on Harrison Street. They were determined to get to the bottom of this ‘old man’ story their children had concocted to explain their lateness … and to make matters worse, Joanne’s kitten was nowhere to be found and the mother cat had been going berserk!

Somehow the house didn’t look so haunted in the bright light of day, as we opened the creaky front door and led the adults down the hallway. Even Lenny’s off-kilter cadence seemed silent. The room where we had met the leathery old man was empty, except for the kitten playing with a huge cobweb on the seat of the rocker. The fireplace ashes were cold and so were the looks from our parents. “Benjamin!” we called. Again and again, “Benjamin!” but there was no reply … only the scuffling of Joanne’s kitten playing in the dusty chair.

Then, as the inevitability of ‘house arrest’ forever began to sink in, I noticed a wooden peg just to the left of the fireplace, and on it hung a very familiar tri-cornered hat! I subtly pointed to the hat so only my friends could see. One by one they noticed it and smiled a smile of understanding. After all, when a kid has shared something that special with his friends, forever isn’t really such a very long time.

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.

About ten years later, I discovered a more stimulating method of communication. It had nothing to do with walkie-talkies, string or my friend Ralphie. We called it ‘legalized.’ Nobody ever talked much about just what it was that was legalized but instead of soup cans, it involved dancing really close with a girl. There were no formal steps and it didn’t matter what music was playing … or if there was music playing at all! One of the many added benefits was, you didn’t have to eat any soup.

Enter 21st Century technology: Electronic games, e-mails, chat rooms, cell phones and now the wonderful world of text messaging. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a technology junkie. Like most guys I love dials, buttons and flashing lights, whether or not they serve a purpose. Some guys can be entertained for hours by almost any shiny metal object, but that’s pretty extreme … still I don’t guess I’ll ever get a grip on the whole idea behind texting.

I mean, if someone hands me a telephone my first impulse is to speak into it, not to write on it. Call me crazy, but I like the warmth of a human voice at the other end plus there’s less margin for error when you can hear the other person’s vocal inflection. For instance, if your wife texts you the message, “I’m mad” that’s informative but sort of vague; on the phone, you can actually hear just how much trouble you’re in. The only higher level of communication would be to see the corners of her eyes scrunch up and that little vein pop out on her forehead. However fear not, that questionable ability is already edging its way into cell phone circles with picture phones! And you wanna’ text?

If I stick with traditional phone functions, I don’t have to pick at a bunch of tiny rice-size buttons with my not-so-tiny ham-size fingers or worry about my speling … yet my response from the person at other end is every bit as fast as I used to get from Ralphie with the soup cans. Hm-m-m. Of course, the act of texting employs so many abbreviations [CU@4] that most grammar rules are tossed to the wind and no one really cares whether cat is spelled with a ‘C’ or a ‘K’.

When I was a kid we were never inside, except for rainy afternoons when we drove our parents crazy. These days ‘Computer Potatoes’ are getting so bad, the government is trying to mandate that kids be pushed outside to play for at least an hour per day. Inhaling a molecule or two of fresh air is fine but working on a few social skills may be even more important somewhere down the road. Getting along comfortably with others isn’t part of everyone’s DNA; it takes effort and is something that’s tough to work on alone … or with one’s face leaving nose prints on the screen of a computer or cell phone.

I think I may have witnessed the ultimate in un-communication the other day when I saw two kids sitting together on a pair of swings, not saying a word but sending TEXT messages to each other! How ironic that the very electronic marvels we’ve invented to expand our universe have, instead, begun to isolate so many of us in our own, private little caves.

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.

It’s amazing how ageless age can be … and therein lies the rub! When it comes to femmes fatale, with soft curves and jiggly things, let’s establish right up front that guys never stop looking. As long as they are still drawing breath, their last drop of testosterone is routed to their eye sockets even before their hearts and lungs. I know women look too, but I won’t pretend to know very much about it. If I had any real understanding in that area, my premarital youth might have been squandered more effectively … and I would most certainly be a headliner in Guinness’ Book of Records.

Now don’t confuse looking with shopping, those are two different things. Looking is just what it says, although the criteria can vary widely as you’ll soon see. Shopping means that you probably intend to take something home, and unless you shop carefully, you might end up paying a considerable price! It wasn’t until I was around forty when I realized why they call the years from that particular mile post to infinity ‘middle age.’ Only a portion of the term involves longevity. The rest has to do with who and what a guy is comfortable ogling.  Not only is the suitability of the oglee age-related but as the mileage on the ogler’s odometer changes, so does his view of the road.

Men-in-waiting, such as high school and college boys, most often limit their lusts to young ladies near their own age. An ‘older’ woman of twenty-five or thirty nudges them toward ‘Mrs. Robinson’ territory (Coo coo ca-choo), and whether or not they know it they are beginning to shop, squeezing fruit to see what the stand has to offer.

As manhood overtakes him a guy becomes more careful about the shopping experience; he is beginning to realize he might want to buy something. While locking the keys outside the car may be an endearing quality during dating, he may not want to explain the purpose of a door handle to his wife for the rest of his natural life. He is now looking at the whole package … seeking the perfect blend of brains, beauty and body parts!

Once firmly anchored by the bonds of matrimony and with a few temporal miles on their tires, something strange happens. Guys may begin to observe the female form in a way that now disassembles the ‘package’. They have arrived at a point in life where they can appreciate parts … some like casabas while others prefer different diversions like ‘wheels’ and buns. I’m a leg man myself, although I’m a sucker for a slight overbite or a certain glide in a lady’s stride that we of the male chromosome just aren’t hinged to perform. The age range for the recipient of this ocular attention broadens as well.

When I crossed over that proverbial middle age marker, I discovered a world of wonder that ranged from nubile twenty-somethings to feminine preserves of sixty. If you’re not going to buy anything, the world is a Wal-Mart! As my own years continue their forward march so does my age range of suitable subjects, although quality parts are getting harder to find and entire packages are fewer and farther between.

Looking has nothing to do with connubial bliss or with loving one’s spouse. It’s just what guys do. These days, I find myself enjoying a fuller appreciation of womanhood than ever before, all the while maintaining the creative detachment of a sculptor chiseling a statue or a painter capturing the beauty of nature … especially if he jiggles his canvas a little!

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.

As many times as I’ve watched this process, I never noticed the inventive technique to which I was treated this morning. When I make a sandwich, I smear the mustard and horseradish sauce [or whatever] onto a slice of bread, pile on the meat and put a lid on it. Then I cut the stack roughly in half and it’s ready to eat. Case closed.

Not Veege. I watched in wonder as she placed the designated top and bottom slices of bread side by side in butterfly fashion. After careful condiment application to each piece, she proceeded to place one slice of cold-cut onto each slice of bread … then another and another until she had two perfectly symmetrical sandwich halves, topped with a slice of cheese equally divided between the two halves. I asked, “Are you going to close that thing or do you eat it open faced?” “Oh, I’m going to close it,” she replied as she deftly balanced the two halves together, tongue between teeth for added concentration.

Now my curiosity was aroused and I pressed, “Why do you make two halves separately if you’re going to put them together and make a single sandwich anyway?” The answer arrived on an illuminating light ray at 286,000 miles-per-second from the planet Neptune, “I like the cheese to be exactly in the center.” “Aren’t you afraid of spilling something when you have it all vertical like that?” I foolishly asked. By now I was fighting a grin and resisting the urge to delve into this at a deeper, more psychological level but years of experience have taught me when to thrust and when to parry … this was parry time. I’m a pretty good learner.  “Nothing has fallen out yet and I do this all the time” she smiled with girlish confidence, wrapping the sandwich to go. She didn’t even cut it in half! Virgos!

I was capping her coffee and inserting a straw, so she could more easily keep one eye on the road while the other searched for the next sip, when I noticed her application of the ‘church-key’ to the large V-8 can. Me? I punch two holes in the top like everyone else. You have to so the air can push the liquid out smoothly, right? However, I punch one large hole for the juice and only a small vent hole, so if I become overly enthusiastic about my pouring nothing dribbles out of the vent.

Not Veege. She carefully created two holes of equal size and made doubly sure that each was fully open. At that moment, I was more proud of myself than I’ve been in a very long time. I asked nothing. I said nothing … except for, “Can I have some?” as I quietly held out my glass. The crimson blend of nine or ten thousand liquified vegetables ‘plopped’ when she poured it.

Now, this is in the same league as whether the toilet paper should come off the top or bottom of the roll, how someone squeezes the toothpaste tube or who leaves that small starfield on the bathroom mirror when they brush their teeth. It’s stupid stuff … but these are the kinds of discoveries usually reserved only for newlyweds. When each of you can each still learn little things about the other after 33 years, another layer of the proverbial onion peels away and that’s what keeps the music playing. As long as there’s a smattering of mystery swirling just below the surface, like the song says, “The music never ends!”

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.

I pictured nights like this the moment I saw the new ‘retro’ look Ford designed into their ‘05 Mustang. Having owned a 1965 some forty years earlier I knew I had to have one, while I could still fold myself in half enough to get in and out! Not only has the date ON the car changed but, naturally, the date IN the car has changed too. Vigi is standard equipment, unlike the bevy of beauties who rotated through the right hand seat half a lifetime ago … although the blond ponytail pulled through the back of a pink baseball cap still brings back more than a few lascivious memories.

Some other things have changed during that time as well. In ‘65 I’d put the top down and enjoy the wind whistling through my thick, wavy locks of pompadourian splendor; now I just let my scalp flap in the breeze or wear a hat to keep my head from lobstering. Nevertheless, there’s more at work here than mere transportation between shopping malls or depositing traces of Michelin on the pavement. There is instant transportation back to a time of simplicity and youthful liberation, even if the only fool being fooled is the nut behind the wheel. Add a dash of Del Vikings, a sprinkling of summer sun or a few fireworks on a moonlit eve and the recipe is ripe for romance with the greatest date I ever had in my life.

For whatever reason, we arrived early. I’m rarely early for anything and, come to think of it, haven’t even been on time for much that I can remember. It turned out this was a great time to make an exception because, it not only put Veege in a better than usual mood, but gave me some time to reflect on other Fourths of July … like when we had a lake house and used to take our boat to the festivities. We’d bob around at anchor with the colorful orchestration of fireworks above and explosions of delight below, as a blast of boat horns echoed across the water accompanying the usual “Ooohs” and “Ahhhs” of approval from hundreds of nautical spectators.

As another test rocket rose and faded, I couldn’t help but think of the last shuttle mission that would be launched in a few days from Cape Canaveral. It was July 20th when I watched the first men walk on the moon … 1969 but it could have been yesterday. On about that same date, now 42 years later, they’d effectively be closing out America’s manned space program when Shuttle Atlantis returns from the International Space Station. This time, with so many of our historic achievements fading like the glare of that rocket, the single stroke of another budgetary pen has transformed us from daring space pioneers into quietly bringing up the rear. I sank a little deeper into my leather upholstery, feeling kind of empty for a few minutes.

Suddenly the sky erupted, filling me with the sounds and the brilliance and the pride I have learned to expect on our nation’s birthday! The cheers of the fireworks and smell of the crowd brought me back to the moment. In the end, it was an even more patriotic night than we had anticipated, not because of any flag waving or bumper sticker slogans but because we felt so incredibly fortunate.

Reflecting upon those events of nearly a month ago, there’s a small butterfly that occasionally flutters around in my stomach reminding me of the gentler times during which I’ve been lucky enough to live. More than ever, I’m particularly grateful for my little red ‘ragtop’ and the permanent date that usually occupies the right hand seat of my time machine.

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.

The sign that had pulled my attention away from these historic bits of early bankdom read, “Christmas Club” and announced payment number 21 was due that week. I didn’t even know they had those anymore! I figured folks just pulled out the plastic and dug the hole deeper at Christmas like they do the rest of the year. But when I remarked about it, the perpetually smiling face on the other side of the two inch glass informed me that Christmas Clubs are still very popular. For whatever reason, perhaps being a throwback to much simpler times, I found that thought comforting … kind of like seeing Lipton Tea on the grocery store shelf or a water pistol in the toy shop window. These things had survived the ravages of time. They were things you could still count on. Then, I really scared the daylights out of myself … I couldn’t think of anything else to put in that category!

As it turned out, the log jam between my ears had more to do with square pegs and round holes than any dark vision of life I might have been nurturing. My blockage broke up a few mornings later, when the smells of fresh coffee brewing and bacon frying brought back the same “all is right with the world” feeling I had experienced at the bank.  That’s when I realized I had mistakenly been trying to apply the weight of textbook logic to simple items that sprang from emotion! Before long, my list began to fill up with little sensory things like the taste of cold chocolate milk on a hot day, the smell of a summer shower when the earth has been baking all afternoon, and the feel of a soft fuzzy puppy with a cold wet nose.

Little boys still smell of bubblegum and earthworms, phone calls with old friends still fuel the fires of time … and if you put one hand softly on the cheek of a woman who loves you, the other on her waist, pull her close and kiss her softly on the lips, she’ll still kiss you back. Things like these have been constants since fig leaves came into fashion as garments, and I’d like to think we can count on them remaining constant until the last leaf has turned to dust.

Of course, every coin has a flip side and you can usually count on what’s over there too. For instance, every time I get hooked on a favorite food I can always be sure that either the store will discontinue it or the manufacturer will improve it right out of existence. Remember the expression, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it?” That’s another great thing about my bank … so far, they’ve kept their stick out of the spokes.

As surely as a seventeen year old can count on a new pimple just before the prom, a sixty-seven year old can be assured that hair will grow everyplace but where it’s wanted … and, one day, the washing machine will decide to shrink your favorite shirt for no apparent reason. Come to think of it, the thing has been shrinking a lot of my pants lately, too!

You can count on the weather prognosticator calling for rain until it finally appears, costs going up, endurance going down, and not getting out of this world alive. What’s that? Money? No, you can’t take it with you … count on that, too. It burns!

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.

That was thirty-three years ago and we’ve learned an awful lot about each other since then, including that I don’t like wearing sandals and she doesn’t like wearing any shoes at all. We’ve actually reached the point where we frequently finish each others’ thoughts. I don’t mean each others’ sentences, I mean each others’ thoughts! On more than one occasion I’ve wondered whether we’ve grown to be that much alike or if we started out that way. Did that kind of simpatico draw us together in the first place?

It isn’t that we always agree or buy matching outfits, or anything like that … although we’ve been known to choose the same color combinations when getting dressed, only to discover our twinhood later. It’s more like being together just feels comfortable. It’s familiar. It’s also scary. Sometimes Vigi knows me better than I know myself.

Take last weekend when I was rummaging around under the kitchen sink, looking for the stuff I spray on the furnace filters when I change them. “It’s on the right, all the way in back,” she informed me. “What is?” “The Endust. Isn’t that what you’re looking for?” I hadn’t said a word to her! I was so taken aback that I just laid out on the floor and laughed until my tear-streaked face went stiff and my ribs ached. I was finally able to foolishly ask, “How did you know what I wanted?” She said nothing. She didn’t have to. She simply smiled that ‘feline got the fish’ smile that can only be properly executed after half a lifetime together. It’s amazing how much can be conveyed with just mouth corners, if it’s the right mouth.

You know how we’re told to walk a mile in the other guy’s shoes? Well, Veege is inside mine while my feet are still in there! On those rare occasions when we’re not in blissful agreement, we don’t really argue, we ‘bicker’ … and she’s a great ‘bickerer!’ It’s never personal and usually about something silly like why the spare car key isn’t on its hook or how the perpetual clutter (mine) seems to live on the corner of the kitchen counter. Her most effective ‘bickering’ weapon is merely providing a brief entree to the subject and then clamming up. Sometimes I get on a rant like some giant steam engine rumbling down the tracks, breathing fire and belching smoke … unable to put the brakes on until I realize that I’m the only one participating in the discussion. Once I feel stupid enough, it’s over!

Her patience is probably the greatest reason why we’re still married after so many years and, in my book, why it gets better every day. She knows exactly how much rope to play out before she ‘yanks’ and has mastered the art of letting me think I’m running the show, while all the while she’s the one in charge.

On those even rarer occasions, when there is actually some tug and pull, nothing gets us back into the same sandals faster than simply facing each other, holding hands and looking straight into each others’ eyes. It’s impossible to fight, bicker or argue in that position. I’m not saying the sun always comes out but it’s a great way to avoid the lightning and thunder … to slip on more comfortable shoes, especially if you’re joined at the toes.

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.