Back when I was still trying to figure out which end of my body my head was on, if anyone had suggested that someday I’d be sleeping with a grandmother I would have told them they were as mad as a hatter. The world certainly rotates in a different direction at twenty then it does at sixty-something. Here I am in the ‘something’ category, merging wrinkles under the covers with a lady of  grandmotherly persuasion and loving every minute of it. Somehow, she just doesn’t fit my lifelong image of a cotton-haired little old lady shuffling around the kitchen with a bowl of Farina in one hand and a rubber spatula in the other.

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.

I stood there motionless with the 8-ball clutched tightly in my hand, its unblinking eye staring defiantly up at me. It was the winter of my eighteenth year and I was playing a game that could change my entire future … even determine if I was going to have one! There was no felt covered table, no long, tapered cue. There was only that 8-ball locking its mocking gaze with mine, as the small black triangle floated slowly into view and the words (Ask again later) became legible through its murky fluid.

“What’d it say?” Bob asked anxiously, as he edged closer to look over my shoulder. He couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw those silvery syllables in the window. That was the fourth straight time the magic orb had refused to give us a straight answer. With twenty different possibilities, you’d think the thing would come up with something different after four tries, but on the fifth query the 8-ball put us off again. It really got spooky when we finally changed our question and it changed it’s answer!

Bob was my best friend, we were like brothers … whatever happened to him usually happened to me and vice versa. Therefore, it was only natural that when we bought the little fortune-telling device, we would share its mystical powers and question it together. Somehow, the words toy and novelty on the package managed to elude both of us. It’s amazing what a couple of kids can believe when manhood is nibbling at their toes and the future is squeezing their shoes.

In those days I was commuting to a nearby college and my buddy, who lived away at school, drove the three or so hours home for the weekend. It had become our custom to spend most Friday nights quietly sipping wine, chomping on French bread and playing chess. But this Friday we had a different diversion … actually two diversions: the 8-ball and our runaway imaginations.

We started out asking it innocent questions like, “Will we have dates tomorrow night?” (Signs Point to Yes) or, “Am I going to pass my exam Tuesday?” (It is decidedly so). Then we climbed to the next plateau with tidbits like, “Will Bob marry what’s-her-name?” (Very Doubtful) and so it went for the better part of an hour, gradually increasing the importance of each question … each response from the ball seemingly more accurate, more believable than the last. Finally we moved in on the big kahuna, life itself. It was probably the answer sequence that got our attention more than anything else and short circuited the bone in our heads that regulates rational thought.

“Am I going to live to 60?” (Don’t count on it).  “What about Bob?” (My sources say no). “Either of us to 50?” (Cannot predict now). We stopped thinking it was entertaining as 40 and 30 shot by until we finally got a (Yes – Definitely) at 20. 20? That’s not very reassuring when you’re 18 and 19! Now there was no turning back. We strode ever deeper into a mind numbing fog that defied all logic. The ball took on a life of its own!  “What are we gonna’ do, die together?” (Outlook good). The questioning process to determine exactly how would glaze your eyes over … and that’s when the softball-size globe nearly found itself in a one way game of catch with the wall! But we couldn’t do that! We had to know!

Responses like (Ask again later), (Better not tell you now) and (Reply hazy, try again) lost all their magic until, at last, we got the affirming answer (It is certain). Unfortunately, by that time we had already done a half-gainer into the deep end of the mental absurdity pool. What the little round fortune teller had now confirmed was that we would be killed together in a fiery car crash by the time we were 21! We just looked at each other for a brief eternity then, in unbalanced stereo chorused, “Who’s driving?” We were laughing … laughing but shaken, as we put the plastic sphere away in the back of a closet forever and played some chess. I lost every game.

Last year, nearly half a century later, I was browsing in my pharmacy’s toy section when what to my wandering eyes should appear to the rear of a shelf but two boxes marked, “Magic 8-Ball.” I picked one up, focused on its unblinking eye and asked, “Should I send one to Bob for Christmas?” The small black triangle floated slowly into view and the words (Ask again later) became legible through its murky fluid. I bought both balls anyway, without further testing their powers, and sent one wrapped with a black bow to my old friend. The other, of course, I kept for myself.

Bob called Christmas morning. He remembered! We had a good laugh but agreed these weighty little sayers of sooth were best relegated to special moments from yesteryear … and the only question to ever be associated with either of them would be which stack of papers they’d keep from blowing off the desk.

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

The name tag read “Charlie” … but the pleasant moonpie face that looked at me through round black rimmed glasses was accompanied by too many contradictions. The short-cropped brushy hair was a little too long, for example. There was the slightest hint of breasts under an oversized white shirt and actual hips holding up the black, man-tailored slacks. Even chunky guys have a more worm-like pelvic ensemble that makes you wonder how their pants bother to stay up!

As the designated ‘pick up butter and egg man’ at our house, I had been through Charlie’s ’15 items or less’ line at the local supermarket before. Each time, I couldn’t help but wonder what the name tag wasn’t telling me. The other day, as I placed my low fat chips, high fiber cereal and something green on my favorite non-stop conveyor belt, I happened to look up and noticed that Charlie’s name tag now read “Charlene.”

“Hi.  What happened to Charlie?” I asked. “Oh-h, it made some of my customers uncomfortable so management requested me to change it.” “You’re kidding … I liked Charlie!” I said, as lightheartedness took a step toward the rear of the line. Charlene flashed a quick, sheepish smile and replied, “What the heck, it doesn’t matter. I’m not trying to make some kind of political statement or anything … I’m only trying to earn a living. I just happen to be one of those people who is stuck in the middle.”

She seemed so well adjusted and in-tune with herself that I almost envied Charlie’s matter-of-factness. Almost. If allegedly adult customers can be made uncomfortable by someone’s name choice, what kind of hell must she have endured growing up in order to reach such a high level of self-acceptance? After all, you know how kind kids are! As cosmopolitan as they may pretend to be, people in our society just don’t seem to handle differences very well.

The affable young person, now packing my pickups, had no way of knowing about my own experience with different. It was while working at a summer job I held during school cleaning mimeograph machines, that I learned you are what people think you are. It was a thankless job dipping heavy, ink-stained printing devices into a dilute, hot acid solution eight hours a day … but it paid $1.10 per hour. The temperature in the shop was nearly 100 degrees, with no air conditioning in those days, and featured three mindless full-time grunts who raised the temperature under my collar even higher.

We didn’t have names for them back then but today Lenny, Al and Junior would be bigots, anti-Semites and racists. Me? I was “The Moishe.” I was “the college boy” who had the gall to invade their world and get sweaty, even dirty. Somewhere, they came up with the idea that I was Jewish … thus my designation as “The Moishe.” “The Moishe” was a “Hebe” and therefore was to be treated like something you’d scrape off your shoe with a stick. They would have been surprised to learn that I was, in fact, Roman Catholic and could have traded them Hail Mary for Hail Mary, but there’s no way I was giving up that little piece of information. Besides, to this day I believe they were incapable of learning much of anything.

I continued to be courteous, took their abuse, marveled at their ignorance and then pulled off my own coups de grâce … I came back again the following summer! It was a unique opportunity to understand first hand, on my own terms, what so many others must experience everyday if they’re not a perfect fit to society’s template. Funny thing is, the contemptible little trio eased off that second summer. Perhaps it was my tenacity or maybe it was the real Jewish kid they discovered down on the first floor. Oh, I was still “The Moishe” but, whatever it was, things changed for the better and I found it a little easier to laugh having my own perspective on things. I also got a raise and was now making $1.20!

Charlene handed back my change and wished me a great day. I told her, “I still like Charlie better.” “Me too!” she said, offering another sheepish smile … and I left, thinking about all the girls named Alex or Andie and all the ‘jerks’ God sprinkled upon planet Earth.

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

As I plunge ever deeper into curmudgeonhood, one of my more nagging gripes is the diminishing number of “markers” that lie ahead. Looking back, there were always events that helped me measure forward movement … things like the close of school, the beginning of summer romance, getting my first car, graduation and, of course, turning a manhood-affirming twenty-one. After that there was getting my first job, taking a wife, buying a home, taking another wife, raising some kids, changing careers and … retirement? Well, you know what I mean. Each event was a mile post along life’s highway, but as the miles faded more rapidly into the rear view mirror there were fewer posts … now, I have to look for them. Sometimes I have to look pretty hard.

In Fiddler On The Roof, Tevia held “Tradition!” in the highest regard. Suddenly I know what he meant. On one hand, traditions are lasting markers … things that let you see the shore, even when your boat may be adrift. On the other hand, as those markers zip by along with the rest of the scenery, original meanings behind many of our traditions seem to blur. People even talk about “starting a new tradition”, which by its very definition is impossible.

Memorial Day is one of those blurred casualties. Originally called Decoration Day, it was celebrated on May 30th, until 1971 when it was changed to every last Monday in May so people could have a three day weekend. You hardly even see a parade anymore. To most people, it has become just an extra day off or a good excuse to crank up the ol’ barbie and burn a few burgers. If you’re in retail it means holding a special sale. For mirror watchers it’s starting a diet to look better at the beach.

To me it was always the beginning of summer … that is once I was out of school and started looking for new markers. It was Memorial Day that heralded the beginning of summer and Labor Day that closed the door at the end.  Never mind what he calendar said. Then three things happened: I bought a flagpole and began reading about flag protocol, certain politicians began to demonize the brave men and women who defend our freedom, and I renewed a friendship with an old CB buddy who happens to be a military historian. I served my country but never in combat and for the first time I really listened to Bill’s accounts of valor and personal sacrifice. They were chronicled from men he was privileged to know … and others that could only be researched.

These three events were my perfect storm. I became acutely aware that, while I was complaining about the number of markers in my life, there were untold thousands of chosen patriots who had preserved my right to grouse about such things, yet now had only a single marker of their own … the one above their heads. These were ordinary people who did extraordinary things. They expected to die old men and women, griping about mile posts back in their home towns. Instead, they were given a small piece of peaceful real estate for their deeds and one special day each year to be honored.

It is these dedicated heroes and their families that define Memorial Day, not vacations and weenie-roasts or even the beginning of summer madness. Oh I’m not saying these things should stop, nor will they. But is it asking too much to take time out from the celebration and remember those who made it all possible … to make sure our kids know about them?

Every morning when I raise my flag, I snap them a proud salute and say, “Thank you fellas!” You know what? That’s a marker I can count on for as long as I’m around to worry about such things. Maybe it’ll catch on!

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

I don’t take compliments well — and I guess a gift is sort of a compliment with a bow on it.  It must be, because I seem to short circuit the gift giving process like a shiny penny in a rusty fuse box.  Right now I’m sitting here feeling as guilty as a bad electrician with a whole pocket full of shiny pennies.

As if it’s not enough that I frequently buy exactly what I want just before Christmas, I actually have the audacity to inform Vigi that she can consider the purchase as my present [from her].   Through the years, we’ve shared any number of conversations about post-holiday return lines and the kind of unappreciative person who so thoughtlessly trades away someone’s carefully selected gift.  That having been said, return with me now to summer of 2009 and The Pocono 500.

This was our first live NASCAR race and we had a ball — from the first chest-rumbling roar of the start to the smell of burning rubber during the winner’s figure eights after he took the checkered flag!  I snapped some terrific photographs; make a note. Also, understand there is not another track within 500 miles of home, the ‘cheap seats’ were eighty bucks apiece and I am married to the world’s most thoughtful and caring woman.

Another key to my current crestfallen state is knowing that pretty much wherever I go, my primary purpose is to take pictures. The Pocono 500 was a great photo opportunity and a race happened to break out.  I went to Williamsburg National Historical Site to take photos and they happened to have a lot of neat, old stuff around. My cameras love to go to the beach because there’s always lots of sand and this really interesting ocean parading her ever changing moods and textures right in front of my lens. For me, that’s what it’s about!

Christmas morning as Vigi handed me her present she said, “Now, if you don’t like it I want you to feel perfectly free to take it back.”  I was suddenly reminded of a certain Italian immigrant friend, many years ago, who was delighted that his wife had given him permission to ‘cheat’. I remembered the quote as clearly as my certainty that Aldo had heard only the words but not her vocal inflection: “Go. You want to fool around with other women that’s fine with me.  Go!” I could feel the horns of my own dilemma poking at my hindquarters as I began to tear at the colorful paper.

Peering between the flaps of the outer box I saw two smaller boxes inside. One contained a set of noise cancelling headphones, the other a handheld racing scanner that would allow me to monitor conversations between drivers and crews at any track in the country. I didn’t quite leap out of my chair with delight — in fact, I sank deeper into the cushioning when I learned Veege had been researching this gift since August.  Not only had she talked with a number of racing enthusiasts and investigated several products but she actually contacted the son of someone she works with who is a NASCAR driver!

Everyone knows guys like toys, right? And this was a toy of the first magnitude. Normally I would love to own it, especially considering the gift-giver and her determination to get everything exactly right. But do I simply say thanks, pull it out of the closet every few years and park it on the seat while I wander the track with my cameras — or should I believe her ‘feel free’ statement that originally accompanied the red bow and green paper? Well, I’m married too long to feel free but maybe not long enough to feel smart. What I do feel is the ‘Aldo’ in me rising and the jingle of all those shiny pennies in my pocket.

As of this writing I am still weighing the same alternatives, in the name of practicality — cowardly waiting for some great revelation of biblical proportions or for Martians to come take me away, whichever happens first. Did you know they’ve recently discovered water on the moon?

P.S. – 1/7/2010:  Without the aid of epiphanies or aliens, and foolishly employing Spock-like logic over better judgement, I refunded the gift this morning.  She may still be speaking to me — I thought she made a noise.

Look for Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast links under
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Of all the towns in all the places in the world, I had to stop in this one.  It was the kind of quaint little town that warms you like a cup of Chamomile, even though you’ve never been there before. The colorful shops and tree-lined streets with their turn of the century homes could have been found anywhere in New England, as could the carpets of painted leaves that played tag on their manicured lawns.  But this wasn’t New England. It was within an hour of home and, except for a brush with reality about 35 years ago, I’d probably be one of its residents today — in fact, probably one of its shop keepers.

For a while now I’ve been looking high and low for a certain style camera case, so a few days ago, I decided to make the most of a crisp autumn afternoon and take a drive to visit an old friend who deals in such things. In another incarnation, Peter and I were within a whisker of becoming partners in a photography store. He already had a successful business but wanted to expand to a second location. If it weren’t for our accountants’ rather impractical ultimatum that one of us forfeit taking a salary for a couple of years, we would have proceeded with the arrangement. Had we done so, I’d most likely have been the man behind the counter of the photo shop who asked, “Can I help you?” when I strode through the door.  It was probably a good thing Peter wasn’t there because, for some reason, the scene was already starting to play trick or treat with my head.

On one hand, being an established pillar of the community might have been gratifying.  On the other, with so much structure in my life I might have wound up contemplating ink blots in a place where they take away your shoes, belt and all sharp objects! I have no regrets about my life or my choices but I’ve always maintained a more than healthy curiosity about the roads I chose not to take. Robert Frost wrote a poem about it and Star Trek’s Prime Directive of non-interference provides perspective even for what seem like insignificant changes to history, personal or otherwise.

I hadn’t thought about that shelved business venture for years. Now, suddenly in the brilliance of an October afternoon, it charted destinations on my mental GPS for some other roads I hadn’t visited before. If there had been a partnership, business wouldn’t have kept me from home so much and my first marriage might not have suffered.   I would not have gone into radio and touched many countless lives, could not have met Vigi and would not have enjoyed four children.  Nor would I be a grandfather.

Three of our four kids would not have moved east and would be leading very different lives in Michigan. A whole group of people wouldn’t even exist because that trio could not have met their respective spouses to produce the eight crumb crunchers I now call my own.  None of that takes into account the lines of new people my grandkids are likely to produce or the ripples generated in my near business partner’s life.  To think, we owe it all to a couple of guys with green eye shades and calculators! Do you wonder about this kind of stuff or is my glue simply melting?

There are, of course, any number of other forks in any number of other roads and, as the great Yogi Berra once said, “When you come to a fork in the road, take it.” I did — and most noteworthy was my ‘chance’ meeting with Vigi (Check my Hindenburg BCNuts Blog trilogy). You see, the unspoken truth here is that I don’t believe in happenstance.  For my money, the map is already programmed and we’re merely passengers on the ride. There are just too many coincidences to be coincidences.

Want to make your head hurt some afternoon?  Put on your mental tennies and turn toward a couple of roads that presented a choice in your life.  Instead of the one you picked, take a healthy hike down the other.  And remember, it’s okay to look back as long as you don’t stare.

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