The high school I occupied during my pre-adult period was nearly ninety percent Jewish. When many of the more important Hebrew holidays were celebrated, like in September and October, they actually consolidated as many as three or four classes for any given subject into a single room. Even with that arrangement, I was one of only a tiny hand-full of students in there. We had a lot of fall study halls back then.

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. Read the rest of this entry

Part of almost every guy’s wiring leads to the bone in his head that generates perpetual kidhood. A few somehow received only bone fragments and are old men by thirty, but I’m not interested in exceptions, only the rule. Most women’s wiring is more complex than ours and frequently shorts out at this level of operation, so I’ll leave them off the circuit board for a while, too … do not pass ‘go’, do not collect $200.  What I’m referring to are basic guy things like a fascination with flashing lights, digital readouts, switches that go click and cars that go fast!

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 Read the rest of this entry

The high school I occupied during my pre-adult period was nearly ninety percent Jewish. When many of the more important Hebrew holidays were celebrated, like in September and October, they actually consolidated as many as three or four classes for any given subject into a single room. Even with that arrangement, I was one of only a tiny hand-full of students in there. We had a lot of fall study halls back then.

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 Read the rest of this entry

I was peacefully perched on a stool at the kitchen counter enjoying a ham and turkey on rye, with a slice of Swiss and a schmear of horseradish sauce, when the voice in my radio announced “Now we’ll take time out for one of our obscene profit breaks.” It wasn’t kidding either, because what came next nearly spoiled a great sandwich.

No one should be surprised that ads for Valentine’s Day have now reached fever pitch … but what happened to giving your loved one traditional stuff, you know, like flowers and candy? I hadn’t even swallowed my first bite when a commercial suggested that I give my special someone a certificate to have her toe nail fungus removed. That was followed by one from another doctors’ group stating if I had “performance difficulties” they could have me “ready for action” after my first visit …  if my caring Valentine would give me the loving gift of their vast experience with “ED.” I found all this kind of puzzling since I don’t even know anybody named ED and the only performance difficulty I have is that I can’t tap dance. As for Vigi’s toe nails, they’re always polished with that red stuff. You don’t suppose she’s trying to hide something, do you?

The spot that almost caused me to cancel lunch came right after the “Give her the unique gift of naming a rare, hissing cockroach” ad from some zoo. A soft, sultry voice began beckoning me to buy my Valentine one-piece pajamas featuring a hood and attached feet. Oh, they were guaranteed to “keep her snug and warm,” too.  Now, there were more than a couple of things wrong here … forget the cockroaches. To begin with, I always thought keeping Veege snug and warm was MY job. Did this mean I could be covertly retired by a few measly yards of synthetic fuzz? I’m not even sure they had that little door in the back! The pronouncer never said so, anyway.

My sandwich was now drying out in my dish and my cold cuts becoming warm cuts, as I was forced to admit my real objection to this mummifying toggery. I had dedicated the better part of 33 years to finding sheer, filmy little frocks for Vigi, that would peel off easily … even with my teeth if necessary. Now that my smooth, catlike movements are all but gone and a certain level of stiffness has set into my fingers, I’m supposed to schlep my way through “hoodies and footies?” And what about all those other guys whose impatient fingers no longer adapt well to buttons or zippers?

Besides Hallmark and a bunch of Madison Avenue Marketeers, I began to wonder exactly who or what was behind this whole Valentine thing in the first place. I tossed my last crust of bread to the dog, headed for the computer and Googled around a little … only to discover there may be more than one explanation for our February 14th madness. Nothing I read, however, provided insight as to how a buck naked little cherub with archery skills got mixed up in the celebration.

One legend has it that Valentine was a cleric who served during the 3rd century in Rome. When Emperor Claudius II decided that single men made better soldiers than men with wives and families, he outlawed marriage for young men. Valentine, realizing the injustice of the decree, continued to perform marriage ceremonies for young lovers in secret. When Claudius the Deuce found out about this, he ordered the cleric to be put to death! While languishing in prison, legend has it that St. Valentine actually sent the first Valentine greeting himself. It turns out his jailer’s daughter visited him frequently and they became smitten with each other … but before he literally lost his head, the starry-eyed romantic wrote her a love letter and signed it, “From your Valentine.” For obvious reasons, no known royalty arrangements were ever made on the phrase.

Another legend doesn’t say much about St. Valentine but claims the holiday was held around this time of year because it was the beginning of Spring, considered by the Christian church to be a time for purification and fertility. The priests would sacrifice a goat, as a symbol of both, slice its hide into strips and dip them into sacrificial blood. Then, they took to the streets gently slapping both women and fields of crops with the bloody strips. Women, in particular, welcomed being slapped with the bloody goat hide because they believed it purified them and would make them more fertile during the coming year.

Having shared Vigi’s every mood and preference for more than three decades, I somehow feel it is safe to say that she would rather celebrate Valentine’s Day with a dozen roses, some chocolate-covered cherries, or even the P.J.s without a door in the back … and leave the rest of ancient Christianity’s holy ritual to chance!

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

That year, I wanted a Lionel Santa Fe diesel for Christmas more than anything else in the world. Johnny Schumann and his dad had a train layout in their basement that was so big, they needed pop-up doors in the middle of it in case the train jumped the tracks … and right next to their three black steam locomotives and gray Erie switcher, ran a yellow Union Pacific diesel. They had some pretty cool stuff, but nowhere in sight was the silver and red of a Santa Fe!

It was a time when steam and electric engines were giving way to diesel power on the railroads. It was a time when trains meant as much to little kids as cars meant to big ones … and fast freights circling the tree meant Christmas to all kids. It was a time when I had reached that age of wondering if there really was a Santa Claus. Most of my friends thought it was silly to believe in some jolly fat man who flew through the air with a bunch of reindeer, but I was afraid not to. I mean, we all believed in Superman, right? What if Santa really did exist and I doubted him? I’d never get my Santa Fe diesel then! Geez, even the names were alike …

Besides, believing felt good. The anticipation of his arrival added a special tingle to the Christmas butterflies that already danced in every kid’s stomach. My friends and I had any number of intense, philosophical discussions on the subject, always with the same result. They stood against the red-suited elf and I was his staunch defender. I even talked it over with my parents but the evidence on both sides of the question was inconclusive. I had to know for sure, so I cunningly devised a test.

Mom and Dad went shopping frequently around Christmas but I knew they always stayed out longest when they went shopping for the tree. There was a time Dad used to wait until Christmas Eve “when the price was right,” as he used to say … but since it was now against the law for vendors to simply abandon their unsold inventory, we started getting our tree a little earlier and Dad became a little fussier. That would be the perfect time to really scour every nook and cranny of the house without fear of getting caught. A friend of mine said it was snooping. I preferred to think of it as conducting a sort of scientific experiment. After all, I wasn’t really hurting anything and it had become a matter of honor.

My criteria were simple: It was pretty close to Christmas and a Santa Fe diesel was a pretty big present, so they would have to buy the engine early enough to make sure they found exactly what I wanted. If I discovered it hidden somewhere, then I’d know for sure that my friends were right and Santa Claus was a fake. If I didn’t find it, and it showed up Christmas morning, chances are only the jolly old elf himself could have delivered it and I would have proof positive for all those nonbelievers at the playground.

The big day came when Mom and Dad went out to buy the tree. I really had to be thorough … after all, a lot was riding on my research. I started in the attic, working my way down through the coat closet and guest room all the way to the basement. No luck. I really had mixed feelings about what I was doing because, as determined as I was to find my present, that’s how much I hoped that I wouldn’t! I had looked everywhere. Almost.

I hadn’t looked in my parents’ room. That was off-limits … a mysterious place that I had mostly seen only from the doorway. It’s not like they ever told me not to go in there but I always kind of felt it was almost holy, for adults only. Maybe I got that impression because they usually closed the door when they went in there. Anyway, I was getting desperate and this was important. I ventured into the room and tip-toed silently around, peeking under this and inside that. I don’t know why I was being so quiet … it’s not like I was going to wake anyone up!

At last, there was only one place left, only one place in the whole house … their closet. A quick once-over revealed there was no engine at kid level so that just left the top shelf. I carefully positioned a chair, took off my shoes so as not to leave any evidence, peered over the shelf and poked around a little. There, half-hidden under a quilt was an oblong box that read “Lionel Lines” on the side. I had to be sure. The end was only folded shut. No tape. My heart was nearly pounding out of my chest as one-by-one I opened each flap … and revealed the shiny silver and red nose of a Santa Fe diesel! My momentary delight suddenly gave way to a dizzying sadness and I felt empty, like someone had let all the air out of me. The butterflies in my stomach formed a knot the size of a real locomotive … and I took one giant step out of kidhood. Simon Sez, “Grow up.”

Christmases were never quite the same after that for a very long time. Then one day, I found myself staring into a pair of teddy bear brown eyes and heard a small voice excitedly talking all about what Santa Claus was going to bring that night. We hung a fuzzy red stocking from the fireplace mantle and set out the obligatory glass of milk, plate of cookies and a couple of carrots for the reindeer. Then I tried to sleep.

In the morning, for the first time since I stood on that chair in my Mom and Dad’s closet, I felt the special tingle of Christmas butterflies dancing in my stomach … as the keeper of those eyes gleefully rushed a mountain of presents under the tree, and I realized that there is a Santa Claus after all. You just have to know where to find him.

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

Hundreds of American flags surrounded the old brick town hall … to the right, to the left and all the way up the block as far as the eye could see. As I turned to lock my car, I realized the park across the street was filled with fluttering flags, too. Affixed to each flag’s standard was the name and picture of an American military hero from Monroe County who was either currently serving our country, or had made the supreme sacrifice in defense of freedom.

As I mounted the first step to the hall where the reception was being held, I was drawn to look one more time at the sea of red, white and blue behind me. Two thoughts elbowed their way past the vision of my friend and his new bride greeting me with broad smiles at the top of the stairs.

To begin with, a patriotic display like this wouldn’t be possible back home. Some malcontent who finds the symbol of our great nation offensive would show up with his fat wallet and fancy lawyer to rip it down, instead of simply averting his allegedly offended eyes. And speaking of things that offend, I couldn’t help but think how it sandpapers my skin to see occasions like the Fourth of July so heavily commercialized for profit or, even worse, re-defined to fit some political agenda … as are so many celebrations of American exceptionalism. The people in this area actually get it! No wonder the last time I returned from Tennessee I told my friends, “I just spent a week in America.”

Only a few days ago, a national figure seized upon the occasion of our nation’s birth to misrepresent The Statue of Liberty, herself, as a statue of immigration! Perhaps he was confused by Emma Lazarus’ poem which was added to the pedestal many years after Miss Liberty was erected.

In fact, The Statue stands for the freedom and democracy won during our revolutionary war … so much admired by the French that they gifted us with the great lady of the harbor as a sign of friendship in 1886. Like our flag, which has carried freedom forward to so many darkened corners of the world, her torch illuminates those corners and brings the light of hope to the oppressed. While she may often have been the first glorious sight for those seeking America’s opportunity, it is Ellis Island that was immigration’s front door until 1954.

As my long sleeved jacket and tight white collar generated more than a bead of perspiration in the summer sun, I imagined how stifling the room must have been in Philadelphia as John Adams, Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, Robert R. Livingston and Roger Sherman hammered out the details of The Declaration of Independence in 1776. Parades, speeches, bedding sales and barbecues notwithstanding, think of the verbal fireworks at the Continental Congress, as our founding fathers lit the fuse for that first Fourth of July!

As I watched the field of flags waving in the summer sun, I reflected upon the sacrifices by all those who made it possible for me to be there that afternoon, without fear of reprisal for what I might say or do … made it possible to pass safely and unimpeded from state to state and shake the hand of a good friend beginning a new life.

We ate, drank and danced as a caring couple swore their devotion to each other before God, no matter what the future might bring. It reminded me of a group of caring patriots who pledged their lives, fortunes and sacred honor to a new nation a few hundred years ago. As I thought about the optimism of that couple and the dedication of those founders, I prayed that we would always have this great freedom to celebrate and a field of flags to tell the story of our resolve, no matter what the future might bring.

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.

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