She wasn’t my first love but she was the first female to inflict womanly pain upon my soul. My first love was Lucy Williams in kindergarten. We once shared a mat during rest period and a couple of crayons afterword. Next was Laura Gail Fitzsimmons in the first grade, but she never knew it. She had flaming red hair, a few discretely placed freckles and kept a small lace handkerchief in her sleeve.

Miss Crystal was, actually, my third love … an older woman with whom I became smitten in the second grade. She was the trifecta, the hat trick, the ultimate in kid crushes! She was also the first to break my heart. From the moment I saw her, I knew she was the girl I would marry someday … as soon as I caught up with her. You see, Miss Crystal was my second grade teacher. That meant I had some serious growing to do before Read the rest of this entry

A buddy of mine asked his readers for Christmas stories on his blog The Dick Summer Connection … and among the many responses he received, this one jumped right off the page. Most guys have experienced something similar, although I would hope less extreme. Dick said I could share the story, so from my house to yours, here’s Bill Ervolino’s house. Whew!

 I thought it would be a nice idea to bring a date to my parents’ house on Christmas Eve. I thought it would be interesting for a non-Italian girl to see how an Italian family spends the holidays. I thought my mother and my date would hit it off like partridges and pear trees. So, I was wrong. Sue me.

I had only known Karen for three weeks when I extended the invitation. “I know these family things can be a little weird,” I told her, “but my folks are great, and we always have a lot of fun on Christmas Eve.” “Sounds fine to me,” Karen said. 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

There I was, perched atop a kitchen stool in front of the ‘island’ I so carefully placed when I designed the kitchen … sipping my morning java and watching Vigi prepare to leave for work. My job was to fresh brew and package her coffee. Hers was to build a sandwich, gather together her daily survival gear and find her car keys. She has more getting ready to do than I because she’s the one who is working. As you know by now, I’m retired. I didn’t mean to be, I just am.

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.

Smells of smoldering charcoal and simmering burgers drifted across the meadow as I settled deeper into the leather of my time machine … top down, stars up and my best girl reclined in the seat to my right. A gaggle of children painted pictures with sparklers as they giggled and whirled their way across the grassy knoll in front of us. A single fireball shot skyward, confirming our perfect parking place for the pyrotechnics to come.

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.

Sometimes I can’t tell where Vigi’s sandals leave off and mine begin. I chose sandals instead of pumps or oxfords because they’re open and leave plenty of space, much like my lovely lady herself. They were also the first thing I saw as she glided toward me the first time we met.  As my eyes crept upward from her toes, they revealed a pair of neat white slacks, then a pressed white blouse, and finally a deliciously dark tan topped off with tresses of sun-bleached blond hair. My mind photographed the image more clearly and more indelibly than anything a camera could have recorded. I filled in more personal detail on the way back down.

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.

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.