Father’s Day Weekend

Father’s Day Weekend

Comments 0 Comment

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

2 He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

3 He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.

4 Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

5 Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

6 Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

 

 

It’s Father’s Day Weekend.

Last Monday I was in church.

A church I have attended off and on for the last 27 years.

The plaque on the wall outside reads “Addition 1998.”

I remember the first time I attended this church, my future father-in-law gave me a tour of the new addition he had worked so hard to make a reality.

An addition that even included an elevator, knowing his knees could only be replaced so many times.

That was July of 1998, and I had gone up to Somerset to surprise Kim and run the Daily American 10K.  At that time Donny and Savannah would spend summers on the farm and running this race was kind of a family thing.

Even that first weekend, without introduction, I was redirected from my hotel room just off the Somerset exit of the Pennsylvania Turnpike and was invited to stay at the farmhouse.  Once there I remember Kim’s mom pointing out the window and explaining the acreage, the barn, the corn,  the milking parlor, and the dairy cows.  I was way, way, out of my element (“have you got any waves here?” you know, that sort of thing).

Even further out of my element at the time, it was mandatory to attend church. This same church, a Church of the Brethren church, Geiger Church of the Brethren.  Not a washed out Methodist Church (as my father-in-law would say sometimes) a Brethren church. I think I had to borrow clothes to dress for church that morning.

Over the years I listened to many good sermons, preached by three different pastors and even one of my all-time favorites delivered by a lay speaker.  I attended the Sunday school class.  I would experience the Brethren ritual of Holy Communion and be humbled by the act of having my feet washed and kneeling to wash another brother’s feet.  I would experience my then father-in-law singing a solo to my mother-in-law in church on her birthday in what I thought was maybe the greatest act of love I could witness.

 

Then last Monday, I was there once again.

Maybe for the very last time.

Listening to the 23rd Psalm.

A Psalm that is often read at funerals.

A Psalm I heard read the last time I was here.

Now I am hearing it read again.

 

Thursday, May 29th, I got a haircut.

Getting a haircut is not something I would normally write about, but in this story, it is important.

Kim and I were planning to go see Kim’s mom that upcoming weekend, and my mother-in-law had never liked my hair long.  So, I would usually try to get a haircut before going up to visit, so I could say “mom, do you like my haircut?”

And she would say, “No, I don’t like it long, it’s not short enough!”

But as it turned out, Kim’s mom took a turn for the worse that Friday and was admitted to the hospital in Johnstown.  We decided it would be best for Kim to go up alone in case she needed to stay longer.  I had a throbbing toothache and an emergency dentist visit scheduled for Monday, and as much as I hated to go to the dentist, I didn’t want to miss that experience.

That would begin maybe the longest week that I could remember since Donny’s accident.

Monitoring my mother-in-law’s condition, my dental anxiety, communicating mostly through texts with Kim as I was once again “home alone,” since the cell service is still spotty in that part of the world, it was stressful for all.   I took the opportunity with Kim not home to further prepare for our downsizing, filling the garage and our living room with everything I could identify that needed to go to auction while I waited for the phone call that would give me the green light to move all that stuff to the sale.

Thursday morning, I got the phone call.  There was no room for our stuff in the upcoming sale and the next opportunity wouldn’t be until August at the earliest.

Though I was disappointed to say the least, with my garage and my living room unusable,  now I could just worry about Kim’s mom and Kim.

As it really should have been.

Kim, much like after Donny’s accident when she would describe being lifted by the Holy Spirit that carried her through and set the example for the rest of us, remained by her mom’s side all week as she went from hospital, back to Laurel View Village, her room and then to Hospice care.  Once again, setting the example.

Very early Friday morning, Kim’s mom Faye, went home to be with Jesus, with Kim and her sister Kathy at their mom’s bedside.

As I drove off the Pennsylvania Turnpike on my way to Geiger Church of the Brethren on Monday, past the hotel where I spent that Friday night in July of 1998, I thought about the nice welcome I received from Kim’s mom that first introduction, and how out of place I felt, though it now seemed kind of silly.

Over the years I got over that and eventually I became my mother-in-law’s favorite son-in-law, ignoring the fact that I was her only son-in-law, I wore that title well, often bragging to the other residents at Laurel View of my status.

 

Now it is the weekend, and we have had some days to move from sleeplessness and sadness to a time for decompression and the nice memories that will keep Faye always alive in our hearts.

Though it is Father’s Day weekend, I couldn’t think of a better way to spend it, writing about the mother-in-law I grew to love, and sharing time with my mother and my wife.

As I watch the gentle waves spawned by the wakes of passing boats out on the water and throw in the crab pots, I find myself thinking about cows, the milking parlor, corn knee high by the Fourth of July, and my favorite mother-in-law.

Nice memories.

I hope you are allowing for some decompression time too, honoring your fathers, and your mothers, as well.

Happy Father’s Day weekend.

Postscript:

A happy life and happy memories require many nice people to help make that happen.  I have experienced many in western Pennsylvania as I have often shared in these writings.  Thanks to Linda and John Stoner, the pastors, and all the nice people who were a part of Faye and Royal’s life in the church and the community, and in Kim’s life.  And especially for making last Monday special.

The many friendships we made with the residents and the staff at Laurel View Village, we will miss greatly.  And the great care Faye received will never be forgotten. Maybe there is another Que Classic in our future and a visit.

 

See look here, she was probably telling me to get a haircut
the farm
Donny and I and some cows

 

The 10K Tee shirt from July 11, 1998
Dentophobia

Dentophobia

Comments 5 comments

I lay there tethered to the chair by the mask pumping gas into my nose.

The bright light shining directly into my face was dimmed only by the shaded glasses meant to protect my eyes from objects unforeseen.

All the prayers I had uttered in the days and hours leading up to this moment seemed to be in vain as my heart raced and my hands gripped whatever I could grab on to.

“Jesus why have you forsaken me?” I questioned to myself, unable to speak, my mouth chocked open like the exit door I would have liked to be going through.

Why?

It’s too late, I am trapped, fight or flight is not an option for me.

Gagging and choking, I begged God for the end to come quickly.

 

 

Fear and anxiety are horrible things.

The following, according to the internet, are said to be the top 10 fears or phobias:

  • Arachnophobia: an intense fear of spiders and other arachnids
  • Ophidiophobia: an intense fear of snakes
  • Acrophobia: an intense fear of heights
  • Aerophobia: an intense fear of flying
  • Cynophobia: an intense fear of dogs
  • Astraphobia: an intense fear of thunder and lightning
  • Trypanophobia: an intense fear of injections
  • Social phobia: an intense fear of social interactions
  • Agoraphobia: an intense fear of places that are difficult to escape, sometimes involving a fear of crowded or open spaces
  • Mysophobia: an intense fear of germs, dirt, and other contaminants

I have a couple of sons-in-law who fit the bill with the spiders.

And Kim hates needles and snakes so I guess she is trypanophobic and ophidiophobic.

I suffer from a little acrophobia and agoraphobia.

But my real fear is not on the list of top ten.

My real phobia is… Dentophobia.

Fear of the dentist.

Though I have never enjoyed going to the dentist, I haven’t always had the level of fear and anxiety about going to the dentist that I have now.

It was one botched root canal and subsequent root canal to fix the botched one that put me over the edge.

Having no more patience, I went to an oral surgeon who put me to sleep and took what was left of the tooth out entirely.  Bingo,  I woke up and the problem was gone and I didn’t remember a thing.

But since then, other than cleanings, which I now hate as well, I have avoided dealing with issues with my teeth.

Until this week.

Two broken crowns I had been living with for quite a while finally had to be repaired.

So, I found a dentist that was supposed to help me with my dental anxiety.

Nitrous Oxide was the plan.

A good plan maybe?

Maybe for most.

But I learned, on the battlefield and under fire, that I must have a high tolerance to Nitrous Oxide.

Because it didn’t phase me a bit.

And for two hours I endured the equivalent of spiders, snakes, and dogs crawling all over me while I was trapped flying high in a small plane with no way out in a thunderstorm, as I laid helpless in a pool of dirt, germs, and other contaminants.

It was awful.

I couldn’t return to work.

I was too traumatized.

 

And to top it off, that night, another small ache I had been ignoring in a tooth on the other side of my mouth suddenly became a big ache.

Probably the result of constant teeth clenching I was experiencing in the weeks leading up to my appointment.

So as a result, the anxiety set in again.

Now what was I going to do?

I contemplated calling the oral surgeon again and just having it pulled because at this point I am thinking who needs teeth,  I would rather be tube fed than to have to go through what I went through with the dentist.

But then I thought it would be weird to show up for my follow up appointment to have my permanent crowns put in, and for them to find another tooth was missing out of my mouth.

“Wasn’t there a tooth there a few weeks ago?”

“A tooth?  What tooth?”

No that would be awkward.

So, I called my dentist back and explained my problem, asked for a different plan, and made an appointment.

So far however, I haven’t heard the new plan.

I may still need that oral surgeon.

In the meantime I will suffer with my anxiety.

Because according to the Cleveland Clinic, in addition to the chills, dizziness, sweating, heart palpations, nausea, shaking, and upset stomach that dentophobia can cause, some people may experience:

  • Crying when thinking about going to the dentist
  • And have insomnia before a dental appointment

So, Kim, don’t be surprised if I keep you up until my appointment on Monday.

Hand me a tissue, its going to be a long weekend.

Vee Get Too Soon Old…Undt Too Late Schmart

Vee Get Too Soon Old…Undt Too Late Schmart

Comments 0 Comment

Do you Curt, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to live together in matrimony, to love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health, in sorrow and in joy, to have and to hold, from this day forward, as long as you both shall live…No matter how many pieces of Pennsbury Pottery she collects?

“I do.”

And Do you Kim, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to live together in matrimony, to love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health, in sorrow and in joy, to have and to hold, from this day forward, as long as you both shall live…No matter how many pieces of horse racing memorabilia he collects?

“I do.”

 

And that was that.

A match made in antique, collectible Heaven.

I now pronounce you…

Overwhelmed.

 

Some years back in addition to being obsessed with each other, we learned that we both shared another obsession…old stuff and collecting old stuff.

That made birthdays and holidays easy.

We just bought each other old stuff.

And when we bought our house, we replaced the modern doors with old doors, we replaced the window shades with old shutters, we replaced the entrance hallway closet doors with the front of an old outhouse, and so on and so on.

And when tragedy struck and the “in sorrow” part was put to the test, I decided we needed something to do to distract us in our time of grieving, so I got a Dorchester County, Maryland business license and rented a corner of antique store in Cambridge, Maryland and Christiansen’s Antiques and Collectibles was born.

Soon we expanded to a second location in Sterling, Virginia and then a third in Lucketts, Virginia.

Then one day while buying inventory at Quinn’s Auction House in Falls Church Virginia the auctioneer held up a box that contained two pottery mugs, one with an Amish woman and one with an Amish man.

“Look at those,” I thought, “Amish people…Kim might like that.”

So, I bought them and brought them home.

Then shortly after that, at Tillet’s Auction in Ashburn, Virginia, the auctioneer held up a pottery bread plate, that read “our daily bread” and looked very similar to those Amish mugs.

“Gee,” I thought again, “Kim might like that.”

So, I bought it and brought it home.

And thus, the first three pieces of Pennsbury Pottery found someone to have and to hold them, from that day forward.

And they were fruitful, propagating until there were many more to love.

MANY, MANY more.

 

To be fair however, I had my sickness too, and in my sorrow and in my joy, my office became the racing memorabilia mecca of the east coast.  Derby glasses, Haskell hats, Triple Crown, Breeder’s Cup, Preakness this and that, Monmouth Park everything, and walls loaded with photos of those moments in horse racing history that gave me…

Goosebumps.

 

But now, with my 69th birthday looming in the not-too-distant future and imagining God whispering in the back of my head “Hey buddy, you’re getting old you know, what do you think you are going to do with all of that STUFF.  You know you can’t take it with you…we got rules up here. We got an HOA, you know what that stands for don’t you?”

I know I know, but it’s so hard, it took me so long to accumulate all this STUFF, and who is going to promise to have and to hold and to love and to comfort all of them like I did?

 

Why is it nobody prepares you for what it is going to be like to grow old and retire.

Growing up in New Jersey my vision of retirement was white loafers, white belts, driver’s hats, cigars, golf clubs, and Bocce ball.

And maybe a gold chain.

Relaxation, on a pension.

 

Now it’s fifty or sixty years later and I am starting to panic.

I don’t have any white loafers.

And before I can move into my one story small house without the stairs that I can fall down, and in a warmer climate with no snow or ice that I can fall down on, I have to get rid of some of this STUFF.

 

But it’s hard.

And it’s depressing.

Kim and I spent a long time and had a lot of fun accumulating all this STUFF.

 

And we decorated our house the way we wanted it to look.

But what now?

Who is going to buy a house with the front of an outhouse greeting them inside the front door?

 

And what do we do with all the  STUFF we collected?

 

Last weekend we began the process in earnest of preparing to downsize.

Preparing to say goodbye to many of those things that brought us so much joy over the years.

Some we will sell ourselves, most will go to auction.

I am having a hard time with it.

I am having a hard time realizing that getting old and preparing for retirement isn’t all white loafers and Bocce ball.

So if you are young and reading this, let me give you some advice.

Be careful what you accumulate.

It can be overwhelming.

And remember what God said:

 

You can’t take it with you, and…

they have rules up there you know.

 

 

 

Postscript:

Though we no longer sell antiques at any rented locations, we do continue to operate our business on a smaller scale online.  We now call it Kim’s Vintage Cool Stuff.  Most everything we buy now is intended to be sold with an occasional item getting squirreled away when I am not looking.

Pennsbury Pottery by the way is no longer in existence and was established in Morrisville Pennsylvania around 1950.  The items are very unique and the company often made commemorative items for companies as well as dinnerware.  The most valuable piece of Pennsbury Pottery is said to be the lost piece made for Walt Disney.  If anybody wants some I know where you can find a few.

 

Some of Kim’s Pennsbury Pottery
Some of my glasses
Some more of Kim’s Pennsbury Pottery
Some of my hats, mostly Haskell
Just a couple of many Goosebump moments, and more hats
Ain’t No Grave Gonna Hold My Body Down

Ain’t No Grave Gonna Hold My Body Down

Comments 1 comment

“Oh, there was a battle, a war between death and life
And there on a tree, the lamb of God was crucified
And he went on down to hell, he took back every key
And he rose up as a lion and he set all captives free” (from Ain’t No Grave)

 

Young Claude Ely was twelve years old in 1934.  Despite his young age Claude, sick with tuberculosis,  was dying. He claims to have spontaneously been inspired to perform and ultimately write the song “Ain’t No Grave” while his family was praying over him.

Now that is some inspiration.

Maybe I should get my family to pray over me.

It’s Easter.

I was listening to some music on YouTube this week, music videos created by the folks at Christ Church in Easton, Maryland, including one of “Ain’t No Grave”, and had a flashback to Easter of 2020.  Deep in the woes of the pandemic, on that Easter Sunday, Kim and I had a sunrise service by ourselves with coffee and the internet on the patio, under the canopy with the fire pit. That morning Kim shared a music video with me that someone had shared with her.

It was awesome.

That was the beginning of an online relationship with Christ Church’s music videos, which were and remain extremely well done, as well as the sermons of Father Bill Ortt.

My friend Frank, who, about a month after that Easter Sunday in 2020 would pass away from complications of the Covid virus, was always encouraging and once told me to keep writing and that I could weave a good story.

I don’t know how true that is anymore, but I felt the same about Bill Ortt’s sermons.  He could weave a story into a sermon better than anyone I had ever heard before or since.

Kim and I were fortunate to have attended a couple of services live at Christ Church in Easton and met briefly many of those we had come to be familiar with in the videos.

Unfortunately for us, but good for him, Bill Ortt has since retired, but I still go back and listen to his sermons and his stories from time to time.

 

Young Claude Ely eventually recovered from his illness and became a songwriter and preacher.

I suppose one could argue that we have never fully recovered from ours.  We lost friends, learning time, worship opportunities, job routines; many suffer long term post covid or post vaccine health issues.  We lost time with family, time that with some family will never be able to be made up.

Now it’s five years later, and whatever change we experienced is now baked into our routines, and except for the occasional reminder, it seems like ages ago.

And unlike that Easter Sunday in April of 2020, we are able to worship together again.  My mother, Kim, and I attended the Easter service at the Milton Methodist Church in Woolford along with 78  members of our Woolford church family.

 

It’s Easter.

And if you believe like I believe, you know there ain’t no grave that can hold us.

And today we celebrate that.

And so, we have hope.

Because we received Grace.

 

Happy Easter.

Jesus said unto her, “I am the resurrection and the Life. He that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live

 

 

Postscript:

That first video Kim shared on Easter morning from Christ Church was one featuring James Coleman titled “Jesus I Believe.”

The photo above was taken this morning at church.  The lily “tree” behind us was built by my father, originally for poinsettias at Christmas, but they leave it up year round now.

ære din far og mor

ære din far og mor

Comments 2 comments

Ephesians 6:1-3

Children, obey your parents because you belong to the Lord, for this is the right thing to do.  “Honor your father and mother.” This is the first commandment with a promise:  If you honor your father and mother “things will go well for you, and you will have a long life on the earth.”

 

I heard a good sermon recently.  It was about family dynamics, all aspects really, fathers and mothers; fathers and their children; children and their parents.

Honor your father and your mother and things will go well for you, and you will have a long life on earth. 

I hope my kids are paying attention.

And they want a long life.

 

Today would have been my dad’s 96th birthday. Needless to say I miss my dad, I miss him sharing stories, I miss sharing his stories.

My dad wrote the note above to his Uncle Gustav in Norway, and sent it along with the photo posted.  I am not exactly sure of the date of the photo, but I am going to guess based on how Kim and I look,  it was around 2001, so my dad would have been just a few years older than I am right now.  This note and the photo, were shared with me by one of Uncle Gustav’s daughters, one of my dad’s cousins.

A couple of months ago, I was researching my mother’s great-grandfather Charles H. Rosch, who also had some interesting stories to tell that I hope to share someday, in my My Heritage account.

I found the name of a person who was also digging into that side of my family and decided to reach out to her using the My Heritage messaging component, an area of the app I had never visited.

Once there, I sent my message and then noticed I had a message in my inbox from May of 2023, a month before my father died.  The message was from a cousin of my dad’s named Bjørg.  She explained in her message that her father was Talmar Gustav Jansen, and that Bolette (my grandmother Sophie, Bolette was her first name) was her aunt and that she was the youngest grandchild of Grete and Theodor Jansen, my father’s grandparents.

So it turns out that Bjørg, is my father’s youngest cousin and is in fact younger than me at 67 years old.  My grandmother had many siblings, Uncle Gustav was the youngest and only four years old when my grandmother emigrated through Ellis Island to America.

Eventually, Gustav himself would come to the United States.  He had his fiancée Anna come over from Norway, and they were married in Brooklyn.  My father’s family attended the event, and I have seen photos of their wedding.  According to Bjørg, her two oldest siblings were born in the U.S.  Then, after about ten years, Gustav and Anna returned to Norway with their children.

In my Norwegian American family, legend had it that “onkel” Gustav returned to Norway and introduced American-style split-level houses to Norway.

Having always heard that story, of course, I had to ask Bjørg if that was accurate.

Bjørg confirmed that to be true and even said a local newspaper wrote an article about it.  She also said he traveled back and forth from Norway to the United States many times, bringing back cars and other items he could sell for “good money” in Norway.

I guess my brother Carl and I got that family buying and selling trait honestly.

When my dad was still active on Facebook, he told us he was communicating with at least one of his cousins in Norway.  It turns out it was not Bjørg since she is not active on Facebook (a smart one), but she suggested that it might be another cousin named Ove Ludvigsen.  So I dipped into my dad’s Facebook page and sure enough, I found Ove. And just last night, I reached out to Ove myself on social media.  Ove is the son of my grandmother’s sister Ragna Johanne.

I must say, when I first read that first message from Bjørg, and I realized I had received it only a month before my dad left us, I was very sad.  I know it would have made him really happy to learn another one of his cousins was reaching out to him.

Instead, I apologized to Bjørg and explained that I was just now seeing her message and that my dad had passed away about a month after her inquiry.

Now, almost two years later, it is I who is really happy to have connected with family, hear their stories, and share my dad with them.

And even though Bjørg admits that her “engelsk” is not that good, she has since mastered Google Translate and has been able to learn about my dad through the stories he shared with me.

 

Honor your father and your mother and things will go well for you, and you will have a long life on earth. 

My father role modeled that for us.  He and his siblings took good care of my grandparents in their later years.

And he lived a long life.

I don’t know how that is going to work out for me and Kim and our siblings.  It didn’t work out so well for Carl and he was a great example.  But all we can do is try our best.

The rest is in God’s hands.

 

And once again, with my father providing the inspiration, I am again reminded of the words of Nichole Spector:

…the fact that in the end, we all become stories. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, sure, but also: words to words.

More words to words, more words to share.

And to answer your question, Pop, according to Bjørg, your grandfather lived to be 99 years old.

So thanks Pop, and Happy Birthday.

 

Postscript:

ære din far og mor means honor thy father and mother in Norwegian…I think…

 

Uncle Gustav’s split-level in Norway

 

My great-grandparents Grete and Theodor Jansen


My grandfather Carl Oskar Christiansen with Sophie, Tante Helen (my grandmother’s only sister to come to America), and Gustav


 


Uncle Gustav and Anna’s wedding


 


Farsund, the area of Norway where my grandmother is from.  Looks nice, huh?


							


	

			



											



	
	        

        	        	
                                             
        

        
	

		Anyday, Anyway
					

				Anyday, Anyway
			

		
				

			
 
 Comments  2 comments

		

			


			

				
This week, the nagging song in my head has been Anyday by Derek and the Dominos, written by Eric Clapton and Bobby Whitlock and from the album Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs.


Anyday, anyday, I will see you smile.

Any way, any way, just for a little, just for a little while.


It’s not that I am complaining, it’s a classic, but I think all this was triggered this week by the word anyway.


You know how we often heard Joe Biden end his sentences with the word “anyway” as his thought process trailed off.


“…Anyway..”


The fact is, my wife had someone point out to her that she often ends a thought by saying “anyway”.


I had never noticed that, but we thought it was funny and it turns out I do it as well so now we find ourselves pointing it out each time one of us does it.


Well…anyway…


Sunday morning drinking my coffee and reading my emails, I received an email from one of the many I get that are related to word meanings or grammar usage, and low and behold, this one was asking the grammatical question: “is it anyway or anyways?”


 


Last Friday, I headed out to the Eastern Shore to attend the Eastern Shore Writers Association’s annual Bay to Ocean Writers Conference. I have attended a few of these over the years, my first in 2017. It got me thinking about the fact that I wrote my first post on Musings of an Aging Nobody on New Year’s Day 2016 which means this is the tenth year I have been doing this. At the time the “Aging Nobody” part of the title was meant in a kind of a tongue in cheek way.  I was all fired up, I was going to take that sabbatical and write that book.


Now ten years later the tongue is out of the cheek and I am facing the cold reality.


I am truly an aging nobody.


Driving out to the Eastern Shore without my wife allowed me to listen to my 60s golden oldies on SiriusXM that cause Kim anxiety but make me happy.  But how is it I can remember all the words to Build Me Up Buttercup when sometimes I can’t remember what I did last week.


I am beginning to understand Joe Biden better.


It used to be I would get an idea, pull my truck off the road, and put down seven hundred words right there in a parking lot.


That is not so easy now. Though I am sure some of that is due to external distractions, Lord knows we have a few of those these days, but that aging part is tough.


Fewer words are hitting the paper with far too much time in between.


Last year I registered to attend this same conference but decided at the last minute not to go since I hadn’t been writing much and thought it may be a waste of time.


This year I decided to go hoping it might motivate me to have more of those pull the truck off the road moments.


Maybe it helped a little, I have gotten this far…


But anyway…


You don’t want to hear all that.


 


But let’s see, is it anyway or anyways?


Well according to the Word Smart email I received, in a nutshell:


“Anyway” is the standard, formal version of the word. This useful adverb means “in any case” or “without regard to other considerations.”   It can also signify an additional consideration or a shift in thought. The alternate spelling, “anyways,” retains the same meaning and is listed in Merriam-Webster as a dialectical or informal U.S. spelling of “anyway.”


 


There you have it, in case you were wondering, and I am sure you were.


 


Well anyway…


It’s been fun so I think I will keep doing it.


And any day, in any way, if I can make you smile (or cry maybe), even if it’s just for a little while, it’s worth it.


							


	

			



											



	
	        

        	        	
                                             
        

        
	

		Christmas 2024
					

				Christmas 2024
			

		
				

			
 
 Comments  2 comments

		

			


			

				
From across the parking lot, the ringing of the handbell could be heard as they approached the grocery store.  Reluctantly, but not wanting to portray a bad example for the children, the curmudgeonish grandfather reached into his pocket. He began to peel off a one-dollar bill to put in the bucket manned by a nice young lady all dressed festively in red just like the bucket hanging on the tripod.


But before the old man could make his move with his one-dollar bill, his young grandson opened his wallet, took out a twenty and bounded toward the young lady and her bucket, rolling up the bill and stuffing it in the slot.


“Hey bud that was a twenty dollar bill you put in there,” said the grandfather queryingly.


“I know, I just wanted to…” the boy replied.


“Well, that was very nice of you.”


After picking out the groceries and making sure everything on the list was there, along with a few additional items that always seem to end up in the grocery basket when grandchildren are shopping with their grandparents, they checked out and started their trip back to car exiting the store.


The young lady in red was still ringing.


The little boy stopped, reaching again for his wallet with his eyes getting big.


“Wait,” said the grandfather seeing what was again about to happen, “you already gave twenty bucks.”


But the little boy was determined and dashed down the sidewalk, once again to the red bucket, this time putting in a ten-dollar bill.


“Why did you do that” the old man inquired a second time.


“I just wanted to,” said the boy.


“Well, that was really very nice of you.”


 


On Christmas Eve the boys made sugar cookies with their grandmother, in shapes of Christmas trees, and snowmen, and gingerbread houses; they decorated the cookies in their own way with red and green sprinkles and icing.


Then they packed up their cookies in Christmas tins and containers and headed over to the local fire station.  Once there, they rang the doorbell as the instructions advised and waited.  A fireman appeared from the back and opened the door.  The cookies, it was explained, were made for the fireman who had to work on Christmas.  And because they were made with some almond flour, the cookies came with a warning in case there was a fireman allergic to nuts. The fireman invited the boys, their mom and grandparents into the firehouse and asked the boys if they would like to see the fire engines.


Of course!  And two nice firemen gave the boys the tour of the fire engine and thanked the boys for bringing them cookies.


 


Gee.


A couple of nice and unexpected Christmas stories.


Kim and I were determined to minimize the stress of Christmas this year.


The Christmas decorations remained in their boxes and storage bins.


The plans for a Christmas card and Christmas letter for 2024 were abandoned.


Instructions were given to the kids that we were going to keep things simple this year, keeping gifts to $25 gift cards for the adults and focusing only on Ethan, Christian, and Cameron.


And to top that off, we were going on a road trip and wouldn’t be home for Christmas in Herndon. Kim and I were going to take our time and drive to Florida to spend Christmas with the Florida family.


No decorating, no cooking, no entertaining, no major gift giving and unwrapping, no trash…


No stress.


So, after having an early Christmas dinner with the Northern Virginia crew and exchanging our gift cards, Kim and I packed up and left for Florida on Saturday the 21st.   I made sure that before I left the house, I hung some greenery on the front door so we wouldn’t look too much like those people.


You know…scrooges.


Those people.


 


We took our time, stopping in Santee, South Carolina in time to watch the Steeler’s game in a local establishment called The Oasis where everyone was nice to us.


The next day, we finished our trip to Oviedo in time to celebrate Namaan’s birthday on Sunday.


We had a great week, took the kids to one of those bouncy places, saw an awesome movie called Sonic the Hedgehog 3, went to Cracker Barrel; wandered the neighborhood capturing Pokémon; played games, watched more Steeler’s and bowl games; ate, drank, and was merry…


But not at our house.


It was awesome.


Then with Christmas over, on Friday morning we took off to take even more time getting home.


We spent some time in Savannah, Georgia walking up and down River Street, taking a dinner cruise on an old river boat, doing some shopping and more merriment.


And, everyone we encountered, and we talked to many, were exceptionally nice.


The next morning, we stopped in Hardeeville, South Carolina and visited with our sister-in-law Teesha.


Then it was up the road to Fayetteville where we spent our last night, having dinner, watching old movies and yup, everyone was nice.


Sunday, we arrived home, ordered some Chinese food, watched football and went to bed.


We didn’t have to clean up or put away any decorations.


No stress.


 


On Christmas Eve, the kids put out eighteen carrots for the reindeer, some of those Christmas sugar cookies they baked and decorated, and some milk and candy canes.


Along with a letter that went like this:


Dear Santa Claus


I’m sorry I didn’t give you a candy cane last year so here’s 2.  I also am giving each reindeer 2 carrots.  I’m sorry for the bad things I’ve done this year.  I tried to make up for it by giving $30 to the Salvation Army and giving cookies to firefighters.  Thank you for being so nice and generous to people all over the world.


From, Christian Salem 12/24/2024


(address)


Oviedo, FL 32766


Warning!  These cookies have almond flour, do not eat if you have nut allergies


 


Yeesh.


Kim, get me a tissue again.


Nice…somehow, I don’t think he learned that from the guy reluctant to give up a buck.


I need redemption.


Dear Santa,


I too am sorry for all the bad things I have done this year.


I’m sorry I didn’t decorate the Christmas tree and only hung the green thing on the front door.


I’m sorry I had such a hard time squeezing that one dollar bill out of my pocket to give to the Salvation Army.


I’m sorry I was so cheap, only giving out $25 gift cards and didn’t send any Christmas cards.


And I don’t have any carrots or homemade cookies, but I do have some homemade wine for next year.


But I too also thank you for being so nice to people all over the world.


And I would like to thank all those people and family who were so nice to Kim and I this Christmas.


I will try to do better next year.


From, Curt   12/31/2024


Herndon, VA 20170


And Warning, watch the wine, it contains Sulfites!


 


I think the best gift I got from this Christmas was experiencing how nice people can be.


And that I don’t want to be one of those people.


You know…those people.


That’s right, and next year, I might even up those gift cards to $50.


 


Merry Christmas everybody!


And we hope your 2025 and ours turn out to be a happy ones.


Kim, Curt, Cameron, Ethan, Christian, Savannah, Leon, Hayley, Malcolm, Alexa, Namaan, and Donny too.


 


Postscript:


The photo on the card was taken after Hayley and Malcolm’s wedding last May when the whole crew was in Northern Virginia.


Kim and I hope everyone had a Merry Christmas and thank you for all the cards and letters we received. And a special shout out to my cousin Judy, my sister, and my wife for some nudges in the Christmas spirit direction.


 






							


	

			



											



	
	        

        	        	
                                             
        

        
	

		Ghosts of Christmases Past 2
					

				Ghosts of Christmases Past 2
			

		
				

			
 
 Comments  1 comment

		

			


			

				
“On Christmas Eve many years ago I laid quietly in my bed.  I did not rustle the sheets, I breathed slowly and silently.  I was listening for a sound I was afraid I would never hear: the sound of Santa’s sleigh bells.”  (from The Polar Express)


 


We moved into the split-level house my dad built in late 1960 from the bungalow next door.


My brother Gary was born in May 1961, ending my nearly five-year reign as the youngest child and immediately thrusting me into the abyss of middle-child status. Not that I was bitter; who wanted all that attention anyway?


My sister Patty had her own room. Carl and I shared a bedroom that my dad designed for all three boys once Gary graduated from the crib in my parent’s bedroom. My bed was on the end, Carl in the middle, and Gary would be in the first bed.


Since my parents were the “early adopters” so to speak of having children amongst their friends, Christmas Eves at our house always included our extended family of my parent’s adult friends, mostly firemen and their wives,  since they had to be home to prepare Christmas for us.


And then came the hour on Christmas Eve when we were all three ushered up to bed, while the adults continued the festivities below.  Once in bed we busted out the Dan Electro transistor radios and followed Santa’s travels on WMCA or WABC radio out of New York City.


Sleep didn’t come easy but eventually, it would.  In the morning whoever woke up first would wake up the others and we would all huddle at the top of the steps because we couldn’t go down the stairs until my mother and father got up.


One of us got picked to sneak down the stairs and do some scouting to see if Santa had really come.  That changed as we all got older, depending on “your persuasion on the Big Man,” and was typically the younger believer, which like I said earlier and in case you forgot, was me for nearly five years.


We had a similar routine every year, captured in photos first by black and whites, then eventually in color, some of which I have already shared. My dad also had one of those early 60s eight mm movie cameras with the infamous light bar with the four flood lights.  We opened gifts in an organized way making sure we each saw what the other one got.


Then my father would leave to join the other Oceanport Hook and Ladder firemen who every year would purchase gifts for all the kids in town under a certain age and with a Santa Claus on the back of the fire truck, would go street by street, house by house, delivering gifts to the kids they had on their list.


This was a tradition that went way back with the fire company in Oceanport and even my dad would tell stories of waiting for the fire truck when he was a kid in the 1930s when he would leap the hedge to get to greet the firemen and Santa.


While my dad was gone, we also would wait for the fire truck to come to our house, then revisit our gifts until my dad got home, which wasn’t always as predictable as you might think since there was always a little bit of Christmas cheer involved in that tradition as well.


Once my dad returned, we would walk across the street and down the rear driveway of my grandmother’s house and have Christmas and lunch with my mother’s family and my cousins.


Then we were off to Hillcrest and my other grandparents’ house and finally to my Uncle Teddy’s.  Teddy always had the funniest-looking Christmas trees and those oversized Christmas light bulbs.


It was nice having not all but a good portion of our family living in the same town or very close by.


Over the years as we got older and we became volunteer fireman, both my brothers and I got to share that Christmas experience of riding the fire truck with my dad.  And even after I moved away and would return home for the holiday, I would share that Christmas morning experience with my father.  And we even developed some new traditions like on Christmas Eve, driving to Point Pleasant Beach to the Norwegian store to buy Norwegian cheese, fiskebollers (Codfish balls), and only once Lutefisk (because with Lutefisk only once was enough), and cod fish to make sandwiches.


And that Christmas Eve open house for whoever wanted to visit just got bigger and bigger, and even now my sister still tries to keep that tradition going in Oceanport.


I am too old now to lie in bed listening for sleigh bells or Santa’s location on the radio,  or waiting for my brothers and sister to wake me up.  But I have lots of nice memories of Christmases growing up. I guess when they say “the true spirit of Christmas lies in your heart,” that’s where the memories live for as long as we are able to  remember them, which gets more challenging the older we get. Of course there have been Christmases since with sad memories, but even the sad ones remind us there is comfort and hope on the other side of those in time.


And writing about them and looking at old photos, reminds me of how much I miss my father and my brother.  Maybe I will have a codfish sandwich and some Norwegian cheese, an Akvavit on the rocks, and turn on Glen Campbell’s That Christmas Feeling album on Christmas Eve this year.


“At one time most of my friends could hear the bell, but as years passed it fell silent for all of them. Though I’ve grown old the bell still rings for me, as it does for all who truly believe” (from The Polar Express)


And who knows, maybe after a couple of those Akvavits, I will hear some bells too.


 


The time stamp on this featured photo says Jan 1963 so probably Christmas 1962. Gary would be about a year a half old, me about 6 1/2, Carl 8 almost 9, and Patty about 10 1/2.


 


Gary, Christmas 1965?


Early one, Patty at my Grandmother’s. Look at those legs!


Not sure, 1966 or 67?


Gar got a bike


I don’t know


Patty Christmas 1965


Early one, Carl and Patty, bungalow Christmas, I was a baby…youngest child


							


	

			



											



	
	        

        	        	
                                             
        

        
	

		The Ghosts of Christmases Past
					

				The Ghosts of Christmases Past
			

		
				

			
 
 Comments  4 comments

		

			


			

				
I remember my dad standing in the hallway near the front door while my mother would roll up the sleeves of his Banlon shirt to show more of his muscles, I guess. Or maybe that was just the style around 1960. My father worked the second shift as a drill press operator at Bendix in Eatontown, New Jersey, on Route 35, and he was getting ready to go to work. This was the ritual.


Bendix sponsored an art contest every year for their employees at Christmas.  I was young then, so I really didn’t know much other than I remember my dad creating beautiful drawings using pastels, and entering the contests during those years.  I think one of his drawings won a ribbon one Christmas.  This was the only time I can think of where he exhibited his artistic talent with something other than wood.


The Count Basie Center for the Arts is now a happening place on Monmouth Street in Red Bank New Jersey.  It’s owned by the Monmouth County Arts Council and reopened as the Count Basie Theatre in the early 1980s.  It’s a venue where you may have been entertained by Bruce Springsteen or Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes over the years.


But when I was four or five years old it was known as the Carlton theater, Reade’s Carlton to be exact, a beautiful old theater built in the 1920s first for Vaudeville shows, then transformed into a movie theater.


Every Christmas season, Bendix would host a Christmas program for the children of Bendix employees.  I have memories of standing in a very long line of families that wrapped around the corner and down a long Red Bank block in the cold patiently waiting for my turn to enter the lobby and get a bag of snacks, and I think, a small gift.  Then we watched a movie, the only one I remember was Walt Disney’s Pinocchio.


My dad would give up his drill press and Bendix and go on to work as a union carpenter in those early years of the 1960s, so I only remember a couple of those Bendix Carlton Christmases.  I seem to recall three of the drawings he submitted to the Bendix contests. I was able to salvage one of them,  though he had cut part way through it with one of his saws.  Saws and woodworking tools were much more associated with my dad than colored pastel pencils, so having at least a cut-down version of one of his Christmas drawings is pretty special.


The ghosts, the memories of this Christmas past writing, were 1960ish.   My brother Gary was born in May 1961 so, at this point, he is a ghost of a Christmas future I suppose.  The photo below was date stamped Jan 1960 so I think it was from Christmas 1959 when I was three and half.  I must have asked Santa for a gun that year.




The photo below is from an even earlier Christmas, 1957 maybe?  I am the little pudgy kid in the middle. I must have asked Santa for a car that year.  Maybe I will ask Santa for a car again this year.




							


	

			



											



	
	        

        	        	
                                             
        

        
	

		The Sweet Kiss of Something
					

				The Sweet Kiss of Something
			

		
				

			
 
 Comments  0 Comment

		

			


			

				
Frank Hayes was born in Ireland. Though there seems to be some debate over when Frank was born, some say 1888 and some say 1901, one thing was for sure, Frank always wanted to be a jockey.


But Frank was built more like me when I was in my 20’s and 30’s at 140 pounds.  Not that 140 pounds was heavy, but it was if you wanted to be jockey.


Frank moved to New York City and when he found he couldn’t be a jockey, he decided to be a horse trainer and groom instead, at least he was in the game.  It was the 1920’s and thoroughbred horse racing was beginning its golden era in this country.


When I worked on the ambulance at Monmouth Park Racetrack in the 1970’s, for a few days later in the meet, the track would feature a few steeplechase races on the card each summer.  For us on the ambulance crew it was the busier days of the season because jumpers more frequently lost their riders.


Belmont Park, located on New York’s Long Island in the early 1920’s featured a similar steeplechase program.


One day Frank the trainer found himself an owner with a horse entered into one of Belmont’s steeplechase races who didn’t have a jockey to ride her.


The horse’s name was Sweet Kiss.


Sweet Kiss was a seven-year-old mare, an unraced maiden, and Frank saw an opportunity.  If he could get down to jockey weight of 130 pounds, he could ride Sweet Kiss and fulfill his dream to finally be a jockey.


So, Frank did the impossible and in a matter of 24 hours managed to lose twelve pounds to qualify.


Frank’s dream was finally going to come true.


He was about to check “Jockey” off his bucket list.


 


I have been having a bit of a nostalgic horse racing week, kind of reliving A Sentimental Racetrack Journey once again.  With November’s Breeder’s Cup in the books, the sport of horse racing winds down a bit as it awaits January’s  Eclipse Awards, which are kind of like the Oscars for horse racing, the naming of the Horse of the Year for 2024, and the new year when all two year olds turn three and thus the beginning of the 2025 three year old season which includes the Triple Crown races.


My sentimental journey this week was once again triggered by my perennial Horse of the Year…


Sir Sidney.


Sid.


I reached out to Marilyne this week to check on Sid:


He’s doing very well. I just got a new job that is very time consuming so I leased him out to a lesson program In Alpharetta for 6 months to a year where he is spoiled and pampered and so happy, and I can still go ride whenever I want. She sends me pictures periodically, and he has 3 friends and a big field, and lots of daily love and attention.  Here is one of my favorite funnies from this summer because he has quite the personality. 


In the next picture his little brother Walker is learning good ground manners from him at the trailer.  


The last two pics are from the leasing barn called Autograph Farm. They spoil him rotten!


Thanks for checking in!!


As is usual, I got a little teary-eyed.


Lucky Sid, after a long career of racing, is enjoying retirement.  Marilyne is his second owner I have kept in contact with since he retired.


 


Somehow, I don’t think Sid struggled with the same stress and fear of being retired that I find myself experiencing.  Sid is pampered and spoiled, and happy in his retirement.


And he has three friends and a big field and lots of love and attention.


And I am so envious.


I don’t have three friends or a big field.


I don’t know whether Sid has a bucket list, but he is a horse, so I am sure he has a bucket of something.


But it makes me happy that Sid is happy.


 


 


Frank’s dream finally came true.  He rode Sweet Kiss over the twelve-jump course. Going off at the odds of 20 to 1 against the favorite Gimme.  Gimme led most of the race though Sweet Kiss was just off the pace. Entering the home turn Frank shifted in the saddle and the two horses nearly collided, they made the last jump (somehow), straightened themselves out, and in the stretch Sweet Kiss dug in and pulled away by a length and a half.


Crossing the finish line instead of raising his crop in victory, Frank remained slumped over.


Eventually Frank would slide off the saddle and hit the ground. Though doctors rushed to his aid, Frank was pronounced dead right there on the racetrack.


Apparently, Frank had a heart attack and died probably around the time the two horses nearly collided entering the home turn. Some say it was the stress of the race and losing so much weight in such a short period of time that got him.


And because the rule books said the jockey had to remain in the saddle and cross the finish line in order to officially win, even though he was dead, Frank had won his first and his only race as a jockey.


Sweet Kiss broke her maiden status with the win but would race no more.


She went on to earn the nickname “the Sweet Kiss of Death.”


And Frank Hayes, as a result “is in the Guinness Book of World Records as the first Jockey (and probably first athlete of any sport) to ride to victory after his own death.”


Though Frank’s dream was fulfilled, he not only checked off the bucket, but kicked it too.


I don’t know what the moral of this story is.


Maybe fulfilling dreams aren’t always worth the stress, the effort, and the expense.


Look what it cost Frank Hayes.


Maybe following Sid’s example and just going wherever the bridle leads you is the way to go.


A few friends and a big field.


Or maybe a dock and a fishing pole.


Or a cabin and stream close by.


And of course lots of daily love and attention.


 


Checking off those buckets before we  kick them.


 


Here is the full photo


Marilyne and Sid


Sid with Walker


Just hanging out in the barn…retired