Ghosts of Christmases Past 2

Ghosts of Christmases Past 2

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“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

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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

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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
November Twenty Two

November Twenty Two

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I remember the adults, the teachers, they were visibly upset.

We were being let out of school early for some reason.

As I exited the rear school doorway onto the pavement that surrounded the back side of Wolf Hill School, before the school fields and playground, an older boy yelled out, “the President’s been shot.”  I crossed the school playground to the old railroad track that used to bring the coal into Fort Monmouth, then down the tracks to Pemberton Avenue, and the three small town blocks that took me to the path through the neighbor’s yard and into our backyard.

I was seven years old and in the second grade.  I don’t remember who I walked home with, I just remember sitting in front of the small black and white TV in the living room and watching events relived and unfolding for the rest of that day.

I remember my mother was upset.

President Kennedy was dead.

Assassinated.

November 22, 1963.

 

 

It was just going to be a small wedding in a friend’s backyard,  there was no need for you to come, I was told.

Well okay then, I won’t worry about it.

Besides, I am just the father, and there will be pictures, I am sure.

But I did worry about it.

So, the Friday before the wedding in the friend’s backyard, I flew into Palm Beach Airport and headed towards Fort Lauderdale in my rented Camaro.  Not knowing much about this backyard wedding, I stopped at a mall in Boca Raton to buy a new hat.  I picked up a new pair of jeans to wear to the wedding as well.  Then I headed down to Fort Lauderdale and got a hotel room near where the cruise ships docked.

The next day I put on my new jeans and hat, got in my rented Camaro, and surprised Alexa at her wedding.

I even got to dance the father-daughter dance.

And it turns out I was right for a change; I did need to be there.

November 22, 2014.

 

 

Alexa and Namaan have been married now for ten years.

It’s been 61 years since JFK’s assassination.

I am tired because I stayed up late last night to watch the Steelers get beat by the Browns, in a snowstorm.

I am monitoring the western Pennsylvania weather and that snowstorm and stressing a little because we are considering making a pre-Thanksgiving visit with Kim’s mom.

Snow in western PA before Thanksgiving?  Who would have thought?

But this morning in my History Channel email I was reminded of the events of 61 years ago; and in my Facebook memories, the events of ten years ago.

I still have those jeans, in fact, I wore them at Savannah and Leon’s wedding and Hayley and Malcolm’s as well.  They needed to be there.

And like me, they are a little worn out, a little frayed and faded, yet they remain ready for the next event.

As long as it’s not another wedding.

 

And through all this reflection, I am being reminded of “the great significance of the passage of time.”

Only this time it is making sense.

 

November 22, 2024.

More Mookie Please

More Mookie Please

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Mookie.

Is there a better name for a baseball player?

I don’t think so.

If you are even a casual Mets fan like me, you remember the 1980s and Mookie Wilson, and of course the 1986 Mets World Series. Mookie Wilson is said to have gotten his nickname by the way he pronounced milk as a young child. Come to think of it, I may have also had a kid who asked for “more mook please.”

Kim and I arrived at my mother’s around 7 pm last Friday evening, and my mom was all excited to watch the Dodgers in the first game of the World Series.

I thought this was odd behavior for my mother, but then, thinking maybe there was a Manhattan involved, I just rolled with it.

“My grandmother was a huge Dodger fan, the Brooklyn Dodgers, and I want to watch the game,” she explained.

Great, I thought, this was kind of a welcome diversion, a break from Fox News and the Hallmark Channel.  A break from the stress of the upcoming election, with all the fascist talk, the threats to democracy, swing states, blue walls, and fake news.

Yeah, it turns out Great Grandma Flora was a big Brooklyn Dodgers fan.  I had never met Flora.  My mother, however, was very close to her grandmother.

And, I wasn’t too familiar with the Brooklyn Dodgers either because not too long after I was born, in 1957, both the Brooklyn Dodgers and the New York Giants decided “California’s the place you otta be,” so they loaded up and moved west to Los Angeles and San Fransisco respectively.

This left the New York Yankees as the only team in New York until 1962 when Mookie Wilson’s Mets were established as one of baseball’s first expansion teams.

 

Now sitting and watching the game with my mother, I was happy to find out the Dodgers had a “Mookie” too!

Mookie Betts.

We watched all the way to 10th inning when the Dodgers’ Freddie Freeman made history by hitting the first game ending grand slam in World Series history.

Game One…Dodgers 6, Yankees 3.

 

Baseball used to be America’s sport.

As a kid I would walk down my street Willow Court in Oceanport, NJ, past the house my family called “the big house” then owned by my grandmother but also the house where Flora once lived; making my way down to Park’s Drugstore to buy the bubble gum pack with the baseball cards inside.  It never occurred to me that the Roger Maris or Mickey Mantle card I had attached to my bike with a clothespin might be worth some big money someday.  Nope, for me, it had much more immediate value clicking between the spokes of my rear bicycle wheel.

 

 Saturday evening we were invited to a neighbor’s for a Halloween dinner party, so we got back to the TV and the game a little late.  Kim went to bed, but my mother and I watched the second game till the end.

Game two…Dodgers 4, Yankees 2.

 

I never played baseball growing up, though we had Little League and Babe Ruth teams in Oceanport, I wasn’t very athletic.  I played catch in the yard with my brother and friends and street baseball on summer evenings with the neighborhood kids.  Since we lived on a dead end, we didn’t have to vacate the “field” too often by neighbors coming home from work.

The best baseball experience I can boast of is playing Cub Scout softball.

I wasn’t very good at softball either, but, I did manage some brief notoriety when I was playing catch on the sideline behind the bench one game with another teammate and managed to knock out another one of my Cub Scout teammates when the ball I threw didn’t quite reach the intended but instead found its way to another kids head.  I remember he was talking to someone and went down, came right back up resumed the conversation, and then went down again.

Monday night, I am back home but even without my mother, feeling like I had to watch the Dodgers.  The problem was the Steelers were playing on Monday night football, so up and down the stairs I went, as I  tried to watch both games.  After the Steelers’ 26-18 win over the New York football Giants, I watched the rest of the Dodgers game three, now playing in New York.  And though I didn’t see the whole game I did see Mookie Betts hit a base hit that allowed for the third run of the third game.

Game Three…Dodgers 4, Yankees 2, again.

 

I remember the time I watched my friend Bob Woolley who unlike me was a very good athlete, on one of those Little League or Babe Ruth teams, throw a very exaggerated “change-up” pitch that effectively struck the batter out but also engrained in me an understanding of what a “change up” pitch was forever.

I remember the mid-sixties, and especially the 1968 World Series St. Louis Cardinals with my two favorite players of that series Lou Brock and Curt Flood stealing bases.  They were fun to watch and along with pitcher Bob Gibson, they won the series.

And who could forget the ’69 Miracle Mets and the ‘73 Mets who weren’t as lucky.

 

Tuesday Kim and I had something scheduled, and by the time we got home and I turned the game on, it was clear the Yankees offense had awoken.  They added five runs in the eighth inning to the six they had already, and as a result, I got to bed a little earlier.

Game four…Yankees 11, Dodgers only 4.

 

My last experience that involved a bat, ball, and glove was a short stint on the Oceanport Hook & Ladder Fireman’s softball team.  I was the pitcher and after almost being taken out by a line drive, I walked off the mound and retired at the young age of 20 never to return to the diamond again.

 

Game five looked at first, to be a repeat of game four.  Down by five runs, the Dodgers came back to tie the score in the fifth, only to be bested by one run in the sixth. With the score now 6 to 5 Yankees, the Dodgers would add two more in the eighth inning.  Going into the ninth,  the Dodgers couldn’t add any more runs, now with the Yankees at bat, they called in Walker Buehler in relief.  Walker had started game three and would have started game seven had it gone that far, but with no more relievers left in the bullpen; he got the call.

Dodgers7, Yankees 6…the Dodgers are the World Series champs of 2024.

 

So that was that.

Great Grandma Flora’s team, once the Dodgers from Brooklyn, now LA, beat their once cross-town rivals, the New York Yankees.

My mom was happy, imagining her grandmother waving her flag (or pennant maybe) in celebration.

That’s awesome!

But now what do we do?

What are we going to do without a game six or seven?

We need a couple more days of Mookie, I don’t wanna go back to the election…

Ma, more mook, please.

More Mookie!

Because I, who had a better average at knocking out my teammates than I had knocking the ball out of the park, wanted just a couple more days of baseball.

Oh well, at least I had the experience of watching a couple of baseball games with my mother, creating a memory I never would have imagined happening in the first place, but also one that I may not have had the opportunity to repeat.

 

And besides, there are plenty of distractions I can find that will last me until Tuesday.  This weekend is the Breeder’s Cup, the World Series of horse racing, at Del Mar Racecourse in San Diego.  Though there have been Mookie horses in the past, like Bet on Mookie, Mr. Mookie, MVP Mookie, and Miracle Mookie; I couldn’t find any Mookies running this weekend.

And of course, I always have football that will take me through to Monday Night.

Then on Election Day, I can follow the play-by-play well into the wee hours of Wednesday morning if I decide to.

Or I can drink my Mookie and go to bed.

But before I go to bed I will pray for fairness and integrity in our election process, and, that the days that follow be calm, peaceful, and healing.

Amen?

Amen.

 

Postscript:  The photo above is Mookie Wilson in the 1986 World Series.  Mets baserunner Mookie Wilson slides into third base as Wade Boggs can only watch.

ID 69007491
© Gerald T. Coli
Lou Brock and Bob Gibson in this photo. Photo by Mick Haupt on Unsplash
Goodbye Columbus

Goodbye Columbus

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On Columbus Day in Asbury Park New Jersey in the 1960’s, the city would host a ceremony where a person dressed and portraying the character of Christopher Columbus, along with a couple of attendants dressed in their period garb, would brave the ocean’s waves and come ashore ceremoniously “discovering America” right there on the beach in Asbury Park.

The two Boy Scout troops in my hometown of Oceanport at the time had a native American dance team that I participated in called the Lakota’s.  We would wear native American costumes and perform native American dances like the snake dance and the Hopi hoop dance.

On at least one Columbus Day, and I think maybe two, I and the other members of our Lakota tribe were there to greet Columbus as he landed in Asbury, we performed our dances to entertain the public and get our picture in the Asbury Park Press.

When I was growing up, we learned all about the explorers of the New World in grammar school (that would be elementary school in case you didn’t grow up in Jersey). DeSoto, Magellan, Hudson, de Leon, Pizarro, Cabot, to name a few, we learned all about them.  We had to write “reports” and present our explorers to the rest of the class.  Their place in history was quite important at the time. It was still cool to celebrate explorers.

And of course, the most famous of the explorers, the Italian Christopher Columbus, was widely touted as the person who “discovered America” on October 12, 1492, by landing on an island he called San Salvador.  And as a result, thanks to Italian Americans and President Franklin Delano Roosevelt in 1937, we picked up another holiday called Columbus Day to be celebrated on October 12, now of course it is recognized on the second Monday of October.

In October of 2021, President Biden signed a proclamation naming the second Monday of the month Indigenous People’s Day, in direct conflict with Columbus Day.

It was no longer cool to celebrate Columbus’ discovery because it opened the new world to other European explorers and ultimately colonization which would lead to warring and diseases that would have a devasting impact on the Indigenous peoples of the Americas.

My DNA indicates I am 75% Scandinavian and mostly Norwegian and since my people didn’t make it to America until the early 1900’s I don’t feel too much guilt with the mistreatment of America’s indigenous people directly.  My people were Vikings, they were “raping and pillaging” other Europeans, of which, I suppose I must share some accountability for ancestrally.

And speaking of Scandinavians the truth is Columbus was not the first European to reach the Americas, the Norwegian Leif Erickson is credited with doing that about 500 years earlier; and the first European settlement Vinland, thought to be located on modern-day Newfoundland,  was established by Vikings probably coming from nearby Greenland or Iceland.

The world has lots of sad stories in its documented and undocumented history.  It seems that sadly, conquering and colonization were built into our human nature.  The Bible and our world history books are full of stories of civilizations at war, conquering, enslaving, and exiling. I suppose we are all to blame, even our indigenous people.  And, sadly, it continues still to this day, as we are made aware of listening to the news every day.

 

I spent Columbus Day, or Indigenous People’s Day,  this year on the Eastern Shore making a quick visit to see my mother.  Since the guy who cuts the grass was slacking a little that week, I got the lawn tractor out and knocked that off.  With the tide clock indicating high tide in about an hour, though it was mid-October, I got a fishing pole out of the shed and threw the line out.  I had some pretty good bites but only managed to catch a small spot, which I returned to the water to catch again another day.  Though I don’t like the fall because I know it means winter is coming,  October on the Eastern Shore has become one of my favorite months.  I stood on the pier looking out over the waters and coastlines once traveled by another explorer four hundred years ago, Captain John Smith who explored the Chesapeake Bay and who knows, maybe even anchored his shallop in the protected waters of Fishing Creek while he traded with the natives on Deep Point Road.

In 1970 American writer Dee Brown published a book titled Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee: An Indian History of the American West.  I read that book at some point in the early 70’s and though I can’t say I remember the details of the book now 50 years later, I do remember that I cried finishing the last chapter.

I guess I must have felt some guilt after all.

 

Postscript:

Today October 19 is the anniversary of the day Kim’s dad Royal lost his battle with cancer four years ago.  October 15 was the anniversary of the day my dear friend Tawanda lost hers in 2011.  I have written in the past about both, Royal in The Steinster and Tawanda in The Beauty of an October Day. I am confident they are both resting peacefully.

The photo above is of the Lakota’s though not in costume probably circa 1968.  I couldn’t find the photo of us in costume. That’s me front and center.  The photo below of Christopher Columbus landing on the beach is not one of our group.  I couldn’t find that photo either.  This one is from the book Images of America, Monmouth Council Boy Scouts.

Fishing Creek
Early October sunset
Somebody To Love

Somebody To Love

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When the truth is found

To be lies,

And all the joy,

Within you dies…”

(Darby Slick)

 

I read this lyric yesterday from the song Somebody to Love on an internet post.  I had to laugh a little as it struck me as kind of funny given the rhetoric of the current campaigns and the information or the misinformation we are enduring every day.

The song Somebody to Love was written by Darby Slick for his band The Great Society and released as a single in 1966. The Great Society also included his brother Jerry Slick and his sister-in-law Grace Slick.

Grace would ultimately leave The Great Society, and join another band known as The Jefferson Airplane.  She would take the song, then titled Someone to Love, change the title to Somebody to Love, and along with her song White Rabbit, would help build the now classic album, Surrealistic Pillow.

And so it was, Somebody to Love, White Rabbit and Surrealistic Pillow would go down in rock and roll history, considered to be one of the “most influential and quintessential works of the early psychedelic rock era and 1960s counterculture.”

Ironically, in August of 2019, I was also inspired by these lyrics to write an essay titled Three Days of Peace, Love, and Wheels on the Bus. The inspiration for that essay, however, had nothing to do with lies and vanishing joy, just the opposite. The somebodies to love in that story were grandchildren as we made a long overdue visit to Florida.

I’ve heard at least some of the folks in our current contest have been promoting joy as a theme, but I am frankly just not feeling it.

Surrealistic maybe, but not joy.

Yeah, surrealistic, something that has a dreamlike atmosphere or quality. Maybe we are all tripping? Maybe we should all be sleeping on surrealistic pillows and reliving some of those “joys” associated with the sixties.

Well, then again maybe not.

But with less than thirty days left to this election season, regardless of who you are supporting, when all the truth is found to be lies, when all information is misinformation, and all the joy is confined to the ladies on The View, I don’t know about you, but I am ready to go back to listening to some music.

Because I think the truth is we should be praying for our brothers and sisters in the southeast, peace everywhere in the world where there is none, and focusing on a different truth.

 

Because the real “truth doesn’t reside in the minds of humanity, but completely outside of us, in the person of God. “

Jesus said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life.”

Maybe all truth isn’t lies.

Maybe there is a way to find some joy in that.

 

I haven’t written much in the past year.

Lack of joy may have contributed to that.

I’ve always enjoyed writing because it always made me happy.

So, bear with me while I practice writing and being happy.

 

But now I think I will go to church.

And hear the truth.

And when I come home, maybe I will listen to some music.

Maybe even some Jefferson Airplane.

And begin to enjoy me some joy.

Because joy and The Truth are not dead.

 

Postscript:

The photo above is from a couple of weeks ago when me and my somebody to love, participated for the third time in the Laurel View Village Que Classic 5K and 10K.  Laurel View Village is the assisted living facility where Kim’s mom lives near Johnstown, PA.  Not to mislead anyone, but the truth here is that we walked a 5K as our running days are behind us.  It was a beautiful late September day in the Laurel View mountains.

Another fun fact, Somebody to Love, aka Someone to Love, was originally titled “Mind Full of Bread.”  Too funny, there might be some truth to that.

An American Proverb

An American Proverb

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Proverbs 6:16-19

There are six things the LORD hates, seven that are detestable to him: haughty eyes, a lying tongue, hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devised wicked schemes, feet that are quick to rush into evil, a false witness who pours out lies and a man who stirs up dissension among brothers.

 

I listened to a good sermon last Sunday.

It was about divisiveness.

Some will find the mere mention of scripture divisive, so I suppose I run the risk of some readers canceling this essay out at this point.

I am a conservative, which is no secret.  In fact, back in January of 2021, in a piece I wrote titled Tohubohu, I “came out” and acknowledged that on this site.

 

Last week Robert F. Kennedy Jr. suspended his quest to seek election for the President of the United States as an independent candidate.

If you are of my generation, you are familiar with the Kennedy’s and their involvement in Democratic politics in this country.  RFK Jr.’s uncle, President John F. Kennedy and his father, presidential candidate Robert F. Kennedy Sr. were both assassinated in the 1960’s.  In fact, I can remember exactly the events in my life on that day November 22, 1963, even though I was just in the second grade.

I think all in this country should listen to RFK Jr’s announcement he made this past week. I think it should be studied in high school and college history and civics classes. He describes the Democratic party of his father and uncles as champions of the Constitution, the party of civil rights, the party against censorship, authoritarianism, and colonialism.

It was the party of labor and the working class.

It was, just as the name would imply, the party of Democracy.

He goes on to explain why he made the decision to leave the Democratic party; that it had become the party of war, censorship, corruption, big pharma, big tech, big Ag, and big money.  One that weaponized government agencies, abandoned democracy, sued the opposition, and disenfranchised American voters, resorting to censorship through media control.

It has been interesting to watch this.

I saw Josh Shapiro, the governor of Pennsylvania, a graduate of Georgetown Law, former Pennsylvania Attorney General, someone schooled in Constitutional law, stand up and propose the concept in a speech in Philadelphia, that Donald J. Trump could become the King of the United States.  Now here is a very smart man and a great speaker, suggesting that Trump could effectively declare himself King of the United States of America, eliminating our system of government as outlined in our Constitution.

Governor Shapiro doesn’t really believe that.  He knows that is impossible.  But he also knows by saying it he can create a short sound bite, a meme perhaps, that will go viral and for those who get their “news” and information in this abbreviated way, create fear and control.

Jerry Nadler, in his opening statements during the investigation of the assassination attempt on former President Trump, after spending some time denouncing political violence, made sure that he mentioned the fact that Trump had said in the past, there will be a “bloodbath” if he loses the election, knowing full well that Trump made those comments in reference to the auto industry.  Yet by editing the full comment, Nadler created a social media opportunity to instill fear and control in those who would get their news from such venues.

President Biden did his part too by feeling the need to repeat those same words in an interview he did on mainstream media shortly after.

Personally, I think anyone who has intentionally uttered those words out of context, and posted them on their social media accounts, in order to create fear and incite political violence, also have the blood of Corey Comperatore, and the others wounded on that day, on their hands.

In the same vein as the false Project 2025 narrative, the dictator comments, and “never have to vote again” theory that somehow Trump would end elections, and declare a national ban on abortions, and end social security and Medicare; all lies.

These are smart people repeating these media sound bites and creating social media memes, and not that they themselves think such things are even remotely possible, but they know however, that there are many of you out there that will take the bait.

And in doing so, they create fear and control.

I heard an interview back during the time of the Palestinian protests on U.S. campuses with a woman from New York, a Jewish woman,  an admitted lifelong Democrat, who had come to the conclusion, and I am paraphrasing because though I tried to go back and find that interview afterwards, I couldn’t; that regardless of your political affiliation, if you consider yourself an American, you couldn’t make the decision to vote anything but Republican in this election.

We are possibly entering into a future where to be an American means nothing more than maybe defining where you live.  Those that are my age, whose fathers,  mother’s maybe, uncles, grandfather’s, brothers, sisters, sons, daughters, friends, or themselves fought in wars to protect the world’s freedoms, to fight against the Communist oppression that is now seeping into our own politics, and to fight against the terrorism that attacked us on our own soil, there now exists a generation who has no connection to any of that.  Gone are the days of those in the Greatest Generation or the Silent Generation who tried to enlist to fight for their country maybe even at the age of fourteen like my dad attempted.  Forgotten is the patriotism displayed after nearly 3000 Americans died on 9/11 and so many young people rose to the defense of freedom and enlisted to fight against those that would seek to annihilate Americans.

 

This election year you are not voting for the Democratic party of the past that RFK Jr. refers to the party of his father and uncles.  The one of civil rights, the party of labor and the worker, and the middle class.  You are voting to support a Democratic party willing to make up lies and attempt to impeach; one willing to arrest and jail those that they deem to be a threat, even some that ran on platforms that included nothing else but the mission to take down a single individual; one that denies some the democratic process of participation in free elections; one that duped a country into electing a candidate intentionally kept practically hidden for four years, and with the media’s help, is now attempting to use the same strategy to win this election.

Megan McArdle, an opinion writer for the Washington Post, admitted in an opinion piece that the “viewers of Fox News understood the president’s condition better than our audiences, which ought to be a huge wake-up call for us.”

 

Remember those things that the Lord hates or detests:

Those that act arrogantly superior and disdainful; those that have a lying tongue; hands that shed innocent blood; those who devise wicked schemes; those who are quick to rush into evil; false witnesses who pour out lies; and those that stir up dissention among brothers.

Divisiveness.

Our current democratic party and mainstream media are perpetuating the lies, fanning the hate and divisiveness in this country, and it is time for, as Ms. McArdle suggested, for us as a country to wake up.

This election, we may be voting for the option of Abraham Lincoln’s party of the people, or the future American wing of the party of XI Jinping.

It is time to wake up and save the future of our children, our grandchildren, and their children.

It’s time to end the government sponsored divisiveness, the weaponization of our Justice Department to sue and jail those that would have a different political opinion than the party in control.  It’s time to stop the lies that stir up dissention among us, among Americans who need to know the truth.  Many who can’t discern the difference between truth and falsehoods.

It’s time for those of us in America, for all Americans, to wake up.

 

 

 

Christmas 2023

Christmas 2023

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A few weeks after last Christmas, Kim and I got a letter from Mrs. Taylor.  Mrs. Taylor was Donny’s fifth grade teacher who is now retired and has moved away from Herndon.  Donny loved Mrs. Taylor, and every year since Donny’s accident we have sent her our Christmas card and letter.  In her letter she told us how much she appreciated that we still send her our card and Christmas letter, and how much she looked forward to it.  That gave me great joy and for many months that letter hung on the kitchen cabinet.  Then came the day Mrs. Taylor’s letter needed to be taken down and put in that special place where we would always have it.

And you know how that goes.

Shortly after Thanksgiving when I was looking for some motivation for this year’s Christmas letter, we went to find Mrs. Taylor’s letter in that special place, and let me tell you, that place is still very special.

Mrs. Taylor, I want you to know that I appreciated your letter very much, and I also want you to know that I will keep that letter safe as long as I live and I am sure that when I do discover it the next time, I will appreciate it even more.

 

It was December 14th, and as I was walking through the area in the church near the office where we display posters and announcements of what is going on in the life of the church, I noticed that we had an Advent Calendar on the wall “With daily prompts for practicing joy in a weary world.” I could use a little of that I thought, so I read the message for that day, and it said “Write a letter to a loved one who has passed on.  Tell them what you love and miss about them.”

Yeesh, I thought.  Six months ago, on June 14th my dad was preparing to meet Jesus in few hours, I suppose I could write my dad a letter, but I don’t think he would read it.  And besides, that would probably just make me sad, and I am already sad.

When I got home, I went through the Christmas cards we had received in the mail.  One was from my cousin Judy.  Judy is now the matriarch of my father’s side of the family. She included a nice note written in the card that closed with “I wish you a wonderful Christmas with your family and look forward to your letter at my new address.”

Oh yeah, there’s that letter again. The Christmas Letter.

Suddenly writing my dad a letter started to sound like an easier option.

 

Now it’s December 15th, a Friday, and the end of a long week, while I waited for Kim to come home, I sat on the deck enjoying all the blow-up decorations and lights in my backyard that I had put up this year since the kids were all going to be here for Christmas.  While I enjoyed the view, I listened to Glen Campbell’s That Christmas Feeling album on iTunes and my new waterproof Bluetooth speaker. That Christmas Feeling is one of my favorite albums, certainly my favorite Christmas album, one that my dad had from the late 60’s.

I was having a moment.

On the church Facebook page, I read the message of the day from that same Advent Calendar was “Write, text, or call someone who brings you joy. Tell them, ‘I appreciate you.’”

Coincidentally, I had spoken on the phone with all three of my daughters that day and that doesn’t happen very often and they always bring me joy. I am sure I told all three that I loved them, but I didn’t say “I appreciate you,” hopefully they know that.

But okay, with three writing prompts in two days, I decided to move into the house to try to write.

When Kim came home, she looked at me and said “It’s December 15th” … and waited for me to finish the sentence.

“Six months since my dad died?” I replied weakly as she continued to wait patiently.

“…the day we got engaged,” she finished her sentence.

Oops, I had forgotten it was twenty-five years ago on December 15th that we got engaged just before Christmas in 1998 while spending the evening at the Red Fox Inn in Middleburg, Virginia.  That was certainly a joyous day. And for many years after that we would return to The Red Fox Inn on December 15th.  That tradition, like some others unfortunately, got lost as our lives got more complicated.

But I suppose I should have remembered.

 

The daily prompt for December 18th for practicing Joy in a weary world was “Read about and reflect on the word, “Attunement.” What does it look like for you to practice attunement this season?”

Attunement, I had to look that one up.

“Attunement is the reactiveness we have to another person. It is the process by which we form relationships.”  “A person who is well attuned will respond with appropriate language and behaviors based on another person’s emotional state.”

I thought about December 15 and how much I had already failed attuning this season, but I could try to do better.

 

Now it’s December 24th and Christmas Eve.  The daily prompt for this day is “Reflect on 3 things you are deeply grateful for. Offer a prayer of gratitude to God.”

I can do better than that, I thought.  There are at least ten “things” in my Christmas photo on my Christmas card that I am deeply grateful for.  I will reflect on them later.

 

I suppose you could say, particularly this Christmas season, our world may be a bit weary and the effort to find joy for some may be tough.

And sometimes writing, writing letters, calling those you love, reflecting, and prayers of gratitude help more than you know.

Kim and I would like to wish everyone a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.  We do appreciate you,  and we hope you find Joy in this Christmas season and in the coming New Year.

And I guess since the theme of this letter seems to be about letters and appreciation, maybe I will go back to that December 14th encouragement and write that letter to a loved one who has passed before me, but not to my Pop, to someone else who has passed on:

Dear Jesus,

Thanks.

Please take care of all those who surround us this season as well as those we can’t spend Christmas with this year.

And tell my Pop “Merry Christmas.”  By the way he likes ice cream, Manhattans, and Fiskoboller (cod fish balls) if you are celebrating.

Oh, and happy birthday.

And we do appreciate you too.

 

Merry Christmas, pray for peace.

Kim and Curt

 

Postscript:

In keeping with Alexa’s request last year that I write more about the family, allow me to reflect on them a little.  It’s been a year of lots of change for all of us.

Of course, you know my dad passed away on June 15th.  My mom is doing well but as you would expect she misses him as we all do.

Alexa got a promotion at GEICO which required the family to relocate.  So, they packed up and moved from south Florida to central Florida and a town named Oviedo which is near Orlando and Walt Disney World, their Happy Place.  The house is nice and is keeping Namaan busy; the neighbors are nice, the schools are good, and Christian and Ethan are happy playing baseball and going to Disney. They are currently in the third and first grades. Kim and I went down there for a few days in October.

Savannah and Leon both got new jobs.  Leon transitioned from teaching private school to working for Loudoun County Public Schools as a physical education teacher on the Elementary level.  Savannah transitioned into a Sales role at Poet’s Walk, a memory care facility and is following in Kim’s footsteps in healthcare sales and marketing.

Cameron has grown about a foot since last Christmas and is playing basketball and doing well in his eighth-grade year. He is a teenager now but still likes to hang with his Mimi and Pop Pop.

Over the summer we were lucky to have all three of the kids together for a little vacation and spent some time on the eastern shore fishing and crabbing and kayaking with great grandma Flo.

Hayley and Malcolm got engaged finally.  Malcolm also got a new job with T. Rowe Price and Hayley is in her 16th year teaching social sciences at Broad Run High School.  Sadley Malcolm also lost his dad this year right after Thanksgiving.

Kim and I are busy traveling the world, dining out a lot, basically living the dream. Well, none of that is true but we are still working towards being busy traveling, dining out a lot, and we do a lot of dreaming.   Kim is in her 30th year at Lincare, and I am still working at the church.  We continue to try to spend as much time as we can with our moms.  We had an early Christmas with my mom on a recent weekend and Kim went up and attended the Laurel View Village Christmas bash with her mom on the 12th.  So all is good and I suppose if hanging around with your best friend is part of that dream then we are in fact living it.

Merry Christmas,

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

 

Therefore, as we face this season,

we ask that you would continue to walk with us. 

Stay by our side as we climb our way out. 

Just stay close.

For we cannot move from the weariness to joy without you.

Amen

(Rev. Sarah Speed)

 

That’s What You Get

That’s What You Get

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That’s what you get for lovin’ me
That’s what you get for lovin’ me
Everything you had is gone, as you can see
That’s what you get for lovin’ me

(from For Lovin’ Me written by Gordon Lightfoot)

 

My grandmother Eleanora worked at the Dan Electro factory in Neptune, New Jersey when I was young.  As a result, at very young ages, my brother Carl, my sister Pat, and I all received transistor radios for Christmas.  And maybe Gary did too and I just wasn’t paying attention by that time.   I think I got my first radio when I was five or six so maybe 1961 or 1962.

My wife hates music from the 1960s.  She says it causes her great anxiety.  Sometimes I will turn on the Sirius XM 60’s station in the car, it makes her crazy.

Me, on the other hand, I love it, it puts me in my happy place.

If I ever wanted to make my wife crazier than I have already made her, I could lock her in a room and play Surfin’ Bird by the Trashmen over and over.

That would surely trigger some anxiety.

But I wouldn’t do that.

That would be mean.

That would be abusive.

 

The lyrics from the song above are from the 60’s.  They are from the 1965 song “For Lovin’ Me” sung by Peter, Paul, and Mary and written by Gordon Lightfoot.

I heard this song a couple of weeks ago while listening to the 60’s channel on Sirius XM.

It has been haunting me ever since, causing me anxiety, causing me to lose sleep even.

I listened to it a few more times, then I read the lyrics.

I interpreted it as narcissistic.

I researched the meaning of the lyrics, toxic masculinity was proposed.

I researched toxic masculinity.

It brought me back to narcissism.

 

I know of a father who once had to endure listening to an audio recording of his daughter being beaten by her husband:

“Don’t hit me in the face,” he heard his daughter pleading desperately.

She was not pleading to not be beaten, she knew that was going to happen, that wasn’t an option.

She, having no doubt been through this before, was specifically pleading not to be hit in the face.

And this was real stuff, not television, not Law and Order,  not Chicago PD.

 

If you are a father of daughters like I am, can you imagine?

Can you imagine hearing your daughter getting beat up by some jerk?

Probably not, and we definitely couldn’t imagine what this young woman had to endure.

But as a father what would you do?

Would you cry?

Would you want to treat violence with violence?

Would you want to put your Christian values to the test?

Would you feel helpless?

 

I have read that it is hard to intervene in these situations, intervening can often make things worse.

You just have to love them, and be there when the time comes, to be ready to help when the decision to escape is finally made.

And be supportive.

I guess sometimes, what you get for loving someone,  is not always what you expect to get.

Sometimes relationships come with mental abuse, and sometimes physical abuse, sometimes worse.

And sometimes even though everything you had was gone; money, credit, self-esteem, confidence, and dreams maybe,  you were lucky enough to still have your life.

Lucky enough to escape.

Lucky enough to be able to build a new life once again.

Make some new dreams.

October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month.

A good reminder for us dads and moms too, to pay attention to our daughters, and our sons, because sons can be victims too.

 

I guess I am learning that not all songs from the 60’s put me in my happy place.

Now if you want to experience some of Kim’s anxiety, watch this video of Surfin’ Bird.  And you have to watch it until the end.

So don’t you shed a tear for me
I ain’t the love you thought I’d be
I’ve got a hundred more like you…
I’ll have a thousand ‘fore I’m through

(from For Lovin’ Me by Gordon Lightfoot)

And that, is a scary reality.