curtchristiansen | Musings of an Aging Nobody

We Belong Together

November 22, 2020 curtisc27@gmail.com Comments 0 Comment

I mailed a package through the USPS on Monday morning November 9. It was going to an address in Somerset County Pennsylvania. Nothing unusual, just a small box I mailed Priority Mail.

According to the tracking provided by the USPS, my package departed the Herndon Post Office at 1:56 PM on the day I mailed it. At 8:54 PM on November 10 it arrived at the USPS Regional Facility called the Memphis TN Network Distribution Center, a distance of about 875 miles from Herndon.

At 9:17 PM on that same day, it departed the Memphis TN Network Distribution Center on its way to the Memphis TN Distribution Center Annex, which from what I could determine from the internet, is a building next to the Memphis TN Network Distribution Center.

At 5:23 PM on November 16 it arrived.

It took six days for my package to go from one building to the other on the same property.

On November 17 my tracking information informed me that my package would be arriving later than expected. No kidding, that was comforting.

On November 18 my tracking information indicated it was “In Transit to the next Facility.”

At this point, I printed all this out and made a visit to the Herndon Post Office to see what they had to say about the whereabouts of my package. The nice lady at the post office confirmed it was somewhere but gave me a phone number of the facility in Memphis to see if they had any idea where my package was.

I called and was told the lady who does their tracking had gone home for the day, (she leaves at 12:30 PM) and could I call back tomorrow?

Before calling in the morning I checked my tracking again and was informed my package was finally out on delivery.

At 10:27 PM on the evening of November 18, it had arrived at the facility in Warrendale, Pennsylvania just outside of Pittsburgh, 780 miles from Memphis and the next day, arrived at the post office in Rockwood PA for delivery.

Ten days after I mailed it.

I haven’t paid too much attention to the status of the election but I understand there are accusations of voter fraud and such and so it is still getting sorted out. I might suggest to President Trump he go look for some votes at that Memphis Network Distribution Center.

But though I think arguing that there was no voter fraud in this election would be like arguing the fact that there isn’t any organized crime in Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, Detroit, and Nevada; maybe the Pennsylvania folks in charge of creating their election rules knew something about how long it takes for mail to get to Pennsylvania.

I have said before, I write when I cry and I cry when I write.

Today is one of those days.

This week has been one of those weeks.

And I always feel sorry for my wife because I am not one who sheds tears gracefully.

No, it’s ugly.

I snort and jerk and make funny noises and my face gets all contorted.

And for some reason, this morning was my time to snort and contort.

Fear.

Once again this year we are living in fearful times and it’s sad.

And this sadness seemed to grip me starting on Friday.

Dan Navarro had a post on Facebook about his song “We Belong,” so of course, I had to relive those words.

Then Saturday a trip to Sam’s Club finding the toilet paper and paper towel aisle bare, proof that fear was taking hold once again.

And due to our need to be concerned about visiting our aging parents, especially now that Kim’s mom is in Northern Virginia, we had to disappoint Cameron by not attending church with him and passing on a trip to Top Golf which I thought was too risky.

But this morning the image of dancing with Alexa at her wedding, the wedding I hadn’t planned to attend, but I surprised her by hopping on a plane the evening before and hunkered down in a hotel while I waited to surprise her in Fort Lauderdale, really was the spike in the heart.

I couldn’t make that spontaneous trip now.

Because of fear.

And that image brought back the reminder that Kim and I haven’t seen those kids in eleven months, not since last Christmas, and that they were scheduled to come up to Virginia for Thanksgiving but had to cancel.

Because of fear.

Then while I had myself really down for the count I saw my sister-in-law, Carl’s wife’s post about how she couldn’t sleep last night, which I could only imagine would be every night for me.

And seeing my neighbors putting up Christmas lights and wondering why? Why this year?

Sorry, you are probably right now saying “Gee whiz Curt…Just shoot me…”

Last week I listened again to an awesome sermon from our friends at Christ Church in Easton, Maryland.

On Friday, I listened to it a second time.

It was titled Perfect Love Casts Out Fear.

It comes from 1 John 4:18:

There is no fear in love; but perfect love casts out fear, because fear involves punishment, and the one who fears is not perfected in love.

And then from another sermon this morning I heard these words from a song:

“I’m no longer a slave of fear, oh I am a child of God.”

All reminding me I just need to quit my blithering, recognize there are those we won’t share holidays with…Donny, Carl, my father in law Royal; but there are others that we will at some point. Love survives weeks, months, even years; it is unconditional and faith, even the size of the mustard seed I am exhibiting this morning, will get us there eventually.

So Happy Anniversary to Alexa and Namaan and Happy Thanksgiving to all those I won’t be sharing with this year.

I might just put up some Christmas decorations today.

Or maybe mail another package to Pennsylvania for some entertainment this week.

And for my sister in law Teesha, I will share these words from Dan Navarro and Eric Lowen:

Close your eyes and try to sleep now
Close your eyes and try to dream
Clear your mind and do your best to try and wash the palette clean
We can’t begin to know it, how much we really care
I hear your voice inside me, I see your face everywhere
Still you say

We belong to the light, we belong to the thunder
We belong to the sound of the words we’ve both fallen under
Whatever we deny or embrace for worse or for better
We belong, we belong, we belong together

We do.

And someday soon I hope, we will.

Friday the 13th, 2020 Style

November 13, 2020 curtisc27@gmail.com Comments 2 comments

Hard to believe that it’s Friday, November 13^thin this year of 2020.

Thanksgiving is in less than two weeks and it appears that our end of year holidays, so heavily invested in family, are in jeopardy.

Covid concerns are ramping up again.

Thankfully, the election has come and gone.

And lucky for us, all those celebrities we couldn’t have lived without got to stay in America.

I don’t know about you, but I would have liked to have been a fly on the wall in Bruce Springsteen’s house about 12 midnight on November 3 when Trump was posting a comeback.

But seriously, when it got right down to it, I had to remind myself…”Curt… John Legend and Chrissy Teigen are threatening to leave the country if Trump is re-elected…”

I just couldn’t imagine.

The Voice without John Legend?

That did it for me!

My Friday the 13th started a little early on the evening of Thursday the 12^th. My wife had got a new gadget to cut up all those ingredients for making her potions, tinctures, and syrups.

In addition to using it for the above, I quickly determined I could use it to cut my cucumbers for my salad.

But it didn’t take me too long to learn that it works really well on fingers too.

Not wanting to waste the cucumbers I had already sliced I tried to find the lost portion of my finger amongst the cucumber slices.

“What are you doing?” my wife asked sternly as she watched me putting pressure on my bleeding finger while using my other hand to go through the cucumbers.

“Looking for my finger, I don’t want to waste my cucumbers,” I responded.

“Throw them out you are not eating them that’s disgusting!” she said loudly.

Disappointed, I threw out my cut cucumbers and the piece of my finger and focused more on controlling the bleeding.

Then I cut up another cucumber.

One day many years ago when Kim and I first moved into our house in Herndon, Donny brought home a baby wild rabbit. We had lots of rabbits in the yard back then. We don’t see too many anymore, maybe because of the foxes.

But Donny was really happy about his little rabbit and wanted to keep it as a pet. I, however, in my sometimes to a fault need to do what I think is the right thing, told him he couldn’t. It wasn’t right to keep an animal from the wild and it should be returned to its habitat I explained so very parentally.

Needless to say Donny was very disappointed and not at all happy with me.

After Donny’s accident whenever I thought about this incident with the rabbit, I always felt really bad about how I made him feel by not allowing him to keep it. Even now as I reflect back on this memory I think to myself, what a jerk, you could have loosened up a little.

A year and a half or so later, I think it was Martin Luther King’s birthday weekend 2004 when we had no kids because they had extra time off from school and they were off with their friends, I had this great idea that I thought would show I could be spontaneous and selfishly, would make up for some of the guilt I felt over denying Donny that rabbit, even though I couldn’t share it with him.

I marched Kim into a PetSmart that weekend in Tyson’s Corner, Virginia on a mission to adopt a cat.

When it was all said and done we not only adopted one cat, we adopted two.

They were sisters.

Molly and Mona.

We agreed to all the rules and requirements, not to declaw them, and to keep them as house cats. The house cat thing didn’t last long though because Mona it turned out, was like Mufasa when it came to the kingdom of our backyard. She would roam the yard and protect us from critters. Molly on the other hand enjoyed just hanging out on the deck more like her humans.

After about seven years Molly would succumb to cancer and be put down.

That left Mona alone who now could claim the inside of the house has her domain as well.

And she lived a good life.

Until today.

On this Friday the 13^th Mona made her last ride to the vet after 17 years.

This year continues to be one of challenges and changes, some foreseen some unforeseen.

Like the year Donny died, for Kim and I, we just have to realize that God’s got this.

And though my little guys from Florida won’t be visiting me for Thanksgiving as planned because of the increase in virus cases, I will get through my disappointment.

And I will admit it’s a little weird without the cat meowing at us this evening, it’s nice to know Mona is interred in one of the gardens in the backyard which was her kingdom that she liked to roam so much.

And thinking and writing about elections and celebrities brings back with a smile another memory of the profound and grounding wisdom of a young boy who once reminded his Pop Pop that “Everybody in Hollywood Farts” and who also this very evening demonstrated to me very graphically through video the devastating aftermath that the different categories of hurricanes can have on the toys in his bedroom.

But let’s face it, like it or not, this is the year where you won’t find the finger in the cucumbers.

Might as well toss it out and get a new one ready to slice.

But God’s got this.

And we will continue to be held.

We will continue to find reasons to laugh in the face of sadness and turmoil, loss and distancing.

We will continue to adapt.

Because God’s got this.

And we have God.

Singing a Nickel Song

October 29, 2020 curtisc27@gmail.com Comments 0 Comment

I am back from western Pennsylvania and I am home alone again.

My wife stayed to help her mom.

Sunday afternoon I was sitting alone on the couch in my basement watching the Steeler’s play the Titans when a bug literally flew up my nose.

“Seriously?” I said out loud as I snorted and shivered.

“A bug just flew up my nose?”

Ironically with everything that has not gone well this crazy year of 2020, the Steelers began this game 5 and 0 for the season. Though they were winning early in the fourth quarter, they did their best to set up the typical Steelers nail biter finish by pretty much letting the Titans catch up.

But it’s just football in a year when everything that has happened or equally as important, isn’t happening makes it just trivial.

On the way up to Pennsylvania last week I took a break at my usual stopping place, a McDonalds in Clear Springs, Maryland. Returning to my truck I found a nickel on the pavement.

I had to think but don’t remember the last time I saw a nickel.

When I was a kid growing up in Oceanport, New Jersey I lived on a dead-end street. Once my dad finished building our house on property he bought from my mother’s parents, there were seven houses on the street. According to my mother, my great grandparents owned all the property on the street at one time. What was not sold off was left to my grandmother. The street was called Willow Court because of the numerous willow trees that grew on the end closer to the river. Access to my street was via my little town’s bustling business district that we referred to as “downtown” and off one of the main roads called Oceanport Avenue. As you made the turn it did a dog leg right up to where it ended with an apple tree.

Oceanport had a variety of commercial establishments “downtown” and how you remembered them depended on what era you identified with. Art’s liquor store was one, Art was the grandfather of my first friend John who lived in a house on the river behind the liquor store. Our friendship was arranged between our moms since we would soon need each other to walk to school because we were starting kindergarten that year. We remained friends a long time.

There were also three gas stations or service stations as they were known back then; a drug store called Park’s Drug store, and a couple of luncheonettes. Bob and Norma’s was on the river side, and also sold convenience items like cards and razor blades, and deodorant.

I once bought my grandfather some Old Spice deodorant from Bob and Norma’s for his birthday. I am pretty sure that was his best gift ever. My mother even worked there as a “soda jerk” when she was in high school.

Next to Bob and Norma’s was the Village Market run by a guy named Frank Callahan. His son Kenny would join my friend John and I and become good friends from kindergarten.

Being just over the bridge from the Army base at Fort Monmouth, we had three barbershops and three bars that kept busy. In the middle of all these businesses was a large, very old house which was owned and occupied by my great grandparents when they were alive. When I was a kid however, it was then left to my grandmother and had four apartments which she rented out. In my family we referred to it as “The Big House.”

I was very familiar with nickels growing up as a kid in the early 60’s because our kid currency mainly consisted of nickels and pennies. We worked for those nickels and pennies by scouring the properties around those businesses for deposit bottles. You could get two cents for a small size bottle like an eight ounce Coke bottle or a nickel for a larger twenty eight ounce bottle. With those three bars, the liquor store, the three service stations with soda machines, those luncheonettes, and the market, we had the deposit bottle business locked up in that neighborhood.

Throw in a whole lot of GI’s in town with the Vietnam conflict ramping up, and the Monmouth Park Racetrack less than a mile up the road when horse racing was in its heyday in the 60’s and yup, the bottle deposit business could be lucrative.

And this was before there were litter laws.

Bottles were everywhere.

As a result, an enterprising six or seven year old could do pretty well.

We would just go find our days’ work of bottles, take them over to Callahan’s market, plop them on the counter, and wait for our payout.

Then we would take our earnings and head down the street to Park’s Drug store to do our part in helping the local economy. Mr. Park the pharmacist was kind of grouchy and scary but the guy that worked for him, Rios was always happy. We could get our Bazooka Bubble gum for a penny, or maybe some baseball cards and gum, or Beatles cards and gum, or on a good bottle day maybe even an ice cream sandwich.

As I got just a little bit older the bigger money could be made raking leaves. I could actually get a quarter or two out of my grandmother for raking leaves.

I hated raking leaves for my grandmother.

But work was work.

You had to take it when you could get it.

And in the winter, my brother Carl and I would team up and shovel snow.

We would walk the neighborhoods and knock on doors and shovel snowy sidewalks. That was really the big time because a sidewalk in the snow could be worth a buck or two. We split it 50/50, but most times we just ended up in the luncheonette eating our profits.

Life was very different.

A nickel like I found and tossed into the console of my truck maybe never to be seen again, had some value then.

On Sundays we went to church and Sunday School in the morning but because businesses were closed due to Blue Laws we couldn’t do much else on Sunday afternoons.

We had Sunday football on TV but it was in black and white, and baseball was still the big attraction back then so not too many paid attention.

And since blue laws meant the bottle deposit business was shut down too, maybe I raked my grandmother’s leaves, or helped my dad the basement as he built something (I hated that even more).

Now we don’t go to church on Sunday mornings because of COVID, but we can go shopping till we turn blue.

Go figure.

Well that’s my two cents worth or five cents worth, but luckily you don’t have to take it when you can get it.

As expected with 14 seconds left the Titans just needed to make a 46 yard field goal to tie the game and send it in to overtime.

Then the snap… the hold…Gostkowski’s kick was up…

And it passed just right of the uprights.

He missed, and the Steelers went to 6 and 0.

Maybe a bug flew up his nose?

The moral of the story?

Hard work pays off?

We need to return to a life that was simpler?

It’s best to be alone when a bug flies up your nose.

Post Script:

Make sure you get out and vote!

“I Held My Nose, I Closed My Eyes…I Took A Drink”

October 10, 2020 curtisc27@gmail.com Comments 6 comments

“Fillet of a fenny snake, In the cauldron boil and bake; Eye of newt and toe of frog, Wool of bat and tongue of dog, Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting, Lizard’s leg and owlet’s wing, For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.”

(Witch’s Brew recipe written in Shakespeare’s Macbeth)

It’s almost Halloween.

I read once that Halloween was second only to Christmas in retail sales. I have since read that is a myth.

But still, it’s a big deal to some, especially kids, and like everything else this year it won’t be the same.

That’s too bad.

Our typical day starts out with Kim and I having our first cup of coffee in bed as we check our email, check the weather, maybe our banking, and of course some social media.

This morning as I opened my Facebook I was greeted with a post reminding me that today is World Mental Health Day.

I might argue that a reminder of World Mental Health on Facebook could be perceived as an oxymoron but I was happy for the heads up.

In a great many cases and to varying degrees, the results of the conditions we currently are living and working and schooling under have taken its toll on our mental health.

Many sought new ways of staying active physically and mentally while social distancing. There was a time earlier in the year when you couldn’t buy a bicycle or a kayak as everyone tried to take on activities that lent themselves more to distancing from others.

If you want to social distance you can’t do that much better than being on a kayak.

Strangely, Kim and I, though we already had kayaks and bicycles, spent only a small amount of time riding our bikes this year and in fact never used our kayaks even once.

For physical activity, we walked a lot.

For fun, we spent a lot of time in our back yard.

And in our back yard, we worked our gardens.

Kim’s garden this year featured lemon balm, elderberries, horseradish, peppers, tomatoes, and herbs.

She even grew a pepper known as the Trinidad Moruga Scorpion!

According to PEPPERHEAD.com the Trinidad Moruga Scorpion will wreak your stomach, burn your intestines and still be smoking on the way out and is considered to be the second hottest pepper in the world.

We found that even just handling them was dangerous.

And as the pandemic focused our attention on building our immunity and trying to keep from getting the virus, Kim developed a new hobby, herbal concoctions that boost immunity, depress symptoms, help you relax and sleep.

I have mentioned our regular consumption of elderberry syrup in a previous post as a good source of boosting our immunity.

Normally we would go out and buy our syrup made locally by the Village Winery in Waterford, Virginia.

This year however my wife decided to fire up the cauldron and make it herself.

And in addition to elderberry syrup to boost our immunity she made elderberry tincture.

And in addition to the elderberry tincture, she made lemon balm tincture. Lemon balm tincture is supposed to reduce our stress and help with our sleep.

Today however was the day she was to prepare the mother of all home remedies.

FIRE CIDER!

Just the sound of it gave me chills.

“For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.”

I don’t know if it includes any of those ingredients mentioned by Mr. Shakespeare in Macbeth but I do know it has garlic, turmeric root, ginger root, horseradish root, onions, lemons, apple cider vinegar (with the “mother” in it, you will have to look that one up), peppercorns, and I don’t know that I care to know what else.

And in at least one of those batches she added the Trinidad Moruga Scorpion!

Once you have all this stuff mixed together you keep it in a cool place for six weeks while it does whatever it does until I have to drink it.

One thing is for sure, in addition to my lemon balm tincture and my elderberry tincture before bed, and my elderberry syrup in the morning; once that Fire Cider is ready in six weeks I surely won’t need to worry about social distancing because that should pretty much take care of itself.

Masks will be required.

Last year near this same time I wrote a post titled “Oh Well” that discussed mental illness and former Fleetwood Mac founding member Peter Green’s life of dealing with mental illness. Again this year on my 2020 Guitar Calendar hanging on the wall of my office I am reminded of Peter Green’s October 29th birthday along with other famous guitarists.

However Peter Green died this past July peacefully in his sleep at the age of 73. The cause of death has never been released by the family though some have speculated his mental health problems may have contributed to his death.

So on this World Mental Health Day, I am reminded about how important it is to keep busy, keep physically active, and find a hobby.

Go buy a kayak or a bicycle if you can find one, or get yourself a dehydrator and a large pot.

Find some wacky folks on YouTube living off the grid in the upper Northwest and learn how to start brewing concoctions in your kitchen.

But find something.

And now as we approach the bewitching hour, my beautiful little witch-doctor wife is fast asleep with dreams of other potions dancing in her head, and I am still waiting for my lemon balm tincture to kick in.

It was a good day and I am looking forward to six weeks from now when I might get a chance to say:

“Honey, this Fire Cider is awesome but I think it might need a little more fillet of fenny snake”

“Just sayin'”

She bent down and turned around and gave me a wink
She said “I’m gonna make it up right here in the sink”
It smelled like turpentine, it looked like Indian ink
I held my nose, I closed my eyes… I took a drink*

One of the three brewed batches of FIRE CIDER from today. It doesn’t look so bad today, let’s see how it looks and tastes after six weeks in the cold and dark. Pray for me. And my co-workers.

Post Script:

*“I held my nose, I closed my eyes, I took a drink” is from Love Potion Number Nine a song written by Jed Leiber and recorded by The Searchers back in the 60’s.

Shakespeare Macbeth witch’s brew recipe is courtesy of University of Minnesota

The feature photo is courtesy of Unsplash and photographer Tikkho Maciel.

Happy Halloween.

Life in the Wobbly Cart

September 26, 2020 curtisc27@gmail.com Comments 0 Comment

On a trip earlier in the week to the grocery store I got to the checkout and transferred my cart to the checker. It was in one of those stores where the checker pulls your cart on his/her side. When all was done I inserted my debit card and paid the bill as he pushed the cart around for me, handed me the receipt, and said:

“Hey, it looks like you got the wobbly cart.”

The “wobbly cart.”

You know, the one where at least one wheel wants to do everything but what you want it to do.

The one that makes the “rrraaattt tat ta tat’ sound all around the store as you push it with one arm or the other acting in overtime to compensate for the pull as you try to act all casual while you know everyone you pass in the store is thinking:

“Look at that poor guy, he got the wobbly cart.”

So on this day when the guy says “Hey, it looks like you got the wobbly cart,” I just laughed and said back,

“Yeah the wobbly cart, that’s the story of my life.”

So then he says “that sounds like a good title for a book, “Life in the Wobbly Cart.”

I thought to myself, man if he only knew the half of it.

I understand, in my family, we call it the Christiansen Curse.

Kim reminded me this morning that tomorrow starts Yom Kippur.

My Jewish friends and family might relate with the expression,

“Ma nishtana!”

This Hebrew saying according to the Urban Dictionary is used to express utter lack of surprise at a supposed piece of news. It’s a way of saying “Tell me something I don’t know” or “What else is new?” with a snarky urban Jewish twist.

Friday was a bad day for me.

I went in early on Friday to get a head start on cutting church grass which is pretty much an all day job.

Immediately I ran into an IT problem that is normally not a big deal but on this day it took extra time to resolve.

Once I got that issue squared away, now having lost an hour, I went out to start working on the property only to find my left rear tire on my lawn mower was flat.

So I went for my air pump but couldn’t find a charged battery or the charger to charge the battery.

After some more lost time I got the flat tire squared away and got to work.

But before I did I texted my wife “Christiansen curse day.”

Then to top it all off while I was mowing, I stepped in dog shhhh…..poo.

Dog Poo.

And I didn’t only just step in it I literally slid through it for about a foot.

“That’s just perfect,” I thought to myself.

Next, I get a text message from Alexa that said “Christian says he is sad because he misses you.”

Christian, the kid who once, while visiting him in Hollywood, Florida said, “Pop Pop I haven’t seen you in years and years,” can really put the screws to you.

Another sad reminder of the times.

Finally, as my day was winding down, my wife texted me to ask if I wanted to go to Carrabba’s for dinner.

I was tired and I had such a crummy day the thought of going out and relaxing with my wife sounded awesome.

I wasn’t hungry since I had eaten twice that day and of course, it had to have been leftover spaghetti and meatballs, but hey I thought, I will just have a bowl of soup. And since Carrabba’s gives you that awesome bread and olive oil with spices to dip it in, I would be good.

Yeah okay, I admit it, I am one of those guys who will order a bowl of soup, get the bread, and be happy.

Because I am cheap.

Ry Cooder sings a song written a long time ago by Josh White called One Meatball.

It’s a song about a guy who only has fifteen cents to eat with so he searches restaurants and menus until he finds a place where he can purchase something to eat for fifteen cents, one meatball.

Everyone in the restaurant is aghast as the waiter calls out the order for one meatball and then proceeds to remind him:

“You gets no bread with one meatball.”

With the day I was having as I sheepishly ordered my one bowl of soup, I was half expecting the server to call out loudly:

“You gets no bread with one bowl of soup.”

Finally now relaxing and enjoying my bowl of soup and my bread, I open up my Facebook to find my three daughters, my three little chickens, putting me out on social media for not remembering them on “National Daughters Day.”

My final kick for the day.

Oh well.

“Ma nishtana.”

“You gets no bread with one meatball.”

That’s life in the wobbly cart.

Okay, now maybe I can get back to that book now.

“Life in the Wobbly Cart.”

Chapter One.

Let’s see, how should I start…?

Post Script:

After having basically finished this I dipped out to Lowe’s to pick up a couple of things. I entered the store then realized I might need a cart. I went back out and there, right next to the sterilizing station, was one cart.

I wiped it down and started my shopping.

And guess what kind of cart it was.

Yup.

“That’s just perfect,” I thought.

Happy National Daughters Day to Savannah, Hayley, and Alexa.

I still love you more than meatballs.

Yom Tov.

Reminders (Revisited)

September 11, 2020 curtisc27@gmail.com Comments 0 Comment

“IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL SEPTEMBER MORNING WITH A BLUE SKY…JUST A NORMAL DAY.”

Joy Knepp, Teacher, Shanksville –Stoneycreek School from the display at the Flight 93 Memorial Visitor Center

On an early New England morning in 1775, on the common green in Lexington Massachusetts, a small group of patriots prepared to square off against a large invading British force of about 700 troops. Moments later a shot was fired, and the first battle of the war to establish our nation’s freedom had begun.

Two hundred and twenty-six years later, on “a beautiful September morning with a blue sky…just a normal day” over the green mountains and hills of western Pennsylvania, another small group of brave patriots waged the first battle of a new war to protect those freedoms fought so hard for many years ago.

“…a beautiful September morning with a blue sky…”

Much like today I thought, as I left the Flight 93 Visitor Center and began the walk down the tree lined path to the impact site below. Though the morning was cool, the now mid to late afternoon sun caused me to remove my Harley Davidson of Somerset PA sweatshirt and tie it around my waist. Kim did the same with her Steelers sweatshirt. The occasional large dark cloud loomed almost symbolically right over the Flight 93 Memorial Visitor Center, so low it looked like you could almost reach up and touch it. I guess something in the sky had to be there to remind us of the darkness of that day, joining the reminders on the grounds around me. Though it was a beautiful day, this day, September 11^th would never again be just a normal one.

Needing to decompress a little, Kim and I decided to make a trip up to see the family on the farm in Markleton, Pennsylvania in Somerset County. It was a weekend of reminders.

By early Saturday morning we were in Western Pennsylvania. I have been to Somerset County many times over the last almost 20 years and thought I was fairly well versed in the farm community life and history. I got my eyes opened on Saturday by attending the New Centerville Volunteer Fire Company Farmer’s and Threshermens Jubilee. Another reminder for me, this time of the hard work and sacrifice it took our forefathers to build and feed this great country of ours.

Sunday was church at the Geiger Church of the Brethren. The Sunday school message that morning was about death; how do we prepare? Are we ready? What in our lives can complicate that preparation? And another reminder…we don’t always get the opportunity to prepare.

After church we had lunch with Kim’s parents at the Eat’n Park Restaurant in Somerset and decided we would just jump on the Pennsylvania Turnpike to go home. As I was waiting to leave, the manager at the Eat’n Park asked if I had come from the Flight 93 Memorial. I explained we were here visiting family. The restaurant is next to the Harley-Davidson of Somerset motorcycle shop. I told her about the photo my sister had sent me a few weeks earlier of that same spot as she and my brother-in-law participated in the 2016 America’s 9/11 Motorcycle Ride.

“Oh yeah” she said, “the motorcycles.”

She then expressed her disappointment that this year’s ride was to be the last.

“They donated an ambulance you know.”

Now in the truck ready to go home, the idea of visiting the Flight 93 Memorial on this day in particular seemed like the appropriate thing to do. I had never been there. We were directed to park in an overflow parking lot since the visitors were many and walked the paths up to the Memorial Visitor Center. All around the grounds, you could see what remained of the ceremonies that took place that morning or the evening before; the wreaths, the tents, the temporary bleachers, and stacks of chairs.

We waited in line for almost an hour to enter the Visitor Center. Once inside it didn’t take long to be transported back to that day with a rush of emotion. I lifted the “phone” receiver and listened to their voices, those final calls and goodbyes; I viewed their names and faces on the wall and read the stories as the video of the World Trade Center attacks played over and over. Everyone was quiet and solemn.

We walked down to the site of the impact. The large hemlock gate to the path where the boulder marks the impact site was open today. Only open once a year on this day according to the Park Ranger stationed at the gate.

We stood at The Wall of Names where fresh wreaths, flowers, and notes lay at the base of each stone panel honoring those who perished.

“Thank you for your sacrifice, God Bless You” read one note.

“Your sacrifice saved hundreds, Thank You!” read another.

I read the names again. The names of those patriots, who maybe with make-shift weapons of boiling water, a fire extinguisher, and who knows what else; made the ultimate sacrifice in what was the first battle of the new war threatening our freedoms.

They left their homes and their loved ones and boarded a jet not knowing how complicated their lives would be in a short while. How complicated their deaths would be. They soon knew they were going to die; they had no time to prepare.

But they acted.

And they acted on our behalf.

And I was reminded once more.

And I will remember.

We should all remember.

“Are you guys ready? Let’s roll.” (Flight 93 passenger and patriot Todd Beamer)

Items left for flight attendant Sandy Bradshaw at the Wall of Names

Sir Sidney, My 2020 Horse of the Year

August 29, 2020 curtisc27@gmail.com Comments 2 comments

Sir Sidney came home to us last night. Me and my three kids drove 5 hours for him. When he was walked out to me he was in tatters…. rain rot, bleached by the sun, deep gash on his withers, shoes look 3 months old, and he only has three of them hanging on by a thread. Large osselet on the left front. He was in a pasture with a sheep out in the middle of nowhere. I took him anyway. I paid for him just to get him out of there. He seems very pleased with himself to be here. Dr. will xray his osselet so we can make sure we keep him comfortable and serviceable, and the farrier will be here tomorrow to give his feet some much needed relief. He’s had 5 homes in the past 12 months, so he is now ours. He will be babied from now on and will never know hard work again. He will be treated as a show horse here. Lots of grass and hunter ponies and his own stall – blanketed when needed and he will have proper vet farrier dental and nutrition. I hope you have a BLESSED day today…

(An email to me from Tiffany M. received Wednesday, August 19)

A couple of weeks ago I was lying in bed on a Friday morning, not wanting to get out from under the covers, not wanting to go to work, just lamenting and feeling the weight of this unusual summer.

On that day it was mid-August and the signs of the summer’s ultimate passing had already begun. Sitting out on the deck the evening before I had commented to Kim on how early the deck light with its darkness sensor was now tripping on. Our unusual summer was showing signs of winding down. Some might think signaling the end of this summer might be a good thing. That might be true if at least some of the reasons this summer has been so traumatic could be changed. But we can’t change God’s plan. We can only change that which we can control. But the thoughts of moving into the fall and the early darkness combining seasonal affective disorder with coronavirus depression could be quite scary for many.

What do you do at 4:45 p.m. in the afternoon when it is dark outside? How do you exercise safely, how do you go out and walk in nature and forget about being socially restricted.

Wouldn’t it be nice if our country’s leaders would consider that and extend Daylight Savings Time through the fall and winter this year to help us cope with our “new normal.”

On that Friday morning when I was feeling down and out, still in bed but now with a cup of coffee, I opened up my email. While I was asleep I had received this email:

It’s way past midnight and I’m sitting here doing Internet search on an 11-year-old off the track thoroughbred by the name of Sir Sidney. He is the now 11-year-old son of Ghostzapper. I found nothing of great interest other than racing stats and equivalent information. But I was craving a nice photograph or video…. Then I happened upon this:

A SENTIMENTAL RACETRACK JOURNEY

May 1, 2019 Curtisc27@Gmail.Com

Thank you for this wonderful article.

You see, I was considering buying this fella for my family. Sight unseen, taking the trailer to meet he and his current owner in a couple days.

Reading this article sealed the deal.

I guess I found my Sir Sidney after all. And we will live him well. Wish us luck!!

Sent from my iPhone

(Received at 12:29 a.m. Friday, August 14 from Tiffany M.)

Wait…Sir Sidney?

I don’t know Tiffany M. but I do know Sir Sidney.

Sidney is part of my sentimental racetrack journey.

Once again, after reading Tiffany’s email, I got sentimental.

I even got a little teary-eyed.

I read Tiffany’s email to Kim.

I read “A Sentimental Racetrack Journey” again.

Then I read Tiffany’s email again.

And I got a little teary once more.

I got out of bed.

No longer feeling like staying under the covers I was now feeling totally elated.

Since I last wrote about Sidney just before last year’s Kentucky Derby, he ran eight more races running his last race on July 22, 2019, as a ten-year-old.

Born March 6, 2009, Sir Sidney had worked really hard since he ran his first race on New Year’s Day in 2012 as a three-year-old. After three races that year, he would be sidelined until that third Saturday in May of 2014 when I was inadvertently introduced to Sir Sidney as a result of that botched wager. On that day he was five years old winning his first race. Over his career that ended last summer, he had run 68 races and finished in the top three 29 times, twelve of those as the winner earning a total of $269,119.00. This past March he officially turned eleven years old and was now finally retired.

The old guy who last year was still out there working, having to prove himself against the younger fellas, could now relax.

But Sir Sidney’s first year of retirement wasn’t like busting out in the RV and taking that dream trip across the country.

Nope, he got shuffled from one owner to another and had five homes in twelve months and as was evident in Tiffany description of him in her email of August 19, no one was caring for him anymore.

Sidney’s long and proud journey that included all those years of fighting to win was now forgotten. In quite the literal sense, Sidney had been put out to pasture and neglected.

Then Sid’s angel of mercy on a wing and a prayer, this nice lady named Tiffany, made the impetuous decision to drive many hours go get him sight unseen.

She “found her Sir Sidney after all.”

And in doing so she saved Sid.

Now Sidney can really enjoy his retirement.

He is not being asked to win races anymore, but he is still winning hearts.

He is appreciated and being cared for by a wonderful family.

He “will never know hard work again.”

And me?

I am still elated.

Once again we are reacquainted.

Once again he becomes part of my journey.

Once again I got goosebumps.

And I get to follow how happy he is by the photos I can view.

Next Saturday is the 146^th running of the Kentucky Derby.

It’s not generating the same amount of excitement and sense of optimistic anticipation of producing a new National Obsession as it would normally do for me on the first Saturday in May, which also serves as my personal unofficial first day of summer.

In fact, it’s being run on Labor Day weekend, the unofficial end of summer.

But of course, I will watch.

And I hope you will watch too.

And like I said in “A Sentimental Racetrack Journey” before last year’s Derby:

“I hope you take some time this Saturday and watch the Kentucky Derby. I hope you pay attention to the stories, enjoy the majestic beauty of these animals, get caught up in the drama.

I hope you find something sentimental in the experience that makes you want to return.

I hope you find your Sir Sidney.”

Like I did.

Like Tiffany did.

Sir Sidney, once again, my vote for Horse of the Year.

Post Script:

I would like to thank Tiffany and her family for saving this horse and providing a loving and safe environment for Sidney to enjoy his retirement.

And for sharing the experience with me.

And as for that BLESSED day, it surely was, and not just for me.

Hurricane Who?

August 6, 2020 curtisc27@gmail.com Comments 0 Comment

Three twenty-two in the afternoon of August 3 and I am just crossing the Frederick C. Malkus Bridge over the Choptank River into Cambridge, Maryland. Off in the distance in the direction of my parent’s house, I could see bolts of lightning crashing out of the dark cloud mass moving up from the south. A couple of small issues delayed my departure and of course I had to stop at Trader Joe’s, or can I say Trader Jose’s, or wait maybe now it’s “The Supermarket Formerly Known as Trader Joe’s” to pick up some wine (that’s a whole other story). Now a little angry that I am behind schedule, I was hoping to beat the rain and have some time to prep for the storm.

As I drove into their driveway I found my mother and my father attempting to secure their kayaks on a rack he had built outside their garage. My dad was trying to climb a small stepladder and my mother was arguing with him to stay off the ladder. Good timing I thought, reinforcing my decision to go out there.

I had been following the path of Tropical Storm What’s His Name all weekend.

What is his name?

Hurricane EE I EE I O…I think?

No that can’t be right. There are a lot of “EE I’s” in there but don’t think there are any “O’s.”

Can I buy a consonant please, Pat?

Anyway, all the models had it moving directly over Dorchester County, Maryland, the area of the Eastern Shore of where my parents live. It was still believed it would be upgraded to Hurricane before making landfall somewhere in the Carolinas. The storm wasn’t expected to be over Dorchester County and Woolford until about 9 a.m. Tuesday so after securing the kayaks and a few other items in the yard it was time to relax, get some sleep, and wait until the morning.

The first tornado touched down near Vienna, Maryland at 6:01 a.m. way ahead of the 8 a.m. to 9 a.m. that we expected. Vienna is further down Route 50 closer to Salisbury. When I got up at 6:44 the new tornado warning included the towns of Secretary and Hurlock on the eastern side of Dorchester County.

Raining hard, the river was high but the wind not too bad. We watched the local news station out of Salisbury to keep up with the storm’s progression and the tornado warnings as we waited it out.

We watched as the eyewall passed over our area, the wind briefly kicked up but soon according to the weather station we were watching, we would be out of trouble as Tropical Storm What’s His Name moved toward Philadelphia and New Jersey.

Friday, June 29, 2012, was a really hot day and part of a heatwave our Northern Virginia area was experiencing. But by that evening we would experience a weather event most had never even heard of. We learned a new word almost as difficult to pronounce as the name of this week’s Hurricane.

We experienced…a Derecho.

According to NOAA, Derechos are fast-moving bands of thunderstorms with destructive winds. The winds can be as strong as those found in hurricanes or even tornadoes! Unlike hurricanes and tornadoes, these winds follow straight lines.

On this particular day in June when the temperature hit 104 degrees, a small thunderstorm that began in Iowa would begin its journey east and as it crossed Indiana it would become a Derecho. As it continued its route towards the east and encountered the Appalachian Mountains, instead of losing steam as often happens with storms reaching the mountains, the hot humid air mass that existed that day on the other side provided additional energy. By the time it reached the Baltimore/Washington, DC corridor and its suburbs including mine in Northern Virginia, winds had reached as much as 60 to 80 miles an hour. Reston a town adjacent to mine logged a gust of 79 miles per hour.

When it was over it left destruction and over a million people in our area without power. The restoration of power took an unusually long time as you might expect. Ice was scarce, and without refrigeration and freezers, food was lost. As the heatwave continued, without air conditioning life became really uncomfortable very quickly. I remember Kim and I sitting in the blow-up pool we had for Cameron for hours. After spending a sleepless Saturday night due to the heat, on Sunday I put the kids up in a nearby hotel that had backup power. Cameron was only two years old at the time and there is nothing worse than being stuck in a hot house with hot, sweaty, cranky daughters.

No, as they say, I ain’t doing it, I would rather sit in a blow-up pool in my back yard with temperatures over 100 degrees for a week than deal with all that. It was well worth the investment.

I don’t remember exactly when our power finally did come back on but I think it was Tuesday which was relatively good as I remember. It was a miserable experience and after that weekend we all knew what the word Derecho meant.

As Tropical Storm Whatchamacallit began its movement north the local weather people began to draw lines on their weather maps indicating the “all clear” area. If you were behind the line you were all good. So once we were safely behind that line we began to relax and listened as the weather stories focused on counties further north and in Delaware.

Then all of a sudden our winds shifted to the west. That was an even better signal that we were now on the better side of the storm.

Though we received a lot of rain we dodged the tornadoes and the wind we had from the storm was minimal.

Or was it?

Gradually that wind from the west began to get stronger.

And then it got even stronger.

And the river awoke with huge white caps that crashed onto the docks and bulkheads creating spray normally only seen with an ocean wave.

And the rain came down even harder as trees bent and broke and were pulled up from their roots.

Now that we were safely behind the “all clear” line, we suddenly had a real storm to contend with. And in a short period of time while our local weather folks in Salisbury talked about Dover and above, somehow our “Hurricane What’s His Name ” had returned.

As the waves smashed against the bulkheads and the docks up and down the river they began to break up. The familiar duck blind in the cove up the river disappeared and ended up in a nearby yard.

My dad’s pier, like the other piers up and down the river, began to break up as well.

Trees fell up and down the street.

“Hey,” I said as I messaged the TV station via Facebook Messenger, “we have some serious weather here in Woolford!” But still no mention. Then I even sent a video. But no response.

What the heck was going on?

Three tractor-trailers on the Frederick C. Malkus Bridge had been blown over!

And we were “all clear.”

Finally, as our new storm began to calm down, we started to get a mention and an explanation of what was going on.

And on Tuesday, like that day in June of 2012 when we learned what a Derecho was, we learned what a Sting Jet was.

According to the internet and the local weather guy:

A sting jet is a relatively localized jet of rapidly descending cold air inside a deep extratropical cyclone. It affects a small region, compared to the size of the cyclone, and lasts only several hours. Destructive winds of over 150 km/h (93 miles an hour) have been attributed to sting jets.

So while Tropical Storm EE I EE I O was marching across the Delmarva and into Pennsylvania and New Jersey, in Dorchester County, Maryland we had a Sting Jet!

As the winds began to subside and the rain stopped, I cleared the pine tree that fallen in the front from the road. Then I collected the boards from the neighbor’s dock that included parts of three nearby docks. I assessed the damage to my dad’s dock and would put the repairs off to another day.

I picked up the branches and the crab traps that had blown into the neighbor’s yard.

I spoke with some of the neighbors who shared stories of similar damage.

All in all though, no one was hurt and the damage could be repaired or removed.

And for the second time in my life, I experienced a new weather phenomenon. Well, new to me and the local weather guy on TV who admitted he had never seen this before.

Though I am having a little fun with the name of this storm that most of couldn’t pronounce, including a few weather persons I listened to, my prayers go out to those who suffered serious damage to house and home, physical injury, and especially the families of the at least nine people who lost their lives to the storm.

ISAIAS

ees-ah-EE-ahs

EE I…EE I… OOOOOOOOO…

The end.

Moonlight Over San Diego

August 2, 2020 curtisc27@gmail.com Comments 0 Comment

Sunday, August 2, 2020.

It’s 4:51 Pacific Time.

“On to the track for the 7th race. Post time in nine minutes”

Del Mar thoroughbred racetrack is located in San Diego. I have never been to Del Mar.

I have been to San Diego once.

My brother Gary lives in San Diego.

Often when talking about my brothers I would refer to one as my “California brother” and the other as my “Cancer brother.”

In fact, the only trip I made to San Diego was to visit my “California brother” and it was with my “Cancer brother” Carl.

It is a nice memory.

Though I didn’t know it at the time he wanted to make that trip because he thought his cancer that was in remission had returned. Thankfully that turned out not to be the case.

After that, we would kid him a little that every time he traveled or showed up somewhere unexpectedly it meant it was time for us to go buy a suit.

Like the second trip he made to San Diego with his wife Teesha, and the Mother’s Day he showed up unannounced at my mother’s after learning he had mesothelioma.

It was never really funny, but in more hopeful times it got a little laugh.

I would probably visit San Diego more often.

But you know, you have to be invited.

Then, of course, there is the virus.

“The horses are now approaching the starting gate.”

The seventh race at Del Mar was scheduled for 5 o’clock Pacific Time which makes it 8 o’clock here on the east coast.

The seventh race at Del Mar is special to me today because one of my horses is entered. You may recall from my post “We’re Going to Make It…” that I made a very small investment in four two-year-old fillies.

“The horses have now reached the starting gate. It’s Post Time! They’re at the starting gate for the seventh race at Del Mar.”

Moonlight D’Oro is the two-year-old daughter of Medaglia d’Oro, the dad. Medaglia d’Oro was a very successful grade one stakes winner who raced until age five. Moonlight’s mom Venetian Sonata was also a grade one stakes runner who had marginal racing success.

The conditions of the race are the requirements a horse must meet to be entered into a race. In this case, the conditions are that this is a Maiden race at five furlongs for two-year-old fillies only. The maiden term means none of the horsed entered have ever won a race though they may have started other races but just not won. The purse is $55,000.

In the case of Moonlight d’Oro, she has never run a race. She is a first-time starter. She had been working out very successfully and as a result her trainer Richard Mandella felt it was time. Of the four horses I made my very small investment in, Moonlight d’Oro is the first to be entered into a race. She will exit the gate as the number 4 horse and will be ridden by jockey Flavien Prat, a French jockey who has been riding in the States since 2015. So far today Flavien has already won two races.

Moonlight d’Oro was the morning line favorite to win the race with early odds at 8 to 5. Currently, as we get close to post time, she is 2 to 5, the heavy favorite.

“Roll Up Mo Money moving in with Moonlight d’Oro.”

“They’re off!”

Thoroughbred racehorses all turn a year older on January 1^st. Therefore, any horse foaled in 2018 as far as race conditions are concerned is considered to be two years old in 2020. Moonlight d’Oro’s actual birthday was May 2, 2018, so she is twenty-seven months old today. Though it is not unusual for a horse to begin racing as a two-year-old it is just as common for trainers to wait until they are three when they are a little more mature.

The more well-known races such as the Kentucky Derby, the Preakness, and the Belmont, otherwise known as the Triple Crown are limited to horses that are three years old. Most of the time the entrants to these races are male horses though there have been some girls who have been successful running against the boys like Winning Colors in 1988 and Genuine Risk in 1980 and Regret in 1915.

“Moonlight d’Oro finds herself six lengths off the lead early on.”

One of the unusual aspects of this seventh race at Del Mar is that none of these horses have ever been entered in a race. They are all very young and very inexperienced. Their only practice has been working out in the mornings, running against a stablemate or two, and breaking from the practice gate. Therefore anyone of these horses could step up today and win this race. One of them will “break their maiden” today.

“Nothing yet from the favorite Moonlight d’Oro who’s at the back of the pack”

The workouts are timed by the “clockers.” Therefore there is some data, though not always considered to be very reliable, on how a horse may be progressing in their training. Moonlight d’Oro produced a “bullet workout,” in other words, one of the best of the day at Santa Anita back on June 13 and has worked well over the Del Mar surface at five furlongs in preparation for this race.

“And they’re into the stretch. And it’s Roll Up Mo Money who has taken the lead”

I should probably go visit my “California brother” more often.

I was just kidding about the invitation, he asks us to come out all the time.

I can’t visit with my “Cancer brother” anymore.

I should probably learn something from that.

But we don’t always learn. I have written about that before.

Then of course there is the virus.

“Closing in between horses is Moonlight d’Oro who’s kicked it in too”

“But Roll Up Mo Money is going to do it”

I don’t know if investing in these horses will ever turn out to be good as an investment, but it has been certainly worth the well-needed distraction.

Moonlight d’Oro had a big kick at the end and finished second.

She ran a really nice race coming way off the pace and closing nicely.

She will be fine.

She made another nice memory.

Who Moved My Cheese…Again

July 11, 2020 curtisc27@gmail.com Comments 11 comments

It was September 11, 1970.

As Bruce Springsteen described in his autobiography Born to Run, the Steel Mill concert at the Clearwater Swim Club located in the Atlantic Highlands section of Middletown Township New Jersey was billed as a “Free Mad Dog” concert. Vinnie “Mad Dog” Lopez was the band’s drummer who had been arrested in Richmond shortly before and they needed money to bail him out of jail.

I met up with some friends at the beach in North Long Branch and we hitchhiked our way up the coast to Atlantic Highlands. Hitchhiking was a fairly common mode of transportation back then.

My brother had gotten a ride with one of his friends. We were sitting near the right side of the pool.

I had a tendency back then to like to wander through the crowds socializing.

At some point, a plainclothes police officer who was also moving through the crowd attempted to arrest someone for something and got thrown in the pool.

As a result of that and the 10 p.m. noise curfew, the uniformed Middletown Police arrived with literally a busload of police officers intent on enforcing the noise curfew.

So around 10 p.m. they shut off the power and pandemonium ensued. There was a lot of scuffling around the stage, and amplifiers were coming down.

As the chaos broke out the crowd began to flee the venue and the police.

At some point in the confusion, an arm reached out and grabbed my shirt.

It was my brother. “Stay right next to me,” he said as we worked our way out, holding on to my shirt the whole way out. My memory is a little fuzzy on what happened after but no doubt we all ended up back in North Long Branch in Johnny’s Luncheonette parking lot trading stories about our crazy evening.

There would be others.

Though we were two years apart we had a lot of the same friends, we hung out in the same places, liked the same music, and as in the story above he took good care of me. The downside of that being that when we were younger my mother would sometimes buy us the same clothing so there are school pictures where we were dressed alike. And since Carl was bigger than me, once he grew out of his, I had to wear it another year or two.

I remember one Christmas I had bought him four or five forty-five records as a present, wrapped them up and hid them under my bed. But since I liked the forty-fives so much one day before Christmas when no one was around I unwrapped them, listened to them a couple of times, re-wrapped them, and put them back under the bed.

My mother bought us our first record albums at the Superama in Shrewsbury, or maybe it was at Two Guys From Harrison, no I think it was the Superama. If you are from Jersey you may remember those stores. Carl got The 4 Seasons Gold Vault of Hits and I got the Beach Boys’ Surfin’ U.S.A.

Carl growing up was “Chris” or “Chrissie”. We didn’t start calling him Carl until we were adults so that was fairly recently, and still, then it was just every now and then.

He could torment the heck out of you with his teasing and pranks.

Once when we were younger he stood at the top of the steps of the split level house my dad had built where we grew up, in Oceanport, New Jersey, holding a deck of cards and asked me if I wanted to play Fifty Two Pick Up. Since I liked to play cards and liked playing with my brother I enthusiastically said yes.

Then he threw the deck of cards down the stairs and they landed scattered all over our hallway at the bottom of the steps and said:

“Okay, then pick them up.”

Then he laughed real hard.

I should have seen that one coming.

Gary who was seven years younger than Carl took the brunt of his pranks though.

We all three boys shared the same bedroom. My dad had built this elaborate headboard system with bookshelves for each one of us in between the beds. Gary had the bed closest to the door and Chrissie was in the middle. One day Carl was kneeling in between his bed and Gary’s pretending to be taking big whiffs of something he was holding cupped in his hands. Every time he took a big whiff he would comment on how great it smelled. Gary was watching and so he asked Gary if he would like to smell it too and Gary said yes. So he snapped the ammonia inhaler he had cupped in his hands just before Gary took a big snort. Gary freaked and ran out of the room screaming and crying. It was hysterical.

Another time we were camping and the campground was near a farm that had an electrical fence. Patty was a baton twirler at the time. Chrissie was holding Patty’s baton by the rubber end and touching the fence and saying how cool it was. He asked Gary if he wanted to touch the fence with the baton too and of course Gary yes. So he handed Gary the baton which Gary grabbed by the metal part. Then Gary touched the fence. That was pretty funny too.

Growing up he fought most of the battles with my parents first so when I wanted to do something like grow my hair long, wear hippie-like clothes, listen to loud rock music, and have the freedom to roam, my parents had already given up on the fight.

As soon as he could get his working papers at the age of thirteen he started working. First at Frank Callahan’s market in old Oceanport. Then he parlayed jobs and learned printing skills that eventually got him to Lucent Technologies and a very early retirement offer.

Somewhere along the way, he was exposed to asbestos. He also always thought the chemicals in the print shop were the cause of his colon-rectal cancer since he knew other printers who had also developed the same cancer.

In those early years too he flipped cars like he flipped jobs, buying selling, even trading with his friends. He always had cool cars. In fact, I bought my first car from him, my first motorcycle, and my first pick-up truck.

One time I had a date with this new girl. She was a big Billy Joel fan and I was taking her to the Billy Joel concert at the Monmouth College (it wasn’t a University then) on his Piano Man tour.

Carl knew this was an important date for me so he asked if I wanted to borrow his car that night. At the time he had a 1971 white Corvette. She was very impressed. I remember I tried to kiss her once though and she pulled back because she said that I would mess up her lipstick.

Needless to say, that one didn’t work out (thankfully).

Never the less I still made a big impression thanks to Billy Joel and my brother.

I recall one day, we were probably in our early twenties, and we were driving somewhere. As he drove I sat in the passenger seat doing my best Richard Lewis shtick, complaining about whatever it was I was hating life about at the time.

He listened quietly as I ranted and finally he stopped me and said something like:

“Listen to yourself!”

“All you have been doing since we have been driving is complaining.”

“What the hell do you have to complain about?”

“Why don’t you quit bitching and complaining and just be happy?”

I shut up and sat quietly after that thinking about how I was acting and feeling a little silly.

He was right.

I think since he knew my propensity back then for being miserable and complaining, not too long after he had lost his job at Lucent, I left the company I had worked at for fifteen years and had trouble finding a new job.

He sent me a book called “Who Moved My Cheese” and he said it had helped him to view his situation more positively. He thought it might do the same for me.

If you are not familiar, “Who Moved My Cheese” is the story of four mice named Sniff and Scurry and Hem and Haw The book is about the different ways we respond to change. In the book, Cheese is the metaphor for what we want in life. I think Carl knew he was more Sniff and Scurry and that I was more Hem and Haw.

The book explains that no source of cheese lasts forever. Life changes whether we like it or not because change is inevitable and we need to learn to anticipate it, adapt to it, embrace and enjoy it. Do this and you will enjoy more success and fulfillment in every part of your life and work.

It worked for him.

He went on to work for himself and build a great business as his family grew and made many very loyal friends. He encountered many challenges along the way but always remained positive.

The morning of Tuesday, June 30, I was the only one at my sister Patty’s house when my sister in law Teesha called my cell phone and told me Carl had just died.

I freaked.

I got angry at God and Carl that he couldn’t have waited another freaking hour so that I could talk to him, and with no one in the house I was expressing that disappointment quite vocally and loudly.

Afterward, I felt a little silly once again.

Because I know if he could have, he would have said “what the hell are you angry, and complaining about? I’m not angry and complaining and I’m the one who died! Just quit complaining and be happy!”

And he would have been right again.

For my family, once again our cheese got moved and in an instant, our lives changed.

And though we anticipated it, I have to say it’s been really hard to embrace it.

But Carl did.

And now he is at peace, he is not in any more pain, and he doesn’t have to worry about overcoming any more challenges.

He can just be happy.

He found his cheese…again.