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Life in the Wobbly Cart

Life in the Wobbly Cart

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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)

Reminders (Revisited)

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“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 11th 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

Sir Sidney, My 2020 Horse of the Year

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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 146th 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.

Life is Good!
 Hurricane Who?

 Hurricane Who?

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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.

 

The sun goes down ending a crazy day.

 

At least it didn’t wash away.
Moonlight Over San Diego

Moonlight Over San Diego

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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 1st.  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

Who Moved My Cheese…Again

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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.

 

This was Christmas 1962
not sure, 1958 or 1959?
2015
North Long Branch in the 1970’s, that is Johnny’s on the left.  The ocean is a half a block to the left of Johnny’s.
Superama, the record section in fact.
Identical sweater photos
Some Fourth of July
Early 2000’s
Memorial Day Weekend 2020

(North Long Branch photo courtesy of MonmouthBeachLife.com, the Superama photo courtesy of TroyMartin.com)

My Ride’s Here

My Ride’s Here

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I was staying at the Westin
I was playing to a draw
When in walked Charlton Heston
With the Tablets of the Law

He said, “It’s still the Greatest Story”
I said, “Man I’d like to stay
But I’m bound for glory
I’m on my way
My ride’s here…”

 (From “My Ride’s Here” as written by Paul Muldoon and Warren Zevon)

 

I got a nice email from Mike Vineyard back in early May.  Mike is the brother of Steve Vineyard, my pastor who passed away unexpectedly back in January of this year.

You might remember.

I won’t share it exactly but in his email he said he had read and enjoyed some my posts and had even subscribed to the website.

I don’t know Mike.

He didn’t remember meeting me and truthfully I don’t remember meeting him either.  Ever since having Donny’s funeral at the Sterling United Methodist Church, I don’t like to attend funerals there.    So I generally make myself as busy as I can be helping out in some way that keeps me distracted.

But I surely appreciated his comments and his desire to receive my future posts.

 

“My Ride’s Here” was the eleventh studio album released in May of 2002 by singer-songwriter Warren Zevon.  I read that he described the album as a meditation on death.

It was released several months before Zevon was diagnosed with a type of cancer called mesothelioma.

Warren Zevon passed away in September of 2003 at the young age of fifty-six.

 

According to the Mayo Clinic:

Malignant mesothelioma (me-zoe-thee-lee-O-muh) is a type of cancer that occurs in the thin layer of tissue that covers the majority of your internal organs (mesothelium).

Mesothelioma is an aggressive and deadly form of cancer. Mesothelioma treatments are available, but for many people with mesothelioma, a cure isn’t possible.

The primary risk factor for mesothelioma is exposure to asbestos.

 

My brother Carl had mesothelioma.

He died on Tuesday morning, about fourteen months after his diagnosis, at the young age of sixty-six.

 

According to my California brother Gary, who recently was able to spend a week with Carl, he told him that he really liked the song “My Ride’s Here” by Warren Zevon.

Zevon didn’t know he had mesothelioma at the time that he wrote that song.  Yet most interpretations believe “My Ride’s Here refers to the last ride, the one that takes us to the other side.”

Another wrote: “I hope when my time comes I can show half of the class that Warren had and that I can catch my last ride with the dignity he had. There’s no warning, no big production, just the fact that it happens to all of us.”

My brother was a class act.  A genuinely nice guy.

Back in April, I connected with a friend, Lee Scott, who was part of the group of friends we hung with back in Jersey in the early 70’s via Facebook.  I told Lee coincidentally my brother and I had been reminiscing  and talking about him a short time before that.  He asked about Carl and I explained what was going on.  In his response, he said he was sorry to hear and that Carl “was always the more sane of us.”

He was.

He was the pragmatic one.

 

We have all heard this said I’m sure “yeah I know that guy, he would give you the shirt off his back!”

In the literal sense, I don’t know if my brother Carl would have given you the shirt off his back.

He needed that shirt to hide the wounds, the scars, and the colostomy resulting from years of fighting rectal cancer, then lung cancer.

But he would have given you anything else you asked for and more often, even if you didn’t ask.

He just showed up.

Then he met a form of cancer he couldn’t beat, one where “a cure isn’t possible.”

And he faced it with dignity, continuing to give right up to end.

 

I still don’t know Mike Vineyard.

But I feel like I know him a little better today than I did last week.

I know what he felt like back in January and I expect I know what he feels like today.

 

Since Donny’s accident, I believe as the Bible says, God knows the day your ride is going to show up.  I know that it happens to all of us, and as much as we would like to think otherwise, we don’t have control.

And so Tuesday morning, without a lot of production, and to some degree for us, without warning, Carl decided, as the song said,

“Man I’d like to stay

But I’m bound for glory

I’m on my way

My ride’s here…”

 

 

Well, okay then.

 

I wish you would have waited another hour or two, but I understand.

 

You couldn’t miss your ride.

 

I love you.

 

I will see you when I see you.

 

 

 

 

The Rose Ceremony

The Rose Ceremony

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I could be handy, mending a fuse
When your lights have gone
You can knit a sweater by the fireside
Sunday mornings go for a ride
Doing the garden, digging the weeds
Who could ask for more?
Will you still need me, will you still feed me
When I’m sixty-four?

From When I’m Sixty Four by Lennon and McCartney

 

The song When I’m Sixty Four was released on the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album in May of 1967.  It is said that it is one of the first songs written by McCartney when he was just sixteen years old.  Quite an accomplishment at such a young age to try to project what it might be like growing old together in a relationship.

Sounded perfect.

Who could ask for more?

 

 

The Rose Ceremony.

A single rose always means “I love you.”

As the first gift of a husband and wife, they exchange the single rose each holds.

Remember, in every marriage, there are times when it is difficult to find the right words; difficult to say “I am sorry” or “I forgive you.”

If this should happen, the gift of the rose will say for you.

“I am sorry.”

“I still love you.”

And the other should accept the rose for the words which cannot be found.

 

I celebrated my 64th birthday this past weekend.

Kim celebrated her 59th birthday on Monday.

And twenty years ago today Kim and I said the words and exchanged the roses as part of our wedding vows.

It was a simple wedding.

With the exception of Kim’s sister Kathy and my brother Gary, the wedding party was made up of kids.  Some ours, some not ours.

Pastor Lee Crosby officiated on the first day of work with his first assignment right out of Divinity School at the Sterling United Methodist Church.

The reception was simple, catered by the local deli with a keg of beer and box wine and held at our townhouse.

The next day we bolted up to New Jersey for a second reception at Monmouth Park’s Clubhouse outdoor patio for the Jersey group.

We even had a race named in our honor, and a photo in the winner’s circle.

 

 

I think there was a time for both of us when we didn’t feel we would get this opportunity.

Answered prayers I always called it.

The past twenty years have gone by quickly.

We were talking the other evening while hunkered down in the compound which is our backyard where we find ourselves a lot lately, our marriage has never been stressed.

Not that we haven’t endured stress, in fact, we have had unbelievable stress.

But it’s never affected our relationship.

We had our four kids.  And they provided plenty of opportunities for us and our relationship to be challenged.

But that never happened, even in the worst of situations.

And we had some Holy Spirit heavy lifters.

 

Now I find myself sixty-four and like in the song, growing old together, and realizing the growing old part may present the biggest challenge in life that I, or we, will face.

My lyrics, however, might sound more like:

I could be handy, clean the garage

When your patience is gone

You can sit and relax by the fire pit

In the morning go for bike ride

I’ll do the garden, dig all the weeds

Clean the bathrooms too!

Will you still need me, I will still feed you

When I’m sixty four!

 

And true to our Rose Ceremony, there were more than a few times when I had to cough up a rose to bail myself out.

Wait, now that I think about it, I may have been the only one coughing up roses the last twenty years, I might need to go back and read that Rose Ceremony fine print again…

Seems I may have been the only one ending up in those situations for which words cannot be found.

 

Truth is…

I couldn’t ask for more.

Happy Anniversary Baby

 

We’re Going to Make It……

We’re Going to Make It……

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I haven’t told my wife yet.

How do I tell my wife this?

Do I just come out and say it?

Do I leave a note on the counter?

Maybe a photo?

Maybe write a blog?

 

 

This is a big weekend for me.

I am a big fan of horse racing as you may know and today is the Belmont Stakes.

Tomorrow, as you also know I am sure, is Father’s Day. And next to horse racing, yeah I think my kids are pretty special too.   So I am looking forward to spending some time this weekend  watching some horse racing and also spending some time with at least some of my kids.

Eighteen years ago the family wanted to do something for me that was special so they asked me what I wanted to do on Father’s Day and they would arrange that.

I said, “I want to go to the horse races.”

And so, they worked it out that they would take me to the races at Laurel Racecourse in Laurel, Maryland on Father’s Day.

Not having a vehicle big enough for the six of us, we took two cars.  Alexa at the time was attending the University of Maryland in College Park and recommended that on the way, we also go out for brunch at the 94th Aero Squadron Restaurant located at the College Park Airport which she had been to before. This restaurant was a theme restaurant based on World War I and II aviation and complete with replica planes surrounding the building with sections made to look like it was exposed to “air raids.” On the way out of the restaurant we asked a passerby to take what would turn out to be the last photo of all six of us together in front of one of the planes positioned outside the restaurant, before heading over to the racetrack.

That was a great Father’s Day memory from 2002.

Now it is Father’s Day weekend 2020.

And this year we happen to have a horse racing emphasis once again on this weekend. As a result, it made it a little bit more special, though still bittersweet.

The Belmont Stakes is typically run on the third Saturday after the third Saturday in May when the Preakness is run which works out to be normally the first Saturday in June.   This year, however it’s on the third Saturday in June.  And typically the Belmont Stakes is the third leg of the Triple Crown and usually follows the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness which are the three races that make up the Triple Crown, but this year the Preakness will be the third leg sometime in October.  Triple Crown races are limited to horses that are three years old.

 

Are you following all this?

 

Of course, all the confusion created this year is on account of the virus.

 

Although Father’s Day, on the third Sunday in June remains unaffected by the virus with the exception of the fact that unlike eighteen years ago, this year I couldn’t go to the races even if I wanted to because patrons are not allowed in the stands to watch the live races.  Not to mention, though we probably could go out for brunch if we really wanted to by following the limited outdoor seating rule, I would prefer to stay in my back yard.

 

So in honor of this special memory of horse racing and Father’s Day eighteen years ago I thought it important this week to do something different that was special and on my bucket list.

 

Which, I haven’t told my wife about yet.

 

But here goes:

“Honey, we own a racehorse…”

“Actually, we own four…”

“Remember the evening this week we were sitting by the fire pit and I was on my cell phone?…

“And, you said you were going to go in because I was on my cell phone and not talking to you anyway?…”

“I wasn’t talking because I was busy buying a racehorse.  Well, actually four.  Well, actually just a share of four racehorses.”

“ A very small share.”

“They are just two years old and they are all girls.  Just what we need right?”

“Isn’t that great?”

“Happy Father’s Day?”

“Right Kim?”

“I love you…”

 

Donny is gone, the 94th Aero Squadron Restaurant is gone, I don’t think I have been back to Laurel Racecourse since that day, but I still have a photo and a nice memory.

And still stuck in the door of one of our kitchen cabinets is another reminder of this same time not quite eighteen years ago.  This one came in a sympathy card at the time and reads:

“NO MATTER HOW TOUGH LIFE GETS, IF YOU CAN SEE THE SHORE OF HEAVEN, AND DRAW STRENGTH FROM CHRIST, YOU’LL MAKE IT………………..

Still a great reminder today, as it was that summer of 2002.

WE’RE GOING TO MAKE IT…………………….

 

Happy Father’s Day, aren’t they cute?
Photo of the same plane taken in 2007 after the close of the restaurant courtesy of Ben Sumner.
The Answer is Blowin’ in the Wind

The Answer is Blowin’ in the Wind

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Would You Like a Lime with That Week Thirteen – The End

 

“Hey man, c’mon, c’mon we are going downtown, there is a huge protest going on.  There is going to be thousands of people in the streets.”

“Thousands of people?  You mean to tell me I can’t sit next to you at a bar and have a cocktail, but I can stand next to you in a protest and throw a Molotov Cocktail?”

“Yeah man, c’mon lets go.”

“Wait, wait,  wait, what about all that anxiety and social distancing and the economic disaster we just created due to the virus?  What was that all about?”

“C’mon really?  Are you still talking about the virus? That’s so last month.” 

“No, people with businesses lost their whole life’s work and incomes and some are just now beginning to open up again, isn’t that important?”

“Look, we don’t have to wait for them to open, we can just go in and take whatever we want.  It’s that easy! It’s a riot!”

“I don’t get it.  We can’t assemble twenty five people to worship in church but thousands can protest in the street?  There is something not right about that.”

“Dude… church?  There is no church anymore.  You don’t have to go to church any more, you watch it from your kitchen. Your kitchen is your church.  And besides, there is no God in all of this anyway.”

“Wait, wait, yes there is…  I think there is…God has to be in all of this…where is God?…I want my God back…”

 

Bob Dylan released Blowin’ in the Wind way back in 1963.  I would have been seven years old.   By the end of the decade much would change for this country.  The 60’s had proven to be one controversy after another with protests in the streets common.  Though there were definite similarities to some of the causes, like civil rights, and it’s hard to believe we are still talking about it all these years later, the hypothetical conversation above still can only be unique to this time.

Though I read that Dylan denies that Blowin’ in the Wind was written as a protest song, it certainly fills that need perfectly, and has been described as the anthem of the civil rights movement.

“How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?…

how many years can some people exist
Before they’re allowed to be free?…

… how many times can a man turn his head
And pretend that he just doesn’t see?

The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind
The answer is blowin’ in the wind”

 

Some think that this theme of “blowing in the wind” may have been taken from a passage in Bound for Glory, Woody Guthrie’s autobiography, where Guthrie compared his political sensibility to newspapers blowing in the winds of New York City streets and alleys.

 

To me sadly, we just experienced this generation’s 9/11 in Mr. Floyd’s death.

We just had the incident. The moment when the whole country came together in a crisis, the one where everyone agreed, and the one that presented the perfect opportunity to build on.

But, like boo boos and never letting a good crisis go to waste, this opportunity seems to have been hijacked for other purposes, at least initially.

Mr. Floyd’s death can’t be in vain, there has to be some result.  And just like the 60’s, peaceful protest will prevail and changes will be made to tighten up some of those wrongs that still plague our society.

But laws and protests aren’t going to solve this problem, we can’t force people to change.

And there are always going to be bad people out there.  We can’t erase whatever the genes are that cause some people to be abusers, murderers, racists, and whatever else is bad in people of all colors in this world.  We need to acknowledge those people exist, and exist disguised and wearing many coats, and some uniforms, and deal with them appropriately.

But the rest of us, the majority of us, those of us who came together for a brief moment on Memorial Day or in the days after, need to not waste another fifty years and just remember to trust each other and to treat each other with love.

We have to look at ourselves and decide what we can do to help make this problem go away one by one.

We need God back because we need God’s help.

God has to be in all of this.

Because God is love.

 

And God is in the wind.

 

Week Thirteen and the end of the tag line.