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Pork Roll

Pork Roll

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I kissed him on his forehead to say goodbye as I typically do, but this time, in his wheelchair, he raised his left arm and tried to reach around my back like he was attempting to hug me. I was surprised. I got closer to allow his arm to rest on my back and I put my face against his as he pulled me in. We stayed in that position for a while. It was comforting, it had been a long time.

Thanks, Dad, I really needed that.

 

Needs.

We all have them.

We all need them fulfilled.

Jesus once said, “It is written: ‘Man shall not live on bread alone…”

My mother would probably finish that statement by saying, “yeah how about I make a pork roll, egg, and cheese to put on that bread.”

That’s one way I suppose.

 

We might think our needs are all different, but they are probably surprisingly similar, never the less, they are ours.

And they change from year to year, month to month, and even day to day.

 

The truth is we are born into this world needy.

As infants and children, unable to take care of ourselves, we rely on others for even our most basic needs.

Feeding, housing, safety, learning, emotional support, and development, are provided to us by our mother, our father, or sometimes another family member or other loving person. They are our lifelines.

Let’s face it, even Jesus needed his Eema and his earthly Abba.

 

Then the day comes when we have children of our own and we become their lifeline.

And we begin to better understand what our parents did for us.

How much effort it took, how much time, and how much money.

How much joy it provided.

And as our kids grew and got more independent, we saw their needs change, but our needs changed too.

We still had those basic requirements needed in order to live, but as we aged life got more complicated.

And sometimes, as it might be with an aging parent, unable to care for him or herself, the parent becomes like the child again.

As a result of my father’s inability to care for himself, as his age advanced and his disease progressed, the decision had to be made to place him in a facility where he could be taken care of safely. My mom, not able to physically manage him at home, now spends each day with him at the nursing home providing those things the staff may not be able to. Things like conversation, memories, games for stimulation and thought, and of course, love. The rest of us, challenged by geography and the continued need to provide for ourselves, do the best we can.

The last few visits I had had with my father, I left feeling greatly depressed. My visits were met with silence, eyes that wouldn’t open, the inability to make any connection. On one visit in fact he was even trying to hit me with his fists, which I attributed to him acting out a dream, something not uncommon with my dad’s condition. Though I didn’t take it personally, it was another missed opportunity, and yeah, I guess I did take it a little personally.

Last weekend, however, he was different. His eyes were wide open though his sight is still limited. He was participating in conversation, smiling and laughing at things I said, and laughing at himself at times for things he said.

And he initiated that hug.

It was awesome.

I needed a weekend like that with him and, I am guessing, he felt like he had a similar need.

However fleeting the event or the moment may have been, or prove to be in the future, I was grateful.

We all have the need to feel loved, no matter how old we get.

 

Jesus said, “It is written: ‘Man shall not live on bread alone…”

But there is more, the scripture goes on to say “… but on every word that comes from the mouth of God.”

 

You see Ma? Not everything can be fixed by pork roll, even when you are from New Jersey.

It’s the word of God that fulfills our needs.

That’s what keeps us living and loving.

 

But sometimes a little hug doesn’t hurt either.

 

On Saturday I was trying to get him to look at old photos on my laptop. The next thing I knew he had his face planted in the side of my face. I asked him what he was doing and he said, ” I looking at your face.” Fair enough.

 

Postscript:

On the six Tuesdays during the period of Lent, I am participating in a daily writing that we are doing at my church, Sterling United Methodist Church.  The daily themes are based on one word each day and some associated scripture.  Today’s word is Needs .  If you would like to keep up with the posts from others click on this link in the postscript.

New Jersey Turnaround

New Jersey Turnaround

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This weekend, Kim was up visiting her mom, so after a morning work meeting on Saturday, I did a quick trip up to New Jersey to help with some family business.

A New Jersey Turnaround so to speak.

The nagging song in my head the last couple of weeks has been Las Vegas Turnaround by Hall and Oates.

Las Vegas Turnaround was on the album Abandoned Luncheonette released in November of 1973.

I wasn’t a really big Hall and Oates fan back then in that I don’t think I ever bought any of their music and besides, you could hear plenty of it on the radio.

But I remember the first time I heard this song.

 

To my parents, it was known as Hi-Henry’s.  Then for a little while, the Cat’s Meow and I am told, JM’s River Edge.  Then for many years and up until recently, it had been the Casa Comida Restaurant.

In my life experience, however, in the early to mid-1970’s, it will always be remembered as Barry’s.

Crossing over one of the two bridges that connected Oceanport with Long Branch, the Branchport Bridge, the old building, and the prominent sign always greeted you on your right.  I remember that sign growing up, in whatever iteration it was at the time.

 

The last couple of years, other than two day trips, once for my brother Carl’s memorial service and once for my Aunt Joan’s funeral, I hadn’t been back to New Jersey.  In fact, the last time I spent a night there was the night before my brother passed away.

But in late July Kim and I had the opportunity to go back up to celebrate my sister’s 70 th birthday and visit an old friend, Monmouth Park, on Haskell Stakes day.  It was a nice weekend and it was nice to be back.

And then yesterday, arriving late in the afternoon, I made the nostalgic trip over the Branchport bridge with the building that was Barry’s in my teenage years, now empty and for sale on the right as I left Oceanport.  Then I made the left on Atlantic Avenue to head to the ocean to visit another place that had significance in my life growing up, the North Long Branch beaches.

 

In 1973, the legal age to be served alcohol in New Jersey was eighteen. Even though I didn’t turn eighteen until June of 1974, that didn’t keep me from being one of the regulars at Barry’s.  Some long hair, an early attempt at growing some facial hair, my brother’s draft card, and a good friend who was already eighteen who worked there, and I was good to go.

I even remember nights we closed the joint and ended up sitting at a table having a beer with the owner, Barry himself.

Barry’s always had good live music.  Tim McLoone, of McLoone’s restaurant fame, played there regularly early in his career.  He is somewhat of a legend along the section of the Jersey shore where I am from but with a restaurant now at the National Harbor he is known in the Washington DC area as well.

Another band whose name escapes me would let me join them and play harmonica occasionally.  That sometimes went well and other times did not.

And then there was my favorite band, Guildersleeve (I think that is how it was spelled).  A versatile band with a female and a male lead singer.  There were a couple of songs, however, during their sets, when the bass player would sing.  One was Drive my Car by the Beatles.  The other was Las Vegas Turnaround.

 

I guess going back to Oceanport after a couple of years, spending some time in the picnic area of Monmouth Park on Haskell Day, and having that song playing over and over in my head recently has made these last few weeks a bit nostalgic for me.

It was about this time of the year 44 years ago that I was getting prepared to leave Oceanport.  I remember at the time friends telling me I would be back in three months, and that I would never be able to leave Oceanport.  And though that first year I probably spent more of my weekends in Oceanport than I did away from Oceanport, I never did go back there to live.

But hey, who says you can’t go back?

Who says you can’t go home?

Somebody from Jersey maybe?

But it’s alright.

Yeah, it’s alright.

Unlike Bon Jovi though, I am still waiting to crash into my pot of gold.

But it’s alright.

In fact, it’s good.

 

The Branchport bridge with “Barry’s” in the background
North Long Branch
The Strongest Kid in Oceanport

The Strongest Kid in Oceanport

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“When are we going to go upstairs and eat?”

“Carl, we don’t go upstairs to eat, we eat here.”

“We always go upstairs and eat.”

“No, we don’t Carl, we don’t have an upstairs, we always eat here on the porch.”

“Yes, we do!  We eat upstairs!”

“Alright, alright.”

 

 

This past January I was going through a cabinet in my home “office” that was full of my old notebooks and journals, and I began to leaf through them.  I am not particularly organized so it’s not always clear if the entries are chronological or not, but in one notebook that contained most of my 2016 first-year Musings notes, I found a page dated April 29.  I am going to assume, therefore, that this was April 29, 2016. Here is a somewhat edited version of that day’s notes:

Yesterday my dad was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease. His primary care had suspected he might have the disease and he sent him to a specialist in Salisbury who confirmed the diagnosis.  He was ordered to be put on medication to start treatment.

Since I have had a couple of weeks to process the possibility of this diagnosis, to some degree I am glad that it has been confirmed and possibly the medication will help him.  He has endured changes that have noticeably impacted his activities of daily living and maybe some of those changes can be relieved.

Last week he had my mother ask me over the phone if I wanted his bicycle.  He was told by the doctor he could no longer ride his bicycle. 

I thought that was sad and told him to keep it out there for me to ride when I visited. 

It must be really hard.

I don’t know much about Parkinson’s Disease at this point, but I suppose I will begin to learn. 

I guess only time will tell.

In the meantime, I will learn as my dad goes through this, at least as much as I can.

 

And so began the learning experience.  The journey of watching the life of a once-proud, confident, independent, talented, competent, most of the time charming, and all the time stubborn individual, whose life had impacted so many, begin to implode.

A guy who was known for his physical abilities, his sense of balance, his strength, and his accuracy.  He could cross a log over a stream with ease, he could lean comfortably over the edge of the roof of a building while pulling a roll of tar paper up on the end of a rope; he could climb a rope using only his arm strength, he could drive a 10-penny nail with one swoop of a hammer and cut through a branch with one chop.

“One Chop Mo” they called him in Boy Scouts.

He could ski, ice skate, windsurf, climb a ladder, carry a backpack over miles of the Appalachian Trail, drive a firetruck, fight a fire, and even deliver a baby.

He could build a house, build a fine piece of furniture, build a First Aid building, and build a community-free library.

And he could ride his bicycle.

But not anymore.

 

 

The conversation illustrated above became more common as his disease progressed. But it wasn’t always like that and before reaching the point of incoherent sentences or confusion, as much as I could, I asked questions and wrote things down.

Though some of those conversations reached long into the night and were sometimes blurred and marred by Manhattans and red wine, not to mention the progression of his Parkinson’s, I tried to do the best I could to document his comments.  The Manhattan’s were always good grease for the wheel on his end, but on my end red wine didn’t always allow me to capture those memories as well as I would have liked.

But we had fun.

 

My dad talked a lot about “going home” as his mind began to change.

He always wanted to “go home.”

“Home” to him, in his later Parkinson’s years, was in Oceanport, N.J.

Though he lived in Woolford, on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, and hadn’t lived in Oceanport in thirty years, in his memory, he lived back in the town he was raised in and where he raised his family.

His life was going full circle.

And in his defense, in the house that he built in Oceanport; he did go upstairs to eat.  The kitchen was on the middle floor, or more exactly the third level of the four-level split he built.  If he was in the basement where his workshop lived, or in the “rec” room where his bar was located, he went up the stairs to reach the kitchen and eat.

So in his previous house, the “home” he remembered best as being his home, he went upstairs to eat.

Except for the few years as a child when he lived in the Scandinavian neighborhood of Brooklyn’s Bay Ridge section, my father was born and raised in Oceanport.

My grandfather moved the family to Brooklyn in the 1930s to find work and for three years, my dad lived and attended New York’s public school system in the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th grades.

It’s been a while since we have had the ability to have those conversations when I could learn more about his life.  But interestingly, this past Monday, on his birthday, out of the blue, he shared another story I had not heard before.  You have to understand this was a big deal because most of his speech now is unintelligible.  On Monday, while we celebrated his birthday in the facility where he now lives, he shared the story of another birthday party he had in Brooklyn in 1939 when he turned ten years old.  He said he had just started to play guitar and they played “kissing games.”  He also mentioned that baseball was big back then.

I don’t know where all this came from but I got pretty excited and of course, took notes on my phone.

I have never heard him say anything about playing the guitar, but I definitely believe he played “kissing games.”  I did try to push him a little with some follow-up questions about the Brooklyn Dodgers but at that point, it was over.  The clarity had ceased.

I think he had a great birthday and for me it was awesome.

 

On April 29th in 2016 I wrote:

“I don’t know much about Parkinson’s Disease at this point, but I suppose I will begin to learn. 

I guess only time will tell.

In the meantime, I will learn as my dad goes through this, at least as much as I can.”

 

It’s now April of 2022.

I am still learning.

Though I probably still don’t know as much about Parkinson’s in the clinical sense as I should,  I do know how it has affected my dad and impacted my mother.

 

My dad once told me “At one time I was the strongest kid in Oceanport.”

I believe he probably was.

That strength is gone now.

And the sense of balance he was once so proud of, gone too.

It’s hard to believe it has only been six years that we have been on this journey.

Yet he still has those days when he amazes me.

So I guess I will keep on learning.

As long as he keeps sharing.

 

Postscript:

I shared his birthday photo on social media and he got many responses and comments.  I read as many of those comments as I could to him while I was with him on Monday and will follow up with the rest the next time I see him.  Thanks to all for helping to make his birthday special.

My dad enjoying his birthday ice cream cone. He hadn’t had an ice cream cone in about 10 months.
Memorial Day Unmasked

Memorial Day Unmasked

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In my hometown of Oceanport, New Jersey, there is a parade held on Memorial Day each year.  Over the years  I marched in that parade as a Cub Scout, as part of the Maple Place School band, as a Boy Scout, and as an Oceanport Hook & Ladder volunteer fireman.

In my younger years, my neighbor Warren Del Vecchio always played Taps on his trumpet from the hill overlooking the town memorial located on a small island of grass with a monument and a flagpole at the confluence of three streets in the area of town known as Wolf Hill. His trumpet would sound from the hill behind us immediately after the honor guard from Fort Monmouth finished shooting their rifles in the air in salute.  It always brought on chills.  To me as a young person, Warren’s playing of Taps earned him celebrity status and I always felt like I was important because I knew him personally, kind of like “yeah, I know that guy, he is my neighbor.”

Like most events during the pandemic, last year’s Memorial Day parade in Oceanport, as it was in hometowns all over our country, was canceled.

This year, however, due to vaccines and our beginning to return to some state of normalcy, the parade goes on, though sadly in my opinion, since I have moved away, the route no longer terminates at Wolf Hill, with the monument and the flag pole.

The President told us earlier in the year, if we were all good, we could spend the Fourth of July with our families without distancing and even without wearing masks.

We must have been really good because its only Memorial Day and the masks are coming off all over the place and groups are gathering once again.

I am still not sure how to handle the change in mask usage and it’s obvious when you enter a store where masks are not required and everyone is still wearing one, the rest of the world is too.  After a year of socially hiding, I have grown comfortable with being unsocial and putting on my hat, my sunglasses, and my mask and going to the grocery store hoping no one will recognize me.

And then there are the situations like the time I was at the self-checkout and the loaf of rye bread I just waited fifteen minutes to have sliced didn’t show up under the bakery search as a price option and I finally had to get the attendant to assist me, all the while the blood was receding from lips and face as they took on a nice grayish color and tightened up tautly.  Thankfully, all this was happening under the cover of my mask.  As far as the grocery attendant knew, I was smiling even though at that point I was only able to point and grunt at the rye bread and the touch screen.

And I can’t ignore the fact that I can’t remember the last time I had a cold or have been sick.

 

Then just when you think it’s safe to go out of the house, THEY’RE BACK!

Like an old 1950’s science fiction movie, they come crawling out of holes in the ground every seventeen years.  They fly across the sky clumsily like Flash Gordon’s spaceship from the 1930’s serials. And the rhythmic whirring sounds in the air all around might as well be signaling a flying saucer invading Earth from outer space.

They get in your hair, they cancel out your cell phone audio, they just plain creep you out.  Like some prehistoric creature whose ability to naturally evolve has been robbed, they seem out of place in our new world.

Hey Cicadas…it’s the 21st century, we have Africanized Honey Bees and` Murder Hornets now. We drive electric F-150’s, and watch shows like Pooch Perfect and The View  on TV’s that have flat screens!  We have evolved!

You guys need to get to the gym.

 

It is nice to see Memorial Day weekend signaling the unofficial beginning of summer and returning to its traditions.

Oceanport will have its parade.

My brother  Carl’s annual Memorial Day party will go on, as he would have wanted.  He will be there in spirit I am sure.

I am able to kiss my mother and father this weekend without guilt, and most importantly, without a mask.

And I will admit it is nice to have at least the option to be social again.

 

And of course, we can’t forget the real reason for the day that gives us the three day weekend and the  excuse to parade, eat hot dogs, drink beer, and go to the beach:

Those brave men and women who gave their lives defending our freedom.

May God bless each and every one of them and may their families feel proud and appreciated for their sacrifice, in grief and in memory.

Thank you.

 

My brother Carl, Memorial Day 2020. May he be resting in peace, because he deserves to be.

Postscript:

The feature photo is from the Oceanport Memorial Day Parade in May of 1969 when I was in the seventh grade and is courtesy of my friend Kathy MacDonald.  That tall fellow at the end of the saxophone line is me.  That is Kathy’s brother Bob next to me.  Also in that line is Veronica Bradley and David Halpstein (not sure that is correct last name, if you are reading this from Oceanport help me out).

Finding Grace

Finding Grace

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Would You Like A Lime With That Week Fifty Nine!

“The fear of death is gone…because what Christ did for me on the cross.   I’m saved by the grace of God…the person that faces Christ straight out and totally rejects Him will pay a fearful price…it’s separation from God and that in itself will be Hell…the person who rejects God in a sense is already in Hell in this world.”  (Billy Graham)

 

Already in Hell.

In this world.

 

Kim and I listened to an old Johnny Carson interview with Billy Graham from the early 70’s over the weekend.

Mr. Graham went on to say that at the time, 99% of Americans said that they believed in God.

That was 1973.

That’s changed quite a bit.

More recent surveys put that number for younger adults at less than 50% and for those 18 to 29 as low as 43%.

That’s a lot of people.

 

“Already in Hell in this world.”

 

I overheard my almost son-in-law Leon make a comment one day after hearing someone in his neighborhood click their car remote to lock their car doors.  In this case, he heard the car horn beep multiple times and said something like “Geez, do you have to do it eight times? Once is enough!”

 

Ah, Grasshopper, I thought to myself, you don’t understand.

Someday you will.

There is a reason that some of us need to hit that button more than once.

First of all, we can’t hear the beep.  Old folks push the button, then when we don’t hear anything, we push it again, and again all the time walking closer to the parked vehicle outside in the street until the comforting sound of the horn is confirmed.

 

Then, there is the fact that sometimes, we just don’t remember.

It’s kind of like taking a shower and not remembering if I washed that body part or not…

“Okay I’m done…wait, did I wash my feet yet?  I don’t remember! Ah, shoot I better wash them again just in case.”

It’s the same with locking my truck

I push the button and then moments later I think…

“Did I lock my truck doors?”

“I don’t remember…ah I will just push it again…and maybe I better walk towards it until I hear the horn just to be sure…”

 

Then there is also that inclination to believe that more is always better.

It comes from growing up and not having everything we think we should have had and the need to overcompensate  for that as adults.  We are determined to quell any doubt that what we set out to do, is accomplished. We have to get that last beep in.

“Ha!  I will make sure those darn doors are locked! I am going to push the button again! And maybe a couple more times to be sure! And maybe I should walk towards it until I hear the horn to be extra sure.”

 

 

This is kind of a weird week for me.

In one respect, a rite of passage in some sense, a graduation of sorts, into a new generation, an older generation.

Confirmed by the fact that I got my first Social Security check this week.

And my Medicare card is in the cabinet (though it’s not good until June).

 

But by contrast, I was also reminded that this week seven years ago I ran my first and only half marathon through the streets of my hometown of Oceanport, New Jersey, and neighboring Long Branch in the Long Branch Half Marathon on Team Move For Hunger.

What a difference seven years can make.

In 2014 I was fifty-seven about to turn fifty-eight.  This year I am sixty-four about to turn sixty-five.

And I have a Medicare card in the cabinet.

Half marathons I am afraid might now be just a thing of my past, serving only to make for nice Facebook memories.

I remember running over the Pleasure Bay Bridge, leaving Oceanport and entering Long Branch and catching up to this young lady who was running even slower than I was.  I remember thinking wow good for her to be out there doing this event, she didn’t have your typical runner’s body, in fact you could say she was a bit overweight and not someone you might expect to be out running a 5K, let alone a half marathon.

So we struck up a little conversation as we began the incline that was the Oceanport side of the bridge and I explained to her that this was my first half marathon and I expected her response to be the same.

But it wasn’t.

No, she said, “I try to run one of these a week. Yeah, last week I was in (someplace I don’t remember where she said) and the week before that I was in (someplace else).”

“Wow”, I said “Good for you!” and with that, I took advantage of the downhill Long Branch side of the bridge and increased my pace.

As I left her behind, I felt silly for my assumption and a little humbled as well.

I judged her.

And that was unfair and I was totally incorrect in my assumption.

 

 

Believe it or not, Kim and I still have our Christmas tree set up in the living room.

No, we didn’t forget to take it down.

I am not that far gone yet.

Apparently, I purchased such a cool-looking artificial tree that this year,  once we took the ornaments off, it kind of blended in with the rest of the forestry in my living room and became kind of fun to have.

And this week is also special to me because Saturday is the running of the Kentucky Derby, therefore this week is “Derby Week.”

So since I had the tree already up I decided to decorate it for the occasion.

I even made my meatballs already.

 

And finally, this week, after eleven years of non-production, The Little Chickens Winery fired up what will be the next vintage of Little Chickens Cabernet Sauvignon 2021.  Hopefully no snowstorms on bottling day this time.

 

 

So, for the most part, I am enjoying this week.

I am not running any half marathons but I am moving around as much as my aches and pains allow me to.  I will at least want to wait until my Medicare becomes active should I ever attempt to run another half marathon, I might need the hospitalization.

And as for you Grasshopper, my new soon-to-be son-in-law, patience.  You too will learn that with age comes wisdom…but also the need to hit the lock button multiple times.

And it is also true that with age and wisdom, more people come to God in their older years.  Maybe it is the desire to not fear death, maybe it is the desire to just accept the Grace of God and enjoy the happiness of inner peace…finally.

I hope that is true.

Because like my humbling experience of unfairly judging someone for the way that she looked, whether you are already in Hell in this world or not, nowadays, we still seem to do a lot of that.

Judging that is.

 

And so, I hope you watch the race on Saturday.

I hope you enjoy this nice weather.

I hope you relax with your beverage of choice and maybe eat a meatball.

I hope you get your vaccine and take your mask off while dining outside at a restaurant.

I hope you remember that you already washed your feet and lock your car only once.

 

But most of all, I hope you find grace.

 

 

Postscript:

The photo above is from April 27, 2014 before the start of the New Jersey Marathon and the Long Branch Half Marathon and includes the Move For Hunger Team including Coach Emily Cebulski in the center.

It’s hard to believe it has been 59 weeks since the pandemic officially kicked off.  Get your vaccine!

 

 

Silly Hair and Silly Socks

Silly Hair and Silly Socks

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Today, in case you didn’t know it or couldn’t guess, was “Silly Hair Day” at my grandson Christian’s school in Hollywood, Florida.

Wednesday was “Silly Sock Day” at my grandson Cameron’s school in Leesburg, Virginia.

Like Cameron and I making fart noises into our walkie-talkies while sitting on my deck a few years ago, and me wishing I hadn’t missed so much with my kids, I wanted to participate too.

Cameron’s silly socks had tacos on them.  Mine had mugs of beer running (Beer Runs) and gorillas playing golf.

Alexa thought my silly hair looked a little like Cindy-Lou Who.

I guess that was appropriate since we recently recognized the birthday of Dr. Seuss on March 2nd and some of his books were in the news for other reasons.

 

These first couple weeks of March seemed to generate a lot of memories.

Of course, it was March 13, 2020, when our lives shut down with the fear of Covid-19, and the first “Would You Like a Lime With That?” was posted.  It’s funny to read that now since, at the time, the scientists felt that masks weren’t necessary.

That’s changed of course.

On March 3rd in 2018, we celebrated the life of my good friend Joe in New Jersey.  That was the last time I saw many of my good friends from home on the Jersey shore.

 

We have grown used to not seeing the people we love.

Used to it maybe,  but we haven’t grown to like it, it has become an unavoidable way of life.

 

On March 2nd I got one of those memories that pop up on Facebook.  It was a photo of my buddy Jim (Jochems) and me running the Reston Ten Miler in 2014.  That year, after putting on a few pounds during the holidays leading up to the New Year, I vowed to change my lifestyle, elevate my activities and wrote about it in a weekly Happier, Healthier Me blog. 

Jim was kind enough to motivate me to run that race when I didn’t feel I was ready and kept me distracted with ten miles of old Marine stories.

At the time when the photo was posted another friend from New Jersey, Donny Brocklebank thought it funny to compare the image of us in our running tights by posting a link to Youtube Robin Hood: Men in Tights dancing video.

It was funny.

It’s even funnier looking now Donny B, seven years later, because I hate to tell you buddy, I started running again and this almost 65 year old body in tights looks way more gruesome.

Yup, after this Covid winter and having the same kind of experience that led to my 2014 need to increase my activities, I started to run again this week.  I actually had a guy on a bike pass me on the W & OD bike trail on Tuesday who said, “Hey I see you got the Covid hair thing going.”

I don’t know who this guy was or whether he knew me or not but I just laughed and said “yeah, it’s my Covid haircut.”

But it was my Covid belly that was really motivating me.

That, and a documentary I watched called The Courage to Run.

It told the story of Chip Gaines, from the cable show Fixer Upper and his quest to run a marathon.

But that wasn’t the real story.  The real story was about his coach, a young lady named Gabriele Grunewald, a professional runner continued to compete over a ten year period while battling and beating a variety of cancers.

But in the end, the rare cancer that she was diagnosed with in 2009, won the race.  She couldn’t beat that one, and on June 11, 2019, she succumbed to her disease. Through it all, she was very brave.

That hit home to me.

I knew someone too who was very brave and lost his race.

And so, I couldn’t wait to start running again.

 

This week I have run 18 miles and I am feeling really good about it.

My wife even told me I seem less depressed and she is happy to hear my sarcasm has returned.

That’s a big deal because Kim doesn’t like my New Jersey sarcasm normally.

And, I even lost a couple of pounds already.

 

And just like making fart noised into walkie-talkies, it’s okay when you are 5 and 64 and 10 and 64 to share silly hair and silly socks.

Because we don’t care.

 

And now if I could just get my vaccine so I can begin the process of growing unused to seeing those I love.

Then I wouldn’t have to share silly hair and silly socks over video calls.

We could just be silly together.

 

 

Postscript:

If you need some TV time, check out The Courage to Run on the Discovery Plus channel. It’s an amazing story.  And also the Brave Like Gabe Foundation website.

Jim and me, March 2, 2014, the Reston Ten Miler
the finish line and my very slow time
Singing a Nickel Song

Singing a Nickel Song

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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?

or

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

 

Post Script:

Make sure you get out and vote!

Off You Go…My Friend

Off You Go…My Friend

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Would You Like A Lime With That Week Ten

Ecclesiastes 7

A good name is better than fine perfume,
and the day of death better than the day of birth.
2 It is better to go to a house of mourning
than to go to a house of feasting,
for death is the destiny of everyone;
the living should take this to heart.
3 Frustration is better than laughter,
because a sad face is good for the heart.
4 The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning,
but the heart of fools is in the house of pleasure.

 

 

On Monday about an hour before my weekly zoom staff meeting, I received a call from the daughter of a friend of mine telling me that my friend had passed away.

My friend was a victim of the virus.

We always have a devotional at the beginning of our meetings. For this meeting one of my co-workers chose a reading from Ecclesiastes 7.  It seemed to fit with my morning phone call I thought as she was reading.

 

As this new normal continues we are getting more used to forgoing our traditional rituals or at least creatively modifying them.  For Mother’s Day the kids set up a table in the driveway and surprised Kim with a “to go” lunch from a local restaurant.  We social distanced. It was the first time we had seen the kids in about eight weeks. Cameron even put on a tie.  Of course we had to settle for the live feed over the cell phone for the Florida kids.  But in the end, Kim said it was one of her best Mother’s Days.

Sadly however, forgoing our rituals applies to celebrating life in death as well.

 

My friend was older than me, really just four years younger than my father.

He also shared something else in common with my dad and that was that he too had Parkinson’s Disease.

 

I always thought it a bit ironic that my friend who I very much thought of in a paternal way, would also have Parkinson’s.  I used to think, what a coincidence, both my “dads” have Parkinson’s.  And the same patience I learned to exercise with my father became more important as my friend’s disease progressed.

 

I first met Frank while I was a student at Northern Virginia Community College’s Respiratory Therapy program.  I believe he was the medical director of the program at the time, but he also was one of the two pulmonary physicians who taught our disease case study class.  I remember hearing before the first class, all the rumors, and the warnings, and advice from those who had previously taken this class was that you definitely didn’t want to get Dr. Fusco as your case study instructor.  He would tear you up.  But then meeting him for the first time in class and sizing up his personality I realized he was just another Italian guy from North Jersey.  What is wrong with that?  Having recently relocated from New Jersey, it made me feel at home.

 

After graduating, the next time I saw Frank, I was as his patient.

 

An enlarged lymph node was found on a routine chest x-ray in my mediastinum.  The unilateral enlarged node presented itself more like a cancer finding and less like something benign.  After a CT scan was ordered I was referred to a chest surgeon for the biopsy. On the day before I was to be admitted to Fairfax Hospital for the procedure, I was sitting in Frank’s waiting room when he came out from the back and sat down beside me, put his arm around me and he said,

“Let’s just hope it’s benign.”

Up to that time he hadn’t given me any real reason to be worried, but once he came out to the waiting room and did the whole arm around me “let’s hope it’s benign” thing I proceeded to panic.

The biopsy confirmed it was benign.  It turned out to be histoplasmosis, a fungal infection you get from bird poop.

But I would always remember that moment of compassion and concern for my health.  And it greatly impacted our friendship.

 

Time went on and I went to work in the ICU at Fairfax Hospital (now Inova Fairfax).  Frank was one of the more senior pulmonary physicians practicing at Fairfax and he was also the medical director of the Respiratory Therapy Department.

 

When I left the hospital to work in respiratory homecare and the company I worked for needed a medical director, I asked Frank.   Once again we were working together.

 

I remember a time waiting in line in a hotel lobby in New Orleans where we were both attending the National Association of Respiratory Care’s annual meeting when I said something to him that he thought was too much in his personal business.  Once we were both checked in he took me aside and set me straight on just how far I was crossing the line.  It was awesome.  Just like getting yelled at by my dad.

 

Having been in the Air Force, Frank loved to fly and in fact owned his own plane with another physician.  One evening we sponsored a company function at the Barns of Wolf Trap for our referral sources and he was telling me about the vintage Navy trainer he was going to rent the next morning from the airfield at Quantico and he invited me to fly with him. I think he was a member of the Civil Air Patrol at that airfield.

“Hell no,” I said continuing with something like, “you are not going to get me up in one of those little planes, let alone an old, little plane.”

But by the end of the evening and after a couple beers I had signed on as co-pilot.  The drive from my home in Reston to Quantico that next morning was one of the most prayer filled hours of my life.  We took off, flew over the Chesapeake Bay, up the Little Choptank River and at a low altitude I literally waved to my parents who were out in their yard on the river confused over the plane that was buzzing them.  But still they waved back.  On the return trip to Quantico he let me take the stick and fly the vintage plane myself.

It was an experience I will never forget.

 

After he retired and moved to Florida I didn’t see him too much.  I would send him our Christmas letters and keep in touch by email.  Sometimes I would email him blog posts.  If he was up in Northern Virginia we would meet for dinner and maybe have a couple of beers, occasionally with Kim and his wife Barbara, but most of the time just the two of us.
As his Parkinson’s progressed, dinner and beers became more lunch and ice teas.  He liked to talk about the old days at Fairfax Hospital, the crew we worked with, and our days of experimenting with high frequency jet ventilation which I think brought us all closer together.  He liked talking about his kids, his grandkids, his great grandkids, and his wife Barbara who passed away a couple of years ago.

 

He always asked about my dad and how he was doing.  I didn’t always tell him the truth since my dad was a little ahead of him on the disease curve in my opinion.

 

The last time I saw him he told me that he thought I had a gift with structuring a story and to make sure I did something with it.  His approval meant a lot to me.

 

He would often say after discussing the days long past during our lunch meetings, “we had some fun.”

 

I thought of him as my mentor, teacher, attending physician, medical director, co-worker, surrogate dad, and my friend.

 

And now my friend, the heart of the wise is in the house of mourning.  Whereas death is the destiny of everyone, you have reached yours.  And if the day of death is better than the day of birth, I’m sure you are already in paradise.  As for me, if a sad face is good for the heart, then my heart is strong.

 

Rest in peace.

 

And yeah, we did have some fun.

 

Post Script:

The photo above is actually a Navy trainer my Uncle Ted serviced during the Korean War.  The plane Frank and I flew that day was very similar.

 

And remember to keep in your prayers:

Healthcare workers and their families. Remember “Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy” (Matthew 5:8);

All those sick or compromised from the virus and all other health issues;

Those non healthcare caregivers working to take care of a loved one while isolated at home;

Families who have lost loved ones;

Those who have lost jobs and businesses.

And keep reaching out to those who may need some attention.

Cameron wearing his tie as we celebrate Mother’s Day 2020 in the driveway

The Birds and the Bees, Finally

The Birds and the Bees, Finally

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Would You Like A Lime With That Week Eight

 

Another week.

I got the sense this week that people are starting to get tired of this new lifestyle.

Normally on this upcoming weekend, the first Saturday in May, I would have the homemade meatballs cooking, the Derby decorations up, and the TV’s all on for the Kentucky Derby festivities.  This year that will be the first Saturday in September.  At least I hope.

I was busy since my last post.

I successfully “painted the roots” and made my wife even more beautiful.

On Sunday afternoon the remaining large potted plants that made the trip to “Plant Camp” back in October returned home again for the summer.

But I also must admit, since that last post, I broke the rules and made a quick twenty four hour visit to see my parents.

The last couple of weeks I had been more concerned that I hadn’t seen them and the phone calls were getting a little more weird and stressful each time.

 

My parents live in a small town called Woolford on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, west of Cambridge.  Their house is on the water, on a tributary of the Little Choptank River that empties into the Chesapeake Bay in the area of Taylor’s Island.

At the time I wrote this Dorchester County Maryland had the fourth lowest number of Coronavirus cases in Maryland with 51.  In fact with the exception of Wicomico County with the city of Salisbury, the Eastern Shore counties are all at the lower end of the list.

Never the less, without any traffic on the roads, I made good time and didn’t stop until I got in their driveway.

The last time I had been out there was the weekend of the 9th Annual Crawfish Boil and Muskrat Stew Festival on March 1st, so it had been about eight weeks.  That’s a long time when you are used to making that trip every two or three weeks.

 

The sun porch where we tend to spend most of our time faces the river, their pier and bulkhead.  In the yard there are a couple of trees, a flag pole, and two large purple martin houses high up on poles.  Purple martins like open areas which makes the waterfront yard perfectly accommodating.  By this time of the year, the purple martin houses were full of activity with birds swooping back and forth from their perches on their houses to the yard, and back again.

At one point, my mother and I were sitting at the table looking out the window and there were two birds rolling around in the grass.

So I said to my mother, “look at those two birds out there… they are really fighting!”

If you know my New Jersey mother you know she is awesome.  You also know she has never been shy about saying whatever is on her mind whenever she feels like it. She has no filter.  You always know where you stand with my mother.

In this case, her rather loud response was:

“THEY’RE HAVING SEX!”

“THEY’RE NOT FIGHTING!”

“THEY’RE HAVING SEX!

“Oh” I said rather sheepishly.  “I thought they were fighting.”

“THEY’RE HAVING SEX!”

“THEY’RE NOT FIGHTING!”

 

 

“Gee,” I thought to myself.

For the first time in my now almost sixty four years, I think my mother just had the “SEX” conversation with me.

In her own way, we just had “the talk.”

For me I wanted it to be like “C’mon Ma, yuck, is that what they are doing?  No, please tell me they’re fighting…!”

But no, they weren’t fighting.

THEY WERE HAVING SEX!

This is awkward…

But how was I to know?

I am naive about these sorts of things.

 

While I was there I was able to check and clean the gutters, a chore that included my dad insisting that he climb the ladder to check my check of the gutters.  Thankfully the quality control part of the gutter cleaning process included only one gutter section.

I also changed a couple of light bulbs, replaced a shower head, and fixed a smoke alarm.

We talked about memories of their growing up in our hometown of Oceanport and memories of me and my siblings growing up there too.

We stayed up late.

In the morning, we assembled and raised on a pole, a third purple martin house in the yard.  It was a birthday present from my mother to my father.

Probably a good thing because with all that sex going on, the purple martins were sure to need another boarding house pretty soon.

My father and mother then brought down the American flag, now frayed from the winter winds and needing to be replaced.

After all that was done, I packed up the truck, and headed back home.

I felt good about the time I spent and what I was able to accomplish.  My parents were grateful for the visit.  I was a lot less worried.

And best of all, I now understood:

“THEY’RE NOT FIGHTING!”

“THEY ARE HAVING SEX!”

 

Needless to say, I couldn’t wait to get home to tell my wife what I had learned!

 

Post Script:

As of today in Virginia, medical and dental offices are starting to open up, and elective surgeries will begin again.  A good sign.

Don’t forget to continue to keep those healthcare workers and their families in your prayers. Remember “Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy” (Matthew 5:8)

As well as all those sick or compromised from the virus and all other health issues.

Also those non healthcare caregivers working to take care of a loved one while isolated at home.

And those families who have lost loved ones.

And those who have lost jobs and businesses.

And keep reaching out to those who may need some attention.

 

Coming home from Plant Camp
Week Eight

 

Mr. Nobody -Would You Like a Lime with That Week Two

Mr. Nobody -Would You Like a Lime with That Week Two

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“I get the news I need on the weather report,
I can gather all the news I need on the weather report”

I can’t help it, it just happens.

I woke up this morning singing “The Only Living Boy in New York.”  I have been belting it out all day.

Don’t we all just want to get all the news we need on the weather report these days?

We are now in week two of the official escalation of Coronavirus pandemic.

Life has changed for all of us.

For those lucky enough to be still working it’s not business as usual by any means.   Working from home is the case for many, or shortened hours; reduced staff; “take out” only.

Shopping continues to be challenge, especially for certain items.

Hopefully you don’t have colonoscopy scheduled any time soon.

But even if you did those elective medical procedures are probably canceled anyway.

Sporting events are going on with no one in the stands or not at all.

My “first Saturday in May” event, the Kentucky Derby, will this year be the “first Saturday in September,”Labor Day weekend.

And my daughter Alexa has officially proclaimed the Maryland Terrapins 2020 NCAA Champs daring anyone to prove her wrong.

And of course, if you are a church, you are preaching to the camera on Sundays with no one in the pews while on Friday afternoon your lone staff person is belting out “The Only Living Boy in New York.”

 

Then there are those who are not working at all.  Their lives have really changed.


“Hey, I’ve got nothing to do today but smile,
Da-n-da-da-n-da-da-n-da-da and here I am”

Many with nothing to do today, but hopefully still smiling.

 

I spoke with my mother on the phone earlier today.

One of the highlights of my dad’s day is his “coffee break” which for him is kind of a mid to late morning time for some food and coffee and rest that goes back to his days as a crabber and a waterman.  It could be out at the table by the river or on the deck or in the house depending on the weather.  Or if they happen to be up in Cambridge, the closest and biggest town near them like they happened to be this morning, it could be at a restaurant, or McDonalds, or Royal Farms.  My dad no longer drives so this morning he asked my mother to stop for coffee break and of course she couldn’t and had to explain to him that everything is take out.

My mom said my dad is having trouble understanding that.

I get it, it’s hard to change your routine.  I understand, but it’s hard.  Especially for old guys, ninety-year-old guys who don’t have a lot of options for fun activities even without a pandemic.

He wants his “coffee break.”

 

One of the highlights of my week again came from a post on the Oceanport Centennial Facebook page belonging to my New Jersey hometown.

Someone posted a photo of my dad sitting on a little desk on the job at the Wolf Hill School.

My dad was the head custodian at the Wolf Hill School which had grades K through 4 or K through 5 depending on the year.  He started in that position the year my younger brother started Kindergarten so maybe 1966 and retired about 28 years ago so maybe 1992?  So, for about 25 years or so he worked at that school.

It got a lot of comments:

“Great guy to work with”

“So great with the kids!”

“Love him”

“He would sweep…with Mrs. Jeffrey’s class pet hamster in his shirt pocket”

“He would sing to me my own special song”

“great guy’

“The best”

“A true hero”

“Wonderful sense of humor”

“True work ethic”

“Amazing guy”

“Such a nice man”

“What a terrific man”

“Loved us kids and we loved him”

“What a wonderful man”

“One of my fondest memories”

“Deserves nothing but the best!”

 

Gee whiz Pop, I hope when I am your age someone will even just remember me.  Probably be more like “yeah, I remember that guy, he gave me a cold once…”

 

And then there was this comment:

“Remember the notes on the black boards from Mr. Nobody?”

 

Mr. Nobody?

From one aging nobody to another, I had never heard that story.

So, I asked the nice lady who posted that comment to tell me more.  Here was her response:

I believe he only did it with the lower grades because I only remember it happening in 1st grade with Mrs. Bennett. When we were out of the room someone would mysteriously leave little notes on the black board and signed them Mr. Nobody. They were short messages like have a nice day or be good children, I’m watching, etc. We would be so surprised and excited when we got a note. I didn’t know until probably 4th or 5th grade who it was.  (Tara)

Hey Pop!

Hey Mr. Nobody!

Reading all these comments, it doesn’t sound like you are nobody to me.

Sounds to me like the kids thought you were pretty special.

 

In three weeks, Mr. Nobody will celebrate his 91st birthday.

I am hoping this pandemic doesn’t keep me away from visiting him for too long.

I would like to thank all you nice folks for all the nice comments about my dad.

I can’t wait to get out there to share them with him.

 “Hey, let your honesty shine, shine, shine
Like it shines on me
The only living boy in New York”

 

Yeah Pop, like it shines on me…

Happy early birthday Pop!

 

Oh, and let me not forget to thank all you healthcare workers who, like our soldiers in war, are reporting for duty every day, then going home and taking care of your own families. We are grateful and praying for your safety!

Week Two

 

(The Only Living Boy in New York, written by Paul Simon, performed by Simon and Garfunkel)