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A Sentimental Racetrack Journey

A Sentimental Racetrack Journey

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Since the time I mucked my first stall fifty years ago on the “back side” (stable area) of Monmouth Park Racetrack in Oceanport, New Jersey I have had many racetrack related experiences.   Most good, some not so. Some of those I shared in a post called A New National Obsession in February of 2017.

But as a result,  this is one of my favorite times of the year, the first Saturday in May, the Kentucky Derby, the first of the Triple Crown races.

The sport of horse racing has had a rough winter with the deaths of 23 horses at Santa Anita Park in Southern California since December.   Efforts are being made to try to determine why that unfortunate situation occurred there.  Some blame the unusual amount of rain and unusually cold weather changing the racing surface.  I remember a similar situation at Monmouth Park in the 70’s when the entire racing surface was peeled off and replaced resolving the problem. But beyond correcting the racing surface, efforts are also being made industry wide to make changes to the sport that will make it safer for horses and riders nationally.

The following is a story I mentioned in  A New National Obsession, that I wrote in 2014, one of my favorite racing stories:

 2014 Horse of the Year

(Written May 23, 2014 and edited for this essay May 1, 2019)

 

Sir Sidney is the 5 year old son of Ghostzapper.

Ghostzapper was the Horse of the Year in 2004.

Sir Sidney, at five years old had only raced three times in his life and had never won a race. In fact it had been almost two years since Sir Sidney had even been entered in a race.

Sadly, Sir Sidney was five years old and still a “maiden”…horse racing’s term for a horse who has yet to cross the finish line first.

The third Saturday in May, famous for the second jewel of horse racing’s Triple Crown, The Preakness Stakes at Pimlico Racecourse in Baltimore, was to be Sir Sidney’s coming out party after a two year break.   He was entered in the 13th race, the last race of the day, the race after the big attraction. The race after the Preakness. It was the race that no came expecting to watch, the one that would be run while everyone was leaving the infield, the grandstands, the parking lot and sitting in traffic as they made  up “horse stories” to tell their friends about what could have been, what should have been… if only I had done this or bet that.

The thirteenth race, just the sound of it made you want to skip it, like not having a 13th floor in a high rise, or staying in bed on Friday the 13th.  But there was Sir Sidney, the only five year old in the company of nine three year olds reaching the starting gate for the first time in a long while.

The twelfth race, The Preakness, had proven to be just what everyone had expected or hoped for. California Chrome who had won the Kentucky Derby so convincingly didn’t disappoint in the Preakness. He won the race as the overall favorite, the crowd letting him go off at odds that would only return 50 cents on every dollar bet. Now, the only question that would remain, could California Chrome win the Belmont Stakes and be the first Triple Crown winner since Affirmed in 1978?

While everyone was pondering that and heading home, the 13th race went off at 7:10 PM, Sir Sidney broke well from the gate and took the lead on the backstretch. However, going into the turn, three horses passed him and he fell back to fourth. Coming out of the turn and into the stretch Sir Sidney dug in deep as a hole opened up in the leaders and he charged into it. Now three horses head to head charging down the stretch! As they approached the finish line Sir Sidney pulled away and won by a length! The unlikely runner, the old guy in the race, never having won before, finally was a winner.

Thrilling stuff right?

C’mon I am getting goose bumps writing about it!

So right now you are wondering “okay Curt, where are you going with this? Why should I care?”

Well maybe you shouldn’t.

 

But let’s just say hypothetically you are me and a passionate fan of the sport, and an occasional recreational bettor. And let’s also imagine that you/me, like a lot of other people thought California Chrome was the best bet of the day, maybe the best bet of the year. And let’s just say you/me thought real long and hard about making that recreational wager on California Chrome to win, number 3 in the twelfth race, the 2014 Preakness Stakes.

But let’s go a step further in our hypothetical situation. Let’s just say that wager that you/me thought long and hard about, the one that you/me so carefully and confidently placed on number 3, California Chrome in the 12th race , and cheered loudly for as California Chrome crossed the finish line in spectacular fashion only to find out………

That your/my horse didn’t win, because, by mistake, the horse that you/I  bet was actually number 3 in the 13th race!

 

I think you/me are probably feeling pretty silly right now huh?

 

Silly that is…until about 7:12 pm.

 

I don’t know about you, but Sir Sidney, number 3 in the 13th race, would be my vote for 2014 Horse of the Year.

 

The End

 

That betting mistake, instead of returning $3.00 on my $2.00 California Chrome bet, returned $26.20 on the win by Sir Sidney.

The following year Kim and I would stand under an infield tent at Pimlico and watch American Pharoah win the Preakness in a downpour. Unlike California Chrome,  he would go on to win the Belmont and be the first Triple Crown winner since 1978.   Coincidentally, my horse of the year for 2014, Sir Sidney was on the card that day.  For sentimental reasons I felt inclined to place a bet on him.

And as a result of those sentimental reasons, I lost that bet.

Horse racing is a sentimental sport.  The beauty of the animal, the lure of a name, the story of the journey, the memory of a past encounter.  That is part of what draws me to it.

Sir Sidney is now ten years old and he is still racing. As a gelding there would be no cushy stud future for him.  In fact he ran this past Sunday at Philadelphia Park and finished fourth going a mile in a claiming race.  Going off at odds of 20 to 1, he earned his owner $1,400 and could at least say he beat the favorite, who finished last, earning him some track cred the next time he sees that guy out on the track exercising in the morning.

It’s hard to not get sentimental about Sir Sidney.

I feel reacquainted, he is part of my journey.

The old guy, in spite of the aches and pains of growing older, he is still out there working.  Having to prove himself to the young guys, doing something he still enjoys, having fun.

I get it.

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.

 

 

 

 

The Thanksgiving Day Massacre

The Thanksgiving Day Massacre

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Her body was green and she had two vicious jaws
She polished her mate as she kissed him with her claws
She bit off his head so he would not feel the pain
She wanted his body so much she ate his brain

From Don Dixon’s “Praying Mantis” 1985

 

“Curt come here quick, what is this?” my wife yelled from down the hall.

One of our bedrooms has, over time, been converted into a year round plant room, though this time of year it was also filled with plants that had been recently moved from the deck to winter inside.

It was Thanksgiving morning, we were about to leave for Pennsylvania, Kim decided to check on her plants before hitting the road.

On one of the plants was a tan and orange cocoon like thing that Kim called me to look at.

As I was focusing on the nest- like structure, Kim blurted,

“Look! There are ants all over the leaves!”

I shifted my focus now to one of the long leaves and the “ants.”

Finding the leaves covered with insects I responded,

“Those aren’t ants… those are praying mantises!”

 

As a kid growing up in New Jersey I was always told it was illegal to kill a praying mantis.

And I grew old, never having any reason to challenge that.

Therefore, now standing in my spare bedroom, surrounded by plants, in the presence of my wife, and facing hundreds of praying mantises, in my mind I was looking at ten years to life…but I had to make a decision.

I lifted the plant and carefully carried it down the stairs and out on to the deck.

It was a cold morning.

In a short while, I looked again, they were all dead.

Mantis bodies littered my deck.

 

We threw our suitcases in the car and like a modern day Bonnie and Clyde we headed for the Pennsylvania border.

We were on the lam.

With me driving the get-away car Kim got on her iPad and did some research.

It turns out, a praying mantis is pretty scary.  They are carnivores, and there are some larger species that will hunt small birds, lizards, and mammals! They have triangular heads that they can turn 180 degrees, two compound eyes with a few extra regular eyes in the middle just because.  Their legs are equipped with spikes for pinning their prey.  But mostly in the US, they just eat other bugs.

Sort of.

They are also cannibals and will eat their siblings!

And the real kicker, the female will eat the male after mating!

Okay that’s enough…this is what Dixon was singing about.

“What about the protection…are they protected?” I asked as we left Virginia and entered Maryland.

She read from the internet site Snopes/Fact Check:

The belief that it is illegal to kill a praying mantis (a crime carrying a $50 fine as a punishment) has been floating around since the 1950s, and we have no idea where this bit of insectoid legal apocrypha came from:

“When I was growing up in New Jersey, I used to find praying mantises in our driveway and back yard every once in a while. It was illegal in NJ to kill a praying mantis, as I remember.”

There is not (and never has been) any federal or state law proscribing the killing of praying mantises.

No.

We were in the clear.

No Jail time.

No $50 times a couple hundred dead bugs fine.

Okay, okay so I am sure there is something your momma told you that you still believe too.

And besides, like that guy in the Snopes internet post, I’m from Jersey too where we have the Jersey Devil, Bigfoot, and Jimmy Hoffa.

What’s the moral of the story?

Love and trust your mother… but verify.

And check your plants before you carry them in the house, spring comes early indoors.

Veterans Day Musings

Veterans Day Musings

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My dad with his brother Ted during the Korean conflict

He blesses the boys
As they stand in line
The smell of gun grease
And the bayonets they shine
He’s there to help them
All that he can
To make them feel wanted
He’s a good holy man

Sky Pilot
Sky Pilot
How high can you fly?
You never, never, never
Reach the sky

Sky Pilot.

A song from 1968 by Eric Burdon and the Animals.

Though the term dates back to the late 1800’s, Sky Pilot is a slang term for a military Chaplain.

Lately, in my quest to reduce some unnecessary stress, I have been avoiding listening to or watching the news as much as I can. On my XM radio I have discovered Little Steven’s (Steve Van Zandt) Underground Garage.  If you have any appreciation for rock music and its origins, this is the station for you.

Last week on a trip out to visit my parents I heard this song.

 

It was the early 1940’s and the World War II was raging on.  Rumor had it, the British were taking fourteen year olds as sailors on their Merchant Navy ships. At fourteen years old, there was no other option to get into the war.  So a couple of kids from Jersey made the trip up to New York City, eager to get involved anyway that they could and serve their country in any way they could.

Sailors in the British Merchant Navy were classified as civilians. Germany had declared that every vessel of the British mercantile marine was to be regarded as a warship, meaning that the sailors of the Merchant Navy faced tremendous risks. An estimated 30,248 merchant seamen lost their lives during World War II, a death rate proportionally higher than in any of the armed forces.

Unfortunately or fortunately, for these two young teenagers, the rumor was not true, and they were turned away.  Disappointed, the two boys returned to their home town in New Jersey.  They would be left out of this war.

It’s Veterans Day.

I spent some time while I was with my parents last weekend asking questions as I typically do.

My grandfather, my father’s father was born in Norway.  He entered the United States illegally in the early 1900’s.  He was a sailor who jumped ship in New York and headed for Norwegian communities in the mid-western US.  In spite of how he entered the country, he served in the United States Army during World War I in France as a motorcycle messenger.  Though my father thinks he may have been discharged early, but honorably, due to his inability to speak English well enough.  I remember as kid seeing his discharge papers hanging on the wall.

When World War II broke out, living on the New Jersey coast, my grandfather was trained to identify enemy aircraft silhouettes and manned the coastal spotting towers along the beaches.  Some of those towers still remain today.

My mother’s oldest brother Bill served in the Seabees in the south Pacific in World War II.

My mother’s other brother, my uncle Bob, was a sergeant on a mortar crew in the Korean conflict.

My father’s younger brother Ted served in the Navy during the Korean conflict.

My dad, after returning from that ill-fated attempt to join the British Merchant Navy with one of his Oceanport buddies in World War II, found another way to serve his country at home.

It was estimated that by the end of the war more than 6 million men had left farm work to go off to war.  The USDA’s Farm Corps was a solution to that problem.  It employed 2.5 million patriotic teenagers who wanted to serve in some way.

USDA official Meredith C. Wilson wrote at the time that “manpower for agriculture is of equal importance with manpower to produce combat weapons for our fighting men.”

And farm worker recruitment materials from the Office of War Information insisted that “bread is ammunition as vital as bullets.”

It may not have been as exciting as crossing the Atlantic dodging torpedoes from German U-Boats, but at least it was something.

During the Korean conflict, my dad served in the US Army and his unit was assigned to coastal protection and he was stationed at posts in Brooklyn, Long Island, Rhode Island, and Connecticut.

My parents were married while my dad was in the Army and they looked for places to live in Brooklyn so my mom could be closer to my father stationed in New York.  But after being turned down as tenants, she returned home and lived in an apartment in my father’s parent’s house in the Hillcrest neighborhood of Oceanport. My mother didn’t think people wanted to rent to young GI’s at the time.

 

 

On the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918, an armistice, or temporary cessation of hostilities, was declared between the Allied nations and Germany during my grandfather’s war, World War I.

In 1926, Congress passed a resolution that the “recurring anniversary (of this day) should be commemorated with thanksgiving and prayer and exercises designed to perpetuate peace through good will and mutual understanding between nations.”

I like that.

Thanksgiving…I am kind of thankful the British Merchant Navy didn’t take fourteen year olds.

Prayers for peace, good will, and mutual understanding between nations.

And maybe those same sentiments amongst ourselves as well so I can take my head out of the sand and go back to watching TV news again.

Happy Veterans Day.

Thanks to all those who have served!

You’re soldiers of God, you must understand
The fate of your country is in your young hands
May God give you strength
Do your job real well

(from Sky Pilot, by Eric Burdon and the Animals)

My dad in the Army with his mom and dad
Everybody in Hollywood Farts

Everybody in Hollywood Farts

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Professor Farrell of the Mount Jenning Observatory has detected explosions on the planet Mars!

A large meteor has crashed in to a farmer’s field in Grovers Mills, New Jersey!

“Something’s wriggling out of the shadow like a gray snake…it’s indescribable, I can hardly force myself to look at it, it’s so awful!  The eyes are black and gleam like a serpent.  The mouth is kind of V-shaped with saliva dripping from its rimless lips that seem to quiver and pulsate!

It’s Halloween this week.

On this day in 1938 occurred maybe the best example of fake news in this nation’s history.  More than a million people were convinced that Martians were invading the earth, by a young 23 year old radio announcer named Orson Welles as he presented his version of H.G. Wells’ War of the Worlds on national radio. Panic broke out, terrified people jammed highways. It is said a woman ran into an Indianapolis church during evening services and yelled “New York has been destroyed!  It’s the end of the world! Go home and prepare to die!”

 

I learned recently while writing something for work that Halloween is commercially second only to Christmas in the amount of revenue it generates.

We experienced this while in Florida with three trips to pumpkin patches, hayrides, pumpkin painting, carving tools, decorations for the windows from Michaels, and costumes from Party City.

I’ve had the pleasure these last few weekends of being able to spend some quality time with all three of my grandsons.  We don’t get to see them enough, especially the Florida kids.

Having grown up in New Jersey and spent the rest of my years in Northern Virginia Octobers are typically cool.  In fact while we were in Florida, Virginia experienced a frost.  However in south Florida it was in the 90’s.  Great for me, because I love the heat; not so great for the two large pumpkins we carved, one with a traditional jack-o-lantern face and the other with a ghost carved in it, because by the end of the first 24 hours the mold had grown in the cut outs and by the end of the second 24 hours they were sinking from rot.  Next year just painted pumpkins.

 

This past weekend once again we experienced the bad in our world.  Another shooting in a house of worship, this time in Pittsburgh, at a Jewish synagogue during Saturday morning services.  There were eleven dead worshippers.  Six were injured including four police officers who, it has been reported, ran into the gunfire.

And the week before that we had make shift bombs being sent to prominent past and current political figures by another no doubt disturbed individual.

 

And that weekend I was in Florida I read Amy Schumer said that any football player who doesn’t kneel with Colin Kaepernick is complicit.  I take that to mean anyone who is not in favor of this kneeling protest in Amy’s world is complicit.  I take a little offense to that, but the world is her stage and she is in a position of influence.  And there are countless messages of influence and hate on the internet, network TV, movies, print, and still in fact, on the radio.

“Everybody in Hollywood farts.”

This profound statement was uttered by my grandson Christian while in the drive through of McDonalds, after he presented us with his gift of flatulence in the car, while waiting for his Chicken McNugget Happy Meal.  He, of course, was referring to Hollywood, Florida where he lives.   I of course, thought it was brilliant.

I think it’s great that Amy Schumer has her celebrity and her Hollywood (CA) status and I suppose that gives her the privilege to promote her opinions and spread her ideology on social media.

Yeah, but you know what?   Everybody farts in Hollywood.

And everybody farts in Herndon, Virginia too, and everywhere else for that matter.

And we all put our pants on one leg at a time.

We are all human.

 

But sadly we are not all the same.

At least if it’s just me with saliva dripping from my rimless lips as they quiver and pulsate from reading my Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter feeds, and watching my TV,  who is exposed to all this I can just say phooey!

Some folks don’t know how to say phooey.  They don’t know how to process information in the proper context or ignore it for what it is.  They take it seriously.  It may fuel their hate or trigger something in a mind that may not be stable as yours, mine, or Amy Schumer’s.

Some of that flatulence is able to permeate further and deeper and stimulate sometimes unthinkable actions.

Some folks believe what they hear and read as the truth and they panic, maybe jamming the highways,

Maybe rushing into houses of worship and yelling…

Or maybe worse.

 

So to the twenty or so people in my social media universe who might read this, I promise I will turn down any offers to do Super Bowl commercials this year.  And I know it must sound like a privilege ass sacrifice but it’s all I got!

 

And I suppose I have to confess I am guilty too so,

“Oops, excuse me, I guess I just farted!”

My bad!

 

Prayers go out to all those victim’s families, those victims themselves that are still fighting for healing physically and will be long term emotionally; their friends, the Jewish community in Pittsburgh and everywhere, houses of worship everywhere, the leadership and first responders in Pittsburgh and everywhere, and all of the rest of us who are responsible for working to help build a better world that my grandkids and your grandkids will be able to live civilly, safely, happily, and harmoniously.

It’s Not the Fourth of July Until You Have Had a Carrot Hot Dog?

It’s Not the Fourth of July Until You Have Had a Carrot Hot Dog?

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If you are familiar with Max’s hot dogs on the Long Branch, New Jersey boardwalk, or the Windmill in Long Branch’s West End, or my sister’s Fourth of July parties for the last gazillion years, you know Jersey hot dogs.

Man those are hot dogs…

This year I had a carrot hot dog on the Fourth of July.  It was awesome.

 

The first part of the summer is always a bittersweet time of the year for us.

It starts on Mother’s Day; then Memorial Day; Hayley’s birthday; includes Father’s Day; then my birthday; Kim’s birthday; our wedding anniversary;  the Fourth of July; then July 19th, the day of Donny’s accident; and ends with Savannah’s birthday on July 20th; then we breathe again.

And I always find myself reliving that summer.

We had some good times in the early part of the summer of 2002.

I have shared this photo before, its one of my favorites, and these are the three girls who were rightly so, my competition.

On June 20, 2002, Donny and I headed off to Wolf Trap to see Jo Dee Messina and Brad Paisley after Kim couldn’t go.  It was his first and only concert.  I had seats in the first row, but the three girls he knew sitting in the lawn turned out to be tough competition for the old man, but Donny didn’t leave me hanging too long and finished out the show sitting next to me in the front row.

That Fourth of July 2002 we spent in Jersey at my sister’s and got down to the beach.  He used to mess with me and quote the line from the Adam Sandler movie Happy Gilmore, “You want a piece of me old man?” whenever we were doing anything sports-related like throwing the football at the beach or mixing it up with the soccer ball on my sister’s lawn.

I didn’t want a piece of him but I surely wanted badly to have something I could show him.

Donny was a natural-born athlete.

I am a natural-born non-athlete.

He beat me in everything.

One vacation at the outer banks, I knew he had never played golf, so I took him and his friend Chris golfing. Finally, I thought, there was something I could teach him, some sport I could role model.

Something I could maybe even beat him at.

By the end of the day though, I guess I had passed on as many good golf tips as I possibly could and it must have paid off because he beat me again.

 

The funny thing was, I never made the Adam Sandler connection until after Donny’s accident.

I never used to like Adam Sandler movies.

Now I can watch them all day long.

 

When we ride bikes now on the bike trail Kim always says “c’mon old man.”

I like that.

 

I don’t know what I will do on this Thursday the 19th but maybe I will ride my bike.  And maybe my wife will say “c’mon old man.”

And it will be okay.

Because winning doesn’t matter anymore, it never really did, it was having some meaning in that young man’s life that was really important to me.

And maybe, I realize now, in this old man’s life…

So I guess maybe in some way I have won.

At least I can tell you, Donny, that I still have your Mom’s back and she has mine.

Heck, I am even eating carrot hot dogs on the Fourth of July.

That has got to be love.

 

Happy Gilmore: “You like THAT old man? You want a piece of ME?”


Bob Barker character: “I don’t want a PIECE of you, I want the whole THING!”

 

I want the whole thing too…

But I would settle for just a piece of you right now.

 

Forgive Me For Sharing

Forgive Me For Sharing

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I am not feeling well.

I don’t typically like when people share their ailments over the internet or social media.

I don’t need the visual that you have diarrhea or that you are throwing up something that looks like something or other.

I want to gag too.

Just tell me you are taking a sick day and leave it at that.

Now here I am telling you I am not feeling well.

It’s been a while since I have felt like this.

But I realized today when reviewing my published work for the week, I had to have been off.

Because I made mistakes.  Some I was able to salvage and some I just had to apologize for.  I even tried to make a cup of tea in the microwave without any water.

But still, in spite of my fuzziness, once I got home, there was something kind of fun and relaxing about being able to sit in bed and have your wife feel sorry you (well at least I expect she will when she gets home), because in my case I know it’s nothing serious.  And when you grow up in the respiratory medical world getting a chest cold is kind of a professional challenge.

I break out my stethoscope.

I begin to analyze every cough and noise that I make.

Hey that one was loose and productive.

Wait that one was dry and non- productive.

Is that a bronchospasm I hear or a mucus plug?

What’s my temperature?  Low grade or high?

Do I have any chest pain?

And then there is the spitting.  When you work in a hospital or homecare keeping the airways open is your job.  Helping people breath is why you went to school.  You need to be alert and aware of all you hear and see.  Sure I have dodged a loogie or two in my day.  I had a couple I wasn’t fast enough for too.  My respiratory and pulmonary friends will relate.  There is nothing wrong with that, it’s part of the job, it’s what we did or do, helping people to breath, often saving lives.

I miss that.

So like it or not, when I am sick, I go into action.

And because today I am the one who is coughing and spitting, and delirious from fever, though I know that what I am experiencing is not serious, when I am sick, in my house, it is serious.

I remember when I was a kid, all the cool kids could spit really good.  Most them were athletic too, many played baseball like John Bedell, Bob Woolley, and Kevin Higgins; friends from my hometown of Oceanport, NJ.  They played hardball and Little League and Babe Ruth.  If you didn’t spit, you weren’t tough.

I wasn’t allowed to do much spitting on the Cub Scout Softball Team.

But those guys could sure spit.

They would wind up and when they let go it sounded like a poison dart coming out of a blowgun.  It was a perfect projectile and man it could travel. (Tttthhhhwwwwuuuut!)

I always envied those guys.

When I was a kid and I spit it was more like trying to eject a raw egg out of my mouth.  And it didn’t travel very far at all it just went about the direction I was leaning and usually required some assistance from my fingers to clear the obstruction.

So as a result I knew never to try and impress the girls by hocking a loogie in gym class.

Maybe I am just delirious.

Maybe I should stop writing before I say something stupid.

Maybe I have already said something stupid.

Maybe it’s a good thing I am not working with patients anymore, because forgiveness for mistakes in that world can be difficult.

Thankfully in the world I work in today, forgiveness is encouraged.

 

My wife is home now.

I am thinking about having her order a chest x-ray stat.

Or maybe a pizza would be easier.

Joe

Joe

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Dear Joe,

Today we will all come together and celebrate your life, remember your friendship, honor your memory.

I hope we are able do that in the way you expected us to.

You know, right after we all found out you had left us, the February weather got warm, temperatures rose into the 70’s and even 80’s.  It was wonderful.  It was like you were telling us it was time to plant the tomatoes.

Then you called us all home to Jersey to share some time to remember you in a Nor’easter!

Yesterday Matt flew in from Florida to Atlantic City in 70 mile an hour winds, “roughest ride ever,” is how he described it.

Then you had me driving over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge in 60 mile an hour winds since 95 north was closed because two tractor trailers had literally blown over on the Tydings Bridge north of Baltimore.

It was kind of reminiscent of Ricky whipping us around the Shrewsbury in his little Boston Whaler… scary.

But then I hit the Delaware Memorial Bridge and it was covered with slush and I came down into New Jersey and there were cars spun out in ditches on both sides of the highway, and I said to myself “you son of a B?#@*, there is no way you are going to get me to have an accident just to come hang out with you tonight, I hope you are having fun with this, I will see you in good time.”

We did have a lot of fun though.

The time we had to have our sisters bring new clothes to school for us in the eighth grade, in order to participate in graduation because the principal didn’t like our bell bottoms and rope braided belts.

Going to church at Precious Blood and instead of going inside and taking Communion we stayed outside and took something else.

The time we hitch hiked to Asbury Park to see Grand Funk Railroad at the Convention Hall, my first concert, and the wild ride home we had.

The stretch of Steel Mill shows including the infamous Highlands Clearwater Swim Club show; the Sunshine In Black Sabbath/Cactus show that we had early show tickets to, that turned into a Steel Mill marathon when Black Sabbath kept blowing the power. I think my mother almost reported me missing that night and my sister picked us up when we finally spilled out on the street at about 2 AM.  And the final Upstage shows.

The time your sister Diane drove us into the Asbury Park riots where we were stopped by the National Guardsman in full combat gear who asked us “where the hell do you guys think you are going?” then told us to turn around and get out of out of there.

Walking barefoot to North Long Branch and walking back home from North Long Branch. Then walking to North Long Branch again, and walking back home from North Long Branch.  Over and over and over again.

Getting up at 4 AM after getting home at 3 AM to drive to Berkley Heights in your father’s pick-up truck to work at “the shop,” your family’s church furniture woodworking business.  And the time we went to install church pews at a church   in West Orange and Uncle Rudy parked the truck on the hill and the load shifted, when we opened the rear door of the box truck the pews came crashing out on to the street.  Glad that wasn’t our fault.

I could go on and on.

But I have to admit to something.  After losing Donny in 2002, I thought I was immune to all of this.  I thought that never again would I ever feel that death was something that would take me by surprise, something that would rattle me.  I thought that analytically and spiritually I had it under control, because I lived with grief every day and it would never affect me the same again.

And for almost 16 years it didn’t.

Then, I learned I was wrong.

Because, in the last two weeks I felt it again.

And I got scared.

And I started thinking I didn’t even want to come up here and go through this again.

But I knew I had to, and I wanted to, and I knew why as well.

Because I realized, though I had experienced loss, it had been almost 16 years since I lost someone I loved, a member of my “family.”

And the hurt came back.

Your sister told me you had talked about this day and how it should be.  Not religious, just a day for your friends.

So I promise not to get religious, and I think you can be pretty sure that your friends are here.

Through nor’easters or whatever; we may not be barefoot anymore, or need to hitch hike…but thanks for sharing today with us and all the other days before that we will remember.

We had some fun.

 

Resolutions…What a Waste

Resolutions…What a Waste

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image courtesy of the What The Health facebook page

Animals living in their own waste…they’re living next to animals that are sick or even dead…stuck in cages with these animals where bacteria tends to spread…

 Three thousand people die every year in the United States from Salmonella…twenty thousand people dying from antibiotic resistance deaths…

 …if you live near a swine spray field …three times more likely to have a MRSA infection…

 …ten million pigs in North Carolina produce the waste of one hundred million humans…this is the equivalent of the entire eastern seaboard flushing their toilets in to North Carolina…

The pig’s waste falls through slats in the floors of the sheds they are forced to live in… then pumped into giant waste pits…and pumped out unfiltered on to fields…

(From the documentary “What the Health”)

 

Happy New Year!

Time to bust out some new resolutions!

Maybe I’ll finally fix that sink that has never drained properly…

Maybe I’ll quit procrastinating…

Maybe join the gym…

Maybe change that diet and eat healthier too…

 

A few months ago my wife decided to change her diet.  Not that she was eating poorly to begin with; she almost never ate meat with the exception of some chicken and fish; but this time she was going to try to live on a plant based diet only.  No animal anything. 

No cheese, no eggs, no chicken, no beef, nothing dairy; nothing derived from an animal.

Just plants. 

I thought I might go along with this and do it with her but I insisted that until the freezers were purged of all the leftovers and frozen foods; all those meatballs, chicken wings, and other food stuffs we had accumulated, I would hold back.  Somebody had to eat that stuff, it would be wasteful!

So while my wife got healthier… I got heavier. 

It would go something like this: 

ME: “Hey honey, how are you…you’re on your way home? Good, are you hungry what do you want for dinner?   

KIM:  “No not really, I had a big salad for lunch.”

ME: “Oh… okay… no problem I will just stop and get some bread,   get some meatballs out of the freezer and eat a meatball sub.”

The next day… 

ME: “Oh hey honey, great I will see you at home.  Are you hungry, want me to make something for dinner? “

KIM: “No, you know I had some beans and rice later in the afternoon today so I am good.”

ME: “Okay… no problem… it’s all good…hey you know I will just have a meatball sub…it’s fine don’t worry about me. “

 So while my wife cleansed her body of toxins; I cleansed the freezers.   

And I gained weight. 

 All this got started with my wife by her watching the documentary I illustrated at the beginning of this essay. 

The documentary titled What the Health.

Recently while sitting with my parents and talking about growing up in New Jersey we got on the topic of septic tanks. 

Because back when I was growing up before they put the sewers in Oceanport in the 70’s, septic tanks were common.  You had a septic tank on your property that held the waste until it got full, and then a truck would come along and pump out the sewage until the tank got full again, and so on and so on.

My grandmother had a couple of these septic tanks on her property and she lived across the street.   

My parents went on to explain that they heard that these sewer trucks would pump out the sewage and then drive the raw sewage down to farms in south Jersey where it would be sprayed on the fruits and vegetable fields as fertilizer. 

What the hellllth?

Wait, wait, wait so I could have pooed at my grandma’s house in central Jersey and my poo could then have been driven to south Jersey and sprayed on a head of lettuce that may have subsequently ended up in my salad bowl; or on strawberries that may have been on my strawberry shortcake birthday cakes that I loved so much?

Somehow that whole pig spray issue sounded rather genteel to me now…

I seriously don’t know what to eat after learning all this…the meat is bad…the veggies are sprayed with poo…

Probably not mine anymore but maybe someone else’s!

What kind of resolution should I make?

Never to talk to my parents about septic tanks again?

Maybe…

And why couldn’t my good plumber friend from New Jersey have retired to Northern Virginia and not the west coast of Florida?  I don’t want to fix that drain.

And I already joined a gym, so at least my bank account is getting leaner.

I don’t know what to do…

I know… I will procrastinate.

That always works for me…

Now what is it that I could be more resolute about?…

 

If you would like more information about the film visit the What the Health website.  For additional information visit their facebook page.  It’s worth a look, draw your own conclusions.

The Kid, The Donald, and Two Guys Named Benny from Jersey

The Kid, The Donald, and Two Guys Named Benny from Jersey

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Kid Rock

Last week I read on the internet that Kid Rock had died.  He was killed in a fire that officials thought was caused by a meth lab.  Kid Rock killed in a fire making methamphetamine.

“Kim,” I yelled, Kid Rock died, he was killed making methamphetamine.  And we just saw him on the CMA awards.”

Unbelievable.

Last night I was sitting in bed on the internet again and I read that Kid Rock was running for the Senate in the state of Michigan.

How about that?  Last week he was killed in a fire and this week he is running for the Senate.  Not only that but he was planning a tour to promote his candidacy.

Unbelievable.

I read last year that Donald Trump was running for president.

Then I read that he won!

It’s amazing what happens in this land of ours!

 

The biggest thing in the news today is how the Russians influenced my vote.

It had to have been subliminal forces at work:

“Vote Da for the Myshka…”

“Vote Da for the Myshka…”

 

I don’t know, it’s too complicated for someone of my aptitude.

 

And they say Trump Jr. had something to do with this diabolical plot.

 

Agent: “Mr. Trump Jr. please sit down in this chair.”

Trump Jr.: “No, no not the lights…!”

Agent:  “Yes the lights.  Mr. Trump Jr. you met with a Russian attorney in your office?”

Trump Jr.:  “Maybe”

Agent:  “Was there anyone else at that meeting?”

Trump Jr.: “Yes, a Russian operative”

Agent:  “So now you are saying that you met with more than one Russian in your office?”

Trump Jr.: “Well, yes, substantially”

Agent: “How many Mr. Trump Jr.?”

Trump Jr.:  “Ten maybe..?”

Agent:  “Ten Mr. Trump? Seriously why not 15?”

Trump Jr.:  “Because the North Koreans were taking up too much room.”

Agent: “North Koreans?”

Trump Jr.:  “Yeah there weren’t many chairs left.”

Agent:  “Now you are admitting there were North Koreans at the meeting, was there anyone else at the meeting?”

Trump Jr.: “Yes”

Agent: “Who?”

Trump Jr: “Two guys from Jersey.”

Agent: “Two guys from Jersey…where are these two guys from Jersey I want to talk to them?”

(Confronts the two guys from Jersey)

Agent:  “Are you guys from Jersey?”

Guys: “Da”

Agent: “What part of Jersey?”

Guy:“Is Hoboken.”

Agent: “You really want me to believe that you guys are from Hoboken, New Jersey?”

Guy: “Da”

Agent: “Where did you get that accent, you don’t sound like you are from Jersey?”

Guy: “Was once Russian, no more…from Jersey…is Hoboken.”

Agent: “Okay so what’s your name?”

Guy: “Benny”

Agent:  “Benny? That’s original, what’s his name (other guy)?”

Guy:  “Is Benny too”

Agent:  “Okay, so Mr. Trump Jr. you are saying you met in your office with ten Russians, five North Koreans, and two guys named Benny from Jersey…was there anyone else? (Turns up the lights)

Trump Jr:  “Okay, okay I will tell you but just turn off the lights!”

Agent:  “Who Mr. Trump Jr, who?”

Trump Jr.: “Boris and Natasha”

Agent:  “Boris and Natasha?  Seriously, was Rocky and Bullwinkle there too?”

Trump Jr.:  “C’mon now don’t be silly, Rocky and Bullwinkle were not there that’s ridiculous!”

 

Unbelievable stuff right?  And so sinister.

 

But it’s crazy:

Kid Rock dies in a meth fire!

Donald Trump runs for President!

Kid Rock runs for the Senate!

Hillary involved in Pizzagate!

Donald Trump becomes President!

Russians influencing me to vote for Mickey Mouse!

 

I need a break, I think I will go sit down on the couch.

 

Me:  “Alexa, I am so sick of politics…let me hear something from Bruce Springsteen.”

Alexa:  “I thought you said were sick of hearing about politics?”

Me:  “Okay, okay, how about Over the Rainbow?”

Alexa:  “Whatsa matter your arms broke?  What do I look like a Juke Box?  Does my shirt say DJ Jazzie Jeff on it?”

 

Alright I was just messing with you again, you can’t believe everything you read on the internet you know…

“Somewhere over the rainbow way up high
There’s a land that I heard of once in a lullaby
Somewhere over the rainbow skies are blue
And the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true”

 

They do I guess, that’s nice…now where was that post that had John Kasich winning…?

Pop’s Lady

Pop’s Lady

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Pop’s Lady

The waterman typically woke up about 3:30 AM.  There was no need to set an alarm, no need to set a time on clock radio or West Bend portable because the “alarm clock” was already up and making coffee out in the kitchen.

The first mate was always the first up as well.

 

That coffee had to be brewed, thermoses filled, and breakfast made.  It would be a while until lunch.

In the early days, before the law was changed that allowed crabbing only after the sun came up, they hit the water in complete darkness.  High powered flashlights had to be used to spot the buoys indicating where the trotlines started and ended and on the dark mornings, up and down the river it looked like  premier night at the movies.  Those mornings when the fog moved in it was a leap of faith.

They worked three lines.  The shortest was 1800 feet long, the longest just short of a half mile. About every five feet the 3/16 nylon rope was twisted and a salted bull’s lip was inserted in the space and twisted back.

Bull’s lips were used as the bait.  The bait had to be tough.  It had to last as long as possible.

Once the lines were dropped to the river floor and the buoys placed to mark the location, the waterman would maneuver the boat back along the route of one of the submerged lines and an outrigger would slowly elevate the baited line to the surface, five feet and one bull’s lip at a time.  When a crab was spotted with its claws clinging to the bait it would be scooped into the boat with a crab net.  Once the crabs were in the boat, the mate would sort the crabs into the different baskets that at the end of the work day would be taken to the wholesaler and sold for that day’s wages. The sooks or females in one bucket, the jimmies or males in another. And of those, the restaurant sizes, the ones or twos, had to be separated out as well. The peelers in yet another bucket, they would fetch fifty cents apiece.

The name on the boat was Pop’s Lady.

Pop, my dad, was the Captain; Lady, my mom, was the First Mate.

I don’t remember exactly when my mother got the nickname Lady, but it was a long time ago.

When my parents retired and moved from New Jersey to the Eastern Shore of Maryland and settled down on the Little Choptank River they became commercial crabbers.  Together, they did this for about 15 years.

The first time I introduced my wife Kim to my parents, my mother was sitting under a big tree with a large bucket of bull’s lips by her side and their trotlines, inspecting and re-baiting the crab lines as was necessary.  Pulling out the worn out bull’s lip and inserting the new one, five feet at a time.

I don’t remember whether they shook hands.

My mother…aka Lady, Florence, Flo, Flozzie, Ma, Mom…whatever you called her was and still is as tough as those bull’s lips.

Before her stint as a waterman (or waterwoman), she managed a high school cafeteria for many years.  And before that as a young mother and wife she wielded a hammer, laid brick, and maneuvered a wheelbarrow alongside my dad, his dad, his brother, and his friends as they built our new house in Oceanport New Jersey.

She volunteered with the Oceanport Hook and Ladder Fire Company’s Ladies Auxiliary; she was a wonderful aunt in the extended family that made up the little village we had in our little corner of Oceanport.

And she raised four kids.

My sister Pat was born in 1952, while my dad was in the Army during the Korean conflict. My mom wrote my dad a letter every day that he was gone.

My brother Carl was born in 1954 and me in 1956.  My brother Gary was born not too long after that new house was finished on May 14, 1961, fifty six years ago today on a Mother’s Day.  My dad told me recently he would tell everyone Gary was Flo’s Mother’s Day present from him.

On a recent visit to see my parents, Kim had learned of a website that would tell you the most popular song at the time you were born.  One evening we had some fun with that.  I was born on June 27, 1956.  The most popular song at the time was “The Wayward Wind” by Gogi Grant.  My dad remembered it well.

This same site would also take it a step further and tell you the most popular song at the time you were conceived as well.

For me it was “The Yellow Rose of Texas” by Mitch Miller from the movie Giant, “a 1956 American epic Western drama film.”

Wait…my dad is a huge fan of western movies.

Yuck, way too much information.

C’mon Pop!  I always thought we had ice cream when we watched movies?

I haven’t watched a James Dean movie since.

 

But hey, thanks Pop, you did alright with your Lady and we are all blessed to have this one as our mother.

My mom is still riding shotgun with my dad; still fiercely loyal to her family; still managing that cafeteria only now it’s just her kitchen; still the carpenter’s helper; still tends to my boo boos ; takes care of her neighbors; and is still taking good care of us.

So Ma…Happy Mother’s Day!

In my first essay on Musings…Three Score and Counting  I twice referred to her as my lifeline.  She may not need to be my lifeline anymore, but it’s nice to know she is there.

And I still really appreciate those pork roll, egg, and cheese on the hard roll sandwiches so keep the cafeteria open!

And Happy Mother’s Day to all the mom’s out there.  It’s not always easy but we need you!