Monday, September 30, 2019

GET ME MY NEWSPAPER



With all the media open to us for information and amusement, the newspaper is still my favorite form of news. In my home, there are two newspapers delivered every morning. I get an email telling me the papers have arrived. The first paper I read I have been reading since childhood, the New York Daily News. The snobs call it the “New York Daily Rag”, I call it the New York Daily Rag. It is on opposite ends of the poll with the New York Times. The Times is for people who like to sound important. “Did you read the op-ed page of the Times yesterday?” No, I read the comics in the News, that Dagwood is a hoot!

I got into the News as a young 5-year old reading the Sunday comics, its what got me on the course of reading. Every morning, Dad would handle me a nickel and send me across the street to the corner candy store and buy off the newsstand a copy of the news. I would read the front and back pages of the paper while heading back home. Such headlines as; WHO’S A BUM and WAR were some of the headlines I remember.

Once Dad got his tabloid newspaper I would watch him red by turning the paper over and reading the paper, back to front, especially the sports pages that in his opinion were the best of the city newspapers.

The other newspaper was the Long Island Newsday, the one-step lower than the “Gray Lady” the New York Times. The Times was the businessman white-collar paper read by members of the educated and the elite, and of course, Yankee fans. In those days if you went to Yankee Stadium, all you saw were fedora hats, suited and tied while clapping their hands politely as the Yankees jumped out to a big lead and slowly pulled away. At Ebbet’s Field what you saw were screaming and booing, yelling and shouting, cigar smoke filling your nostrils and all dressed like they were in a hurry on a hot summer morning trying to escape a fire, T-shirts and overalls or dungarees as we called them with Keds sneakers. Of course, they were Dodger fans.

Newsday offered me some kind of self-respect, reading a sometimes Pulitzer Prize award-winning newspaper. I even got an Op-ed article in the newspaper on a Sunday! The paper gave me great business and financial info, local news and the latest high school scores that I didn’t want. It is important to know what the commercial banks offered compared to the credit unions. I didn’t give a cent for that info either.
 

Sunday, September 29, 2019

LA PRINCIPESSA


Being the grandpa of a beautiful and special granddaughter Darby Shea has become a great joy that rebuilds itself day after day. The reports I get from her father of conversations and photos seem to make me so elated I feet miss the ground when I walk!

DARBY: “Guess what, Dad. You think you’re the fella over there with the hella good hair, but you’re not.”
Dad: “What?! Who is?”
DARBY: “Bobby.” (Her baby brother) or…

Darby asked her dad if McDonald’s ever serves a “Sad Meal” to go along with their “Happy Meal” and he said: “I’m glad she’s finally starting to produce the kind of content I expected when I hired her.” Or…

Dad: “I just witnessed the most heartwarming family scene: Darby, beautifully singing True Colors while punching my Dad repeatedly in the belly.”

So, you see why I’m so proud and elated. But two 2-weeks ago on Face Time, grandma and grandpa witnessed the fruits of her labors.  She is taking acting classes because her mom did and her mom wanted to be an actress at one time, so Darby does too. Standing in front of the camera, she posed maybe 10 different times, drawing laughter from us. The laughter encouraged her to go on and improvise which she did convincingly, drawing even more hysterical laughter and tears from yours truly.
 

Saturday, September 28, 2019

MARY ELLEN, MEET ELLEN MARY



A long time ago, a friend of mine, Peter, who I knew from my days at a major direct mail firm called to tell me about a friend he had found. The new friend was unique for Peter since the friend was a woman, nothing unusual about that, but she was also a nun! The neighbor who was an older woman in her 80s and she introduced her daughter the nun, Sister Mary Ellen to my photographer friend Peter.

Sister happened to be living in a convent in San Francisco so Peter was communicating with her long distance. Peter had mentioned me to her for some reason and mentioned my daughter and her struggle for survival with colon cancer. Sister Mary Ellen said she would get the whole convent to pray for Ellen my daughter.

Needless to say, as you can imagine, Ellen beat cancer without any residual cancer anywhere else or need chemotherapy. This was a miracle that happened to be on my mom’s birthday, another religious person that truly loved God, how could we lose?

Finally, on Wednesday past I got the pleasure to meet Sister Mary Ellen as she joined Peter and me for lunch in East Meadow at the wonderful Stage Diner. It was a perfect day weather-wise and friendship wise. She was on leave to care for her ailing and aging 85-year old mother.

Peter is a guy who looks like he works for the mob, but under that look is a sweet man, truly humane and even comforting in his friendship. A mutual friend of ours named Bruce had died as had his wife. There was a memorial service for the two as their ashes were in an urn on the church altar at St. Lawrence the Martyr in Sayville. As I was standing in front of the church with some colleagues, Peter pulls up with his 90 something-year-old mothers in the front seat and flips us the bird! This, of course, had us hysterical that one it was a church parking lot and two, his mother was sitting next to him. That’s Peter, that’s life. I love life, I love Peter and he added something memorable to my life to look back on both with the incident and my new friendship!

Thank you, Peter.

Friday, September 27, 2019

WHERE DID THE ROMANCE GO?

Being out of step with the world is nothing new for me. I have found that trying to keep up has become a challenge, fighting to understand what the hell everyone is talking or thinking about is getting harder to do every day.

Case in point: I have two sons that use social media, one is on all of them it seems, such as Facebook and Tweeter or that other one with the camera, Instant Gram. They reference things that I never heard of, have humor I just don’t get and can do things long past my ability. I think the malady is called ‘Old Age’.

The other day I went to the movies and sat in a newly renovated theater. In the old days when I was hip and with it, you sat with your date and it was easy to place your arm around the back of her chair and slowly allow it to drop down onto her shoulder. This was the Bonneville Sault Flats of romance for me. If I didn’t get a dirty look from her my arm stayed in that position until it fell asleep, where it suddenly and involuntarily rose slowly while pumping pain. It was romantic if things got a little hotter with a kiss.

Sitting in the dark waiting for the endless commercials and coming attractions to end I noticed how far apart my seat was from my wife’s. Each seat is now a recliner with large wide arms to hold drinks in carved out holes and even a swinging small tabletop to pile snacks! Where is the romance supposed to come from?

All you phony sanctimonious people out there who think you don’t do this stuff (romance) are either never been kissed or never showed affection. If I wanted to put my arm around my wife I would have had to get on my knees and lean way over just to reach her, and after a while, my knees would have fallen asleep!

Let’s quit fooling around with the seating, bring them closer so we lovers can fool around once more and romance is brought back to the cinema.

Thursday, September 26, 2019

THE WORLD IS A CHANGING!

I went yesterday to the movies to see Downton Abbey, the TV series produced by BBC and reconstituted into a movie. The production was great and I enjoyed every moment of it. As far as Maggie Smith goes, she had the best lines and was superb in her art, or craft, or just being there.

I would recommend this movie if you enjoyed the series, like something other than car chases or loud booms. The cinematography was superb with a breathtaking shot of the castle and the art direction was right on the money. Everything was in place for an award-winning presentation.

One of the things the movie pointed out I thought was how much the world has changed since the 1920s. The clothing, vehicle, and norms of society have all been affected so radically that it looks like we are on another planet. Politics and cell phones best describe today, in the 1920s conversation and writing letters was the norm and NOT the exception. As the family sat around the dinner table the air was filled with questions, opinions and sometimes sarcasm and anger, leading one t to believe that life was indeed alive and well. Today it seems to be life is a lit face with two hands that cradle a piece of plastic.

TOMORROW: Not just the world is changing, it is less romantic.

Wednesday, September 25, 2019

THE VOID


Often they sit with their fears alone and fighting to free themselves from them, losing their perspective and tragically can harm themselves and those they love, it needn’t be physical harm, a mental one will do just as well. The urge to climb out of their skin becomes intense yet they lay lethargically and completely immobilized. This urge is constant, demoralizing and destructive.

No amount of coaxing, cajoling, urging, or begging from relatives or friends will release them from their torment as they stare down the emptiness of their despair. They seem determined to what looks like making themselves unhappy when they are at their most desperate, seeking a release mechanism that will catapult them into the sunlight once again. But to an outsider, it can’t be understood.

The harsh reality of it all affects their loved ones as they try to penetrate the shield or is it the mental iron curtain of despair? No movement, no hope, no understanding, just the endless days of gloom and loneliness pervade their world, gray and saddened.

Recently, in New York City, a father suffering from depression while holding his 5-year old daughter leaped in front of an on coming subway train as it entered a station killing him but thank God the child was spared. Those who witnessed the event mustered together to help the child trapped under the train. Two good Samaritans jumped down onto the track and helped the child out from under the train. Her little hands were alive crawling out from under the car and crying: “Papi, Papi!”

The man was separated from his wife, an event that does occur with alarming frequency but understandably. Some of us can’t deal with other’s depression, our strength is challenged and some of us embrace it for the love of the depressed, kind of selfishly holding onto the hands of the sufferers as they precariously swing over the side of the great abyss.

I’m no expert on depression, just an observer of it, grateful that I don’t seem to suffer from it and thankful to be able to rally behind those who do. But like I say, I am not an expert and so I fear for all those who do need help and have only me there to buffer their despair from some inevitable result so horrific as to turn my heart to shreds and my soul to tears.

When I read the article in the newspaper of the father and his little girl, it moved me to tears. Tears for a father who did love his child yet his mind so broken as to carry that child over the platform edge into the coming train. His wife said he was a loving father who phoned her before this act of desperation to tell her to take care of his kids, then he jumped.

We need more money poured into mental health and less into building unnecessary walls, we need more money taken away from wasteful spending and pour it into mental health. No one should have to hang from the abyss. We need to understand what mental depression does and how it harms not only the sufferer but, the family and friends who fear for them. Life should be a joy to live in spite of the pitfalls and trauma it does offer as it is, without the added trauma of mental disabilities that are rooting into our society. We need to slap the politicians silly until they understand what their duty and functions are, to provide good life and safety to all.


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Tuesday, September 24, 2019

DOWNTON ABBEY

Years ago, I recall the concern expressed by the public that TV was eliminating the cinemas. The cost of a movie was getting high and people were staying home and watching TV because it was cheaper, and the stuff being produced in Hollywood was not like it used to be.

Fast-forward to today and the landscape has changed for both TV and the cinema in terms of quality. The cinema is getting help from the unlikeliest of places, TV!

An extremely successful TV series from England (where else) came along called: Downton Abbey. One of the best acted, directed and art directed shows Downton Abby was so popular that after its successful run it is now a Movie! My wife and I both looked forward to the series and enjoyed every one of them. We were both saddened when it left the air and miss it to this day.

Yesterday morning, when I came downstairs for my coffee I was greeted by:

Ellen: “WE have a date!”

Me: “What do you mean. We had one long ago and look what happened.”

Ellen: “No buzz head, I got us tickets on-line for the movie Downton Abbey!

Me: “You DID! WOW!

Yes, I was enthusiastic. The best TV ever had come to the cinema and now becomes the greatest product overall ever made.

When I was in college, I took several courses in TV production and cinema, learning so much about movie-making it distracted me from ever watching movies again. The lighting, camera angle and positioning of actors and scenes were so interesting in the production that I look for these things now and it takes a little away from the storyline. Black and white movies are particularly interesting and were such a great art form that not even a canvas could produce this momentary picture that advances onto another then another.

So, this afternoon I go with my (date) and see the movie version. I hope it is as good as the TV show.

Monday, September 23, 2019

GETTING TIRED OF IT ALL!

Years ago, in 2006 when I started this blog, I made a promise to myself that the blog, DelBloggolo, would not become politicized and I would keep my opinions to myself. I was conservative with some conflicting views that were liberal. I loathed the idea of voting a straight party ticket because I felt that doing so would deny some basic truism.

Then, a few years back in 2015, watching the political landscape as it morphed into something I could no longer tolerate with two presidential candidates I despised, I realized how right I am in NOT voting along party lines. Suddenly I felt a sense of relief, no longer was I imprisoned in my mind and feeling guilt. I could attack the voting booth with a clear conscious. And so, I feel if I don’t speak out I am betraying my country and myself, ignoring and burying my head in the sand is not what I want.

There is that adage, where there is smoke there is fire, and all along the horizon, the political landscape is very smoky. Ashes are getting in my eyes from all the pollution that the current administration is making. It’s that damned smoke!

Distortion of the Mueller Report that there was NO COLLUSION is a case in point. Why was it necessary to have this investigation unless there is something there?  SMOKE!

Using the office of President to sway a foreign power to acquiesce to demands or lose or delay aid to the country, an ally of NATO is reprehensible. SMOKE! To misdirect to take the pressure off of an investigation into Trump-Ukraine whistleblower complaint, SMOKE! The charge that Joe Biden’s son was doing something corrupted was never tested, not by the press, not by the Republican Senate or Republican House when it was in power, along with TRUMP IN POWER AFTER THE 2016 ELECTION! SMOKE!

The ordering of White House advisors and aids restricting their testimony in Congress is a violation of the rules and along with Attorney General Barr, illegitimate justice from the Department of Justice. SMOKE!

The taking of the word of one of the vilest of men on the Earth, Vladimir Putin at the Helsinki conference, publicly disregarding his intelligence: SMOKE!

Hush money for Stormy Daniels, the attempting cover-up thereof: SMOKE!

The long list of resignations from his cabinet and administration, why? SMOKE!

The interview with Bush and admission of how he treats women and the subsequent allegations of sexual abuse by him along with Epstein’s involvement, Trump’s denial? SMOKE! The sheer number of women accusing his of sexual misconduct is SMOKE!

The constant attack on former President Obama, years after he is gone is misdirection and SMOKE!

Are the Mexicans converting Pesos into Dollars to pay for Trump’s wall? How can anyone agree with the whole premise of building that wall? Why don’t we just blindfold the Statue of Liberty?

I won’t bother to mention the beauty pageant fiascos and the sexual crimes or the Trump housing discriminations, and of course: TRUMP UNIVERSITY! Talk about scandals.

Who in their right mind can support this man, he is an embarrassment to his office and a disgrace as a human being.

Sunday, September 22, 2019

LA FAMILIA


'The Family'

Primo Canara
The test of an Italian/American family was how dedicated one was to the clan. Italian people are clannish, not only for the family but for Paesanos from their hometowns back in Italy and anyone Italian in American. They hung together and fought for each other, when joy came they surrounded themselves with good food and music, and when pain, suffering, and death visited, they rallied as one.

When a great Italian American or Italian boxer like Primo Canera fought, or, when Rocky Marciano and Rocky Graziano fought all the Italian Americans came out in support, he was, uno di noi, ‘one of us’. The importance that Italian immigrants and their children succeeded beyond the everyday jobs of street sweeping, household help and hard labor meant they were being assimilated into the mainstream of American life, which meant acceptance by ‘Il Medicanos’!

Patronizing their own, the new and young doctors, lawyers and businesses that had an Italian surname were where they went. Pride in the fact these children of American immigrants were defying the norm, saying to America: we can be just as American as you can! Art, design, and writing suddenly had a new level to measure itself Italian/Americans were making a statement, in English! Sometimes the statement was my doctor is Italian, he is not my son but he might be someday. To this day, when I see a doctor or lawyer, a politician, jurist or professor, I remember those days of discrimination and a rush of pride taking over once upon a time.

My dad loved baseball and the Brooklyn Dodgers’ Carl Furillo was his favorite Dodger but so were Joe DiMaggio, Yogi Berra, Roy Campanella, and Phil Rizzuto. This was pride in our Italian nationality. 

We as an immigrant population were suspected, feared and discriminated against mostly because of the language barrier and the willingness to work hard for very little. One of the biggest discriminators or racists was Teddy Roosevelt, the President of the United States of America, yet we respected his office! Our problems were we were not all fair-skinned, all blond, we didn’t have the ‘Made in America’ signature. And of course worst of all: we didn’t speak English we were still foreigners.

My relatives were fugitives in the Fascist state of Italy, hiding in the hills and fighting the ugliness of Nationalistic government. When grandma and grandpa came to America, they came with a purpose, to make a better life, and to raise a family in pure freedom, with not needing to resort to arms, living in no fear that someone would come in the middle of the night and bang on their door to take them away.

But if you broke down the Italian/American, and looked into his/her daily life, what you would see in America, being reborn. Teachers, doctors and airline pilots, mathematicians, professors and clergy, politics and the media were slowly being assimilated into the mainstream of American culture. Refuse collectors and sanitation were suddenly becoming a respectable endeavor as well as custodians and building maintenance. Italian-American children left their classrooms and taught their parents to speak and read English, to write and to express their opinions without fear. That is why so many of the Italian-speaking parents demanded that their children speak to them only in English to learn the language.

Grandma loved Caruso, Valentino, and La Guardia, because they were making a statement to America, that they were successful and could be as good as the Irish, Germans, and Poles, as equal as the ‘All-American’ that prided himself in being born on these shores.

Today we have come a long way, Grandpa and Grandma laid the foundation for the generations to come to become the American experience. They could look back with pride that their sacrifice and the ignorance of others made their children and grandchildren stronger, perhaps so strong that we became part of the very fiber that America has always taken pride in. 

When I think back now, of how they came to a place that didn’t speak their language, didn’t appreciate their talents, didn’t know the quality to work, family and national pride they instilled, and their courage: I want to cry over the fact. 

I am proud of America, I am proud because it allowed my forefathers to prove themselves and their heritage today has been adopted in so many ways into the American fabric.

Thank you: grandma and grandpa, and thank you all the grandmas and grandpas who came to America, you were perhaps the real “Greatest Generation” be they Italian, Irish, Polish or any nationality, together they built this country!


Saturday, September 21, 2019

BEEN AROUND THE BLOCK

I have been watching the talking heads on TV, especially MSNBC and FOX News. One of the constants being used by many of the guests is: “To tell the truth”, a phrase I find funny to hear. I often wonder how often they use that phrase in the course of their day and if they need to.

One would think that saying something like “To tell the truth” is an admission of the fact that the speaker doesn’t always tell the truth. Since the occasion warrants him to now tell the truth, should I not believe everything he or she has said prior?

“Be it as it may” is interesting in that when someone says it, sometimes its meant to say listen to me, forget everything else you heard. The phrase seems to me to be a long way to say the word ‘But’.

I won’t comment on the word ‘irregardless’. This word is a non-word an attempt to sound like the speaker has a large vocabulary. Does ‘irregardless’ mean do not regard what we are not regarding? Is there any forethought in our conversations or are we too quick to want to hear what we sound like? ‘Irregardless’ I’m not going to worry about it anymore.

“All things being equal” is interesting. The phrase itself would help my bank account greatly! I could then be as rich as Getty or as bankrupt as Trump! This should allow me to join a nice country club or get primo seating at a fancy restaurant.

OK, some of this is taken out of context but the words put together just seem unnatural.


Friday, September 20, 2019

SOMETIMES THINGS ARE LOOKING UP

As she sits in her bed at the Medford Multicare Center, my little girl continues to make small strides until she reaches a plateau no one noticed her doing.

One of the important objectives is to get her off of the tracheoscopy so she can go home again someday. Sitting with her in her room I was playing music when the respiratory doctor entered and told me that she would be moving downstairs into the less fragile and/or normal residents. The doctors want to see if they can begin to slowly take off the tracheoscopy and cap it. For Ellen to go home to her residence in Shoreham, this has to be done because they cannot or are not equipped to deal with it.

So, another day of wonder and another day to learn about my daughter’s health, life, and future. It would be nice to have a normal life myself, not live it in fear and wonder, sitting endless hours with someone who doesn’t even speak. I’m not complaining, I am stating a fact. Some retirees spend their time on cruises, me, I spend my time in a chair.

I carry with me a survival kit every day, consisting of my laptop, I-pad and newspapers, and puzzle books.

Thursday, September 19, 2019

MOST TIMES NOW, IT HURTS


Forty-seven years ago the world was filled with promise. My wife and I had become parents for the first time and I was on a high. When I looked out into the vast unpredictable future I had no inkling of what life can hand you, and the beliefs as simple as they were would tear me apart someday.

My daughter was a beautiful child at birth, pink round head, and beautiful features and I was in love for the second time in my life. Loving a child is certainly different than anything else I ever experienced and it hit me hard. I was happy.

Today, forty-seven and a half years later I sit next to her bed in the Medford Multicare watching her cry silently, her face contorted by the pain that pervades her body and spirit. Her life is reduced to trying to eat three meals a day and getting medications through a line. She withers in pain and looks toward me confused, a helpless look for help is etched in her brow. It is like the etching that is slowly gnawing away in my stomach as I look on helplessly with guilt.

I spend the mornings at her bedside, I try to talk to her, assure her and try to make her laugh. I take out my I-pad and play music from YouTube and hope it makes her feel happy. She no longer motions to me that she is happy, the joy of life has escaped her lips, deserted her eyes and seems so long ago.


Wednesday, September 18, 2019

IT’S WHAT I’LL MISS

Fall is here in New York soon, and if and when I move to Burbank to be with my beautiful grandchildren, one of the things I will miss is the autumn shower of color-filled trees as they turn.

When I worked I usually took a vacation in late August until Labor Day on the following Tuesday, I could sense the change in the air. There seemed to be an air of sadness coupled with the joyful relief from the humidity that pervaded the summer air and somehow a renewal for the zest of life I always found exciting from fall.

Driving to Port Washington and later Hicksville, commuter traffic was especially heavy on the Tuesday following the Labor Day Monday holiday. Workers returning to their city jobs and homes were on the roads as they tried to squeeze every last moment from their Hamptons retreat, angling for space on the Long Island Expressway from the students of all the local colleges.

Anticipation was usually high for the coming holidays that were lined up, the packing away of the grill and bar-b-q for the winter meals that somehow suggested comfort food. Halloween and Thanksgiving were the pre-cursor to the big one, Christmas and Chanukah My favorite was Christmas Eve and the big fish dinner, a marathon of endless eating and drinking, supported by conversation and laughter. Once the family got too big it lost its luster since we weren’t sitting at the same table anymore and there was a buffet line set up, taking the true family spirit out of it all.

If there was one thing I hated about coming back to work after the vacation, it was the amount of inter-office mail, and emails I had to answer or attend to, meetings I needed to catch up to progress made when I was gone.

Tuesday, September 17, 2019

CERTAIN MAGIC!


Once upon a time, not so long ago, there was this little girl who came into the world and it began the process of my becoming someone important, I was called her ‘Uncle’. This was my first designation as someone of any value. I had a title, I, was an uncle to someone I could tell was special.

It was a Saturday I think, having visited the city with a friend who would become my non-biological brother, Phil, to see a movie that our college instructor told us to see as a class, the Red Desert written and directed by Michelangelo Antonioni, starring Monica Vitti and Richard Harris. But it was the cinematography by Carlo DiPalma that drove us there to the NYC theatre as art and photography students.

 

Laurie and Gerard, a special couple

Getting home that Saturday night I jumped off the train and walked to Rollic Incorporated where Dad was putting in some work, he drove me home. It was at Rollic that I learned I was an Uncle for the first time.

 

All through her life, she has made me proud, she is a terrific daughter, niece, and sister, loyal and caring, as you can see she is beautiful. She is very high on the food chain as someone with great responsibility and has two terrific sons. But the thing I love about her most is her moral compass is always pointed toward love and caring, doing good works where they are needed most. 

 

Laurie Ann has the talents of her mom and the loving spirit and smarts of her dad, a wonderful pair of parents.

 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LAURIE!

 

Don’t worry, I won’t reveal how long “not so long ago” is.



Monday, September 16, 2019

AS WE HAIL, WE PREVAIL


And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.”

We commemorated September 14, 1814, the day Francis Scott Key penned a poem later set in to music and in 1931 became America’s national anthem, “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

 The poem, “The Star-Spangled Banner” was originally titled “The Defense of Fort McHenry,” and was written after Key observed the Fort McHenry being bombarded by the British. Key was inspired by the War of 1812 sight of a lone American flag defiantly flying over Fort McHenry at daybreak, as it is so hailed in our National Anthem.

There is an article that was written by a foreign journalist about the perseverance and persistence of the American people. He wrote that when the tragedy occurred to the nation, we didn’t hide, place blame or run to take out our money from the banks, instead, we became as one, a body of people united to combat aggression. American flags become prevalent and our attention is to gather ourselves up and move forward.

That flag that flew over Fort McHenry is symbolic of our people, not just the fort and may have set the tone for the American spirit.

Sunday, September 15, 2019

JUST WHEN I HANG ‘EM UP

Am I busy AND cheap?
I get an email from out of the blue. I guess cyberspace is blue, no?

Good morning, Joe,
I hope that you and the family are well. I am developing a new publishing project (a magazine for senior citizens to be distributed in Florida) and wondered if you are busy these days (and also if you would work cheap). 
In any case, let me know if you are interested and we can talk.”

I will not mention the culprit but my favorite sentence is the last one in Italics, it is a gem. Will I do it? Yes! Why? It is something to do and I love doing design work or writing.

The thing about this project is that it will lead to something lucrative if it works, and there is nothing that builds my ego more than money. Also, I love developing things like magazines, I’ve done that before and seeing a creation of yours in a sleek shiny format makes me sparkle.

You know, when you retire you miss what you did professionally for a living, the excitement of moving your blood at a steady flow, the juices just pumping and you get more and more into it. But most of all, it makes you belong to something, the project, the goal of the project and the people involved. You are living!

I guess I will never retire fully, maybe no more driving or commuting to a job, but belonging to something still seems important to me. Maybe I’ll die doing it, and that will be the first time I didn’t finish a job!

Saturday, September 14, 2019

PRAYING TO THE NEW GOD!

This morning as I crossed the parking lot to visit my daughter in her Multi-care facility I scanned the horizon and noticed two young ladies sitting on a bench. The young ladies waiting for rides home or class to begin. They were trainees or novice nurses by their dress, all black.

As I got closer I notice both had their heads bowed and their hands in their laps and I thought how wonderful that two young people could be so devoted to the Almighty! I kind of restored my faith in young people that they have something spiritual in their lives, especially since they hoped to be nurses at some point.

Both of their heads were so that I could see the back of each head, as they sat motionless and centered on their hands. I don’t think I ever saw photos of any Pope so devoted to prayer as these two were.

As I got closer to the entrance the sun angle shifted away so that I was in the shadows of the overhead portal to the main doors. I tried not to disturb them and then the vision of devotion blew up in my face! They were on their cell phones, not praying!

The new god, the ‘E’ god has risen. Say hallelujah to the Egod, the god of all whom one prays to in traffic, at dinner tables and even classes.

Friday, September 13, 2019

WHY IS IT ALWAYS?

The other day I was driving down my street and the residents can park on the street on either side, there are no town lays restricting it. As I drove, there ahead of me was an oncoming car and as we drew closer I knew we would have to come to a crawl and creep by each other to allow for not hitting the cars that were parked on either side of us. It seems that if there is a possibility o such a situation occurs it will.

Leaving a building the other day I was in a hurry but sure enough, there in front of me were about 4 wheelchairs, all crowding the elevator, needless to say, I had to wait a while for the next elevator.

Coming to a right turn from a parking lot as I come to a full stop, some big ass SUV pulls up next to me blocking my view of on-coming traffic. Now I have to wait for the SUV to cross over the traffic before I can see.

I’m cruising down the main road with the lights in my favor when a van pulls out in front of me about a quarter of a mile ahead and drives so slow that I now catch every light. WHY DO THESE THINGS HAVE TO HAPPEN?

Now with the new super supermarkets that are becoming the norm, no one thinks about the logic of stocking shelves and location of items. I was looking for loose olives so I head to the salad section, where you build your salad and there are no olives that I want! So I look around when suddenly, I find myself in the pasta section and there sits a case of assorted olives. Great placement; morons.

If I call my mechanic for a simple NYS inspection when due, before calling I see he is moving cars in and out at record speed. There aren’t many cars in his garage or on his lot so he can’t be that busy.
“Hi Mike, I need an inspection of the car.”
Mike: “Well, I can’t get to it today.”
 Me: “When can you?”
Mike: “Let’s see… this is 2019…”

And so it goes.

Did you ever surf the channels to see what’s on? What do you get on each channel you pause at? COMMERCIALS! Don’t try to wait it out, you only get more commercials.

Thursday, September 12, 2019

JIM THE INTERLOPER


Throughout US history there have been issues for Americans with immigration. The idea that some foreigners would enter our sacred soil and threaten our jobs and security has lasted from the first time an influx of immigrants began. Just ask the native Americans and how they must have thought when seeing the Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria and said: “There goes the neighborhood!”

In the late 19th Century when the immigration process became real enough to count how many people came from the different European countries such as Italy, Ireland, Poland, Germany, and France along with the West Coast influx from China, Japan, then once again in the early part of the 20th Century to the now immigration ‘crisis’ that exists now fear and resentment were the orders of the day for Americans.

Often I read about how someone’s ancestry migrated to America and spoke English while not making demands that we speak Spanish, didn’t ask for anything such as medical or social assistance and always overlooked crimes were committed when compared to today’s immigrants. We tend to forget that history is but a revolving sequence f events borne of poverty and fear, oppression and desperation. We tend to forget that crappy things happen that impose upon the peaceful order of life and survival.

Jim
Back in the 1920s I believe, there was a young man who threw caution to the wind and left his native Ireland and journey to America. Jim was a man seeking his divine destiny whatever it would become. He based this move to America on hope and a dream to live in a country that allowed one to prosper or at least try to.

He laid his fears aside and stepped on these shores pinning his hopes on himself with God’s help. He did wonders meeting a young lady he fell in love with and raised a family filled with promise. They, in turn, proved that indeed you could have hopes and dreams and see them through.

All too often I hear of people that wish t bar immigration because maybe a select few are criminals, or the language is not English and that the infringement on American society is such that the English language is under stress, our ways and conditions, our sense of order, are all falling to foreign influence. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Jim’s birthday is today, he is my father-in-law and I am proud of him. He would have been 109 years old today! When he died in the 1980s, he had left a legacy of love, hard work, and the fulfillment of the American dream. His four children all live productive lives and his grandchildren and great-grandchildren have all followed his lead in living good lives, with honesty and faith in God and each other shining brightly in their collective hearts. 

Perhaps we need to realize that the immigrants of today are the future of America, that America will still stand but a little stronger than it does today. Our fears are found less, built on imagined events that will never occur. I have had the pleasure of meeting these people first hand. Most are hardworking and honest, love their new country because in spite of its flaws it is better than where they came from. To suggest they return to their native lands where fear and poverty reign, where death is almost a certainty, is sin-filled, and those who feel this way should examine their origins and whether they should pretend they believe in God. God knows.



Wednesday, September 11, 2019

DAYS REMEMBERED

There should be a national holiday that commemorates all the dark days of our National history. Days like Pearl Harbor and 9/11 should be carved out of our National calendar for all Americans to take notice and reflect upon. This day should not be a day off from work or a day to pitch sales and events.

The day should have a solemnity to it that invokes prayer or reflection in all faiths, perhaps a universal service that is non-denominational and allows all faiths the same access to commemorate those events and those that were sacrificed. The 2,000 sailors at Pearl Harbor and the two thousand civilians that perished in the World Trade Center in New York, the fields of Pennsylvania and the personnel at the Pentagon.

Maybe the day the South fired on Fort Sumter should be included among those dark days, a day that tore our nation apart and maybe even includes the death march of the combatants at Corregidor in the Philippines.

Why should this be so? To show the world and ourselves that no matter what happens on the World stage and who the aggressors are, that we continue to forge head our shoulders strong as is our resolve.

Tuesday, September 10, 2019

REALITY


As I sat this morning next to my daughter Ellen, I noticed that she is still hooked up to a feeding tube, has a treacle and experiences pain almost like clockwork, causing her to not eat her breakfast. She lies on her bed and nods off and on occasion our eyes meet, sometimes smilingly.

I am starting to wonder how long we can as a family hang on to this situation in watching her suffer and the countless hours we are spending with her to soothe her fears. She doesn’t speak and she understands very little. Her guard is constantly up as she watches the various personnel that comes into her room and administer to her. She doesn’t leave her room and the only changes she might see during her day is when she is physically switched from the bed to a jerry chair.

My wife is supposed to be retired and spends it sitting in my daughter Ellen’s room at her bedside as I do also. This situation has caused me to wonder how much life must be wasted, especially in our so-called golden years. Is this a prison sentence? Are we paying for a crime we have committed? Can someone read us the sentence or even what that crime is?

The thought of Hospice has occurred to me, and the fact that if we stopped all the tubes she would probably pass. This sounds like a heartless solution to a basic problem, sustaining life or wasting life. Do we sustain her life for the sake of keeping her to live this non-existent torture that leaves her with no future other than additional pain, or do we save what is left of our lives as a family? She has two brothers and they, I am sure, want her to live, but do they want us to be reduced to the same pointless meaningless future their sister is now facing?

So, do we plan for hospice and apply for the Molst form?

Monday, September 09, 2019

Dear Dad,


It’s been a while since I wrote last. The landscape you knew has changed drastically, the World seems a little more unsettled and chaotic. The good news is that what lessons you left me to stay in my heart and soul.

Your ability to transform sadness into a perspective that says: La vita e’ bella, still holds. Some days it is tested severely and my knees bend from it, but I straighten my back and push forward because like you taught me, there is a tomorrow, we must carry on.

Being how poor you were there wasn’t much in terms of inheritance of material, but my God, the inheritance of  “La vita e’ bella” you left me is profoundly lasting. Your pure joy of having your family about you celebrating our favorite holiday, Christmas Eve, was one of your gifts to me. I spent one finally in 2017, right before my beautiful daughter-in-law Courtney passed while giving birth to your great-grandson, Robert Courtney. Along with, my daughter-in-law your beautiful great-granddaughter and my granddaughter Darby Shea, I felt the joy of all those Christmases you so enjoyed for the first time in my life!
Today is your birthday and being 103 does not fade my memories of love, you were always there for me even in the worst of times.

You loved to make people laugh and people loved you. You gave when I didn’t think there was anything you could possible give, then found out what you gave was of yourself, your greatest gift. I remember how proud you were when I went to college, a dream you never had yet you were so encouraging and helpful that it gave me the impetus to do so under trying conditions until I graduated. I remember the many poor people you helped when their lives were on the downswing, helping you paint or repair and encouraging them, many a day off or weekend we did this side-by-side.

I remember how much you wanted me to introduce Ellen my future wife to Grandma Frances and how proud you were of my choice, making me know that indeed I made the right choice for my future. Your excitement of introducing her to the whole family was so important to you it made me proud of her. And they all loved her.

One of my biggest regrets is that you didn’t live long enough to witness your namesake’s success. Every night I saw your grandson’s name on The Big Bang credits I’d think of you and how proud you would have been and the fact that there would have been no living with you! I see #2 son Michael and all he does now for a living, helping people with disabilities live meaningful lives, in the same spirit, you exuded and know you would be even prouder. I am.

But most of all in all this is your granddaughter Ellen, who the past two years have been tried as has been my patience. You loved her more than you did your daughter; she is innocent and loving, yet with her multiple disabilities shows such fight. Since I wrote last she has fallen and broken her leg, had to have an external fixator then a rod inserted for the broken bone. Then she fell again and had a brain bleed, then another fall causing her a partial hip replacement, followed by colon cancer, then pneumonia and the insertion of a tracheotomy. In all this she has been confused scared and frightened yet has fought through it all with needles that poke her, tubes down her nose and throat and in her stomach from an ileostomy. She fights on and continues to smile and love like you would have wanted her to.

Someday I’ll write to you about the Mets and Jets, but one pain at a time.

Sunday, September 08, 2019

THE POLYGLOTS

Mr. & Mrs. Polyglot

No, they weren’t like Visigoths or Huns they were my parents. No, it wasn’t some off the beaten path religious cult but a mainstay in my life.

If you are familiar with the English language a little bit, you may know what ‘Polyglot’ means, to have the ability to communicate in more than one language. And there lied the problem: Mom and Dad were communicating behind my back to one another right in front of me. They spoke Italian when we were young and still learning our way around, then when secrecy was required they would switch off from English to Italian, burying all plans I might envision if I knew what they were talking about.

This polyglot stuff was particularly troublesome during the Christmas season when I tried to be on my best behavior and not torture my sisters in front of Mom or Dad. I was always a good son as I waited for them to first leave the room before adjusting the peace and tranquility delle mie Sorelle.

Being good was a full-time job and sometimes I didn’t show up for work! Pushing the mom-o-meter for aggravation usually led to my mother swearing in Italian at an alarming rate, reaching for the wooden spoon and our trot around the dining room table as she chased me.

“Wait ‘til I get my hands on YOU!”

“I can! Take your time.”

The mom-o-meter rose steadily with my semi-sarcastic replies and desperation. As Mom tired chasing me around the table she would sit and I would sit opposite of her out of reach of her wooden spoon. As she gathered her breath for another assault I would ask her if she was ready, her mom-o-meter rose further still and on my cue, I said: “OK, let’s go!” It was important for her to keep her remarks in Italian so I would be unprepared for what awaited me if she caught up with me.

Christmas time was when the polyglot system is most effective. Mom and Dad could tell each other where the presents were hidden or what they were thinking of getting us for Christmas. Hearing them speak usually meant that maybe coal was in the mix as they looked at me.

I remember one day Mom said to me she had an appointment and might not make it back before we got home from school, handing the key to my older sister. Curious, I asked her what kind of appointment. She answered “Eyes” and I asked “Front or back?” This, of course, released a string of Italian words that left her smiling. She always knew she kept me off balance.


Saturday, September 07, 2019

CHOICES

I wasn’t a bad kid so much as a child that trouble found. My reasoning was guided by my lack of understanding of what the line drawn meant, the teachings of my grandparents and parents so desperately tried to instill in me. I wasn’t paying attention!

“Joseph, go to the store for me” could have been anyone of the grownups responsible for guiding me as much as: “Don’t do that or else!” It was the Old Italian spirit of discipline; Grandma could smack you around just as well and maybe with more experience than Mom or Dad. Usually, it was Grandma who ran to my aid, just as the boom was being lowered, saving me from myself.

It was a Sunday morning, bright and sunny and I was getting dressed for church. Mom was very fiscally responsible and Dad was her resource. Not being a churchgoer, Dad was still in bed and it was time to leave for church and the dreaded 9:00 A.M. Mass. Being it was summer, there were no requirements that I sit with my class during the Mass, so Mom made sure I got there by accompanying me there.

“Joseph, go get some money from your father for the collection,” Mom ordered me. She was good that way.

I wake up Dad and tell him: “Mommy said, give me some money for church.” (I didn’t have to say please when Mom ordered it) Slowly he opens his eyes and rolls over and grabs his pants from the side of the bed, reaches in and gives me 2 shiny nickels.

As I head toward the kitchen from the bedroom, I pass Mom’s sewing basket, and an idea hits me. For a nickel, I could buy a bottle of Pepsi, and for another nickel, I could buy a package of 5 or 6 small powdered donuts. If given powdered donuts, you could get me to do anything, say anything or lie about anything! Yes, powdered donuts were my addiction!

So quietly I go into Moms sewing box where she kept her buttons and reasoned that if I took 2 shiny metal buttons I could confuse Mom when the usher came to collect money, then afterward, I could celebrate with a Pepsi and donuts! I couldn’t believe my genius had taken me so far!

Our Lady of Lourdes was a beautiful church, with marble floors and columns, stained glass windows and a large dome that sat over the front altar. There were three additional altars with the one in the back having La Pieta inside a gated enclosure. With it’s foreign Latin prayers and interminable sermons, the hocus pocus of rituals I did not understand and the hunger that seemed to deeply inside my hollow stomach as the Mass dragged on the only praying I seemed to do was for the whole experience to end.

Being a large church, with a school, and about 5 priests, Our Lady of Lourdes’ ushers always dressed to the nines, and when collecting, had these long-handled collection baskets made of wicker.

Mom and I sat, she in deep meditation and prayer, and me deep into whether or not I could scale the grotto wall behind the main altar. Suddenly I noticed the ushers with the collection baskets and reached for my first button. As the basket slid under my nose, I slipped in the first of the shiny buttons. Mom deposited her money and went back into her prayers (probably for my soul) and said nothing. Ah, I rouse was working!!! Donuts for sure!

The second collection comes, and like the first, I slip in the other shiny metal button, Mom deposits her money, and once again goes into deep pray-filled pleading for my wicked soul. Oh! The joy of deep quiet celebration, knowing there were donuts soon on the horizon, glory is to God!

Mass is over and as we walk home I start to talk to Mom, but she is not answering me. I figured her mother instincts for survival have kicked in. This goes on for a few blocks, nothing being said by Mom. We climb the two flights of steps to our third-floor apartment when I announce to Mom that I am going downstairs for a while. (Donuts on my mind)

Suddenly, I feel this grip on my shoulder and the words: “Embarrass me in church?” Whack, dragging me into the apartment. “How dare you embarrass me in church of all places?” Whack, whack and whack. If nothing else at this critical moment she was certainly hitting the target and as a parent, being very consistent!

She drags me over to my father who is sipping his morning coffee at the kitchen table and says:

“TELL YOUR FATHER WHAT YOU DID!”
“Nothing,” I say.

“NOTHING!” She yells!

"YOUR son put buttons in the collection basket instead of the money you gave him!" (I always hated these verbal custody battles)

Dad spits out his coffee and is laughing out loud.

“Sure, encourage him!”

This went on all the rest of Sunday morning, every time she saw me, “Embarrass me in church?” Whack, and more whacks with her wooden spoon. Dad kept a low profile; he didn’t want to get in the way of her fury, no need to interrupt. That whole morning and early afternoon, I finally started to pray myself for preservation and rescue, hoping for company to show up immediately, if not sooner.

Relief finally arrived when Aunt Filomena and Uncle Dominic arrived, with customary cheesecake and appetite.

Somewhere that day angels sang and poets rhymed, the sun shone and the trees whistled in the wind, and somewhere a little boy sat on his stoop in Brooklyn, relieved of his guilt and his nose powdered white, as all was even again!