MAKING THE CUT

The other day I decided to have my ears lowered and entered my favorite barbershop for a trim. This is something I like to do when my hair (What’s left of it) grows so long I trip over it.

My barber is named Haim and he might be a bowler on the side as he grips my head like he is about to roll it down an alley! A great guy who I discovered a few years ago he greets you with a smile and a handshake and with flair shake the cover he sets around my neck.

But as I entered there was something different this time. Both Haim and his associate, a lady both welcomed me and asked to curt my hair. Since Haim was closest, I choose Haim and sat in his chair. The woman stood standing in the middle of the shop looking kind of dejected and I felt like a heel. I assure you it was not because she was a woman, but because Haim was closer.

As Haim began I notice she was still standing in the same spot and looking a little rejected. Haim gripped dribble and tossed my head about as he ritualistically and I must say creatively readjusted my hairline when finally he was done.

Giving my approval as he posed the mirror behind my head and stood up to pay with a mission in mind. I paid my $16 and gave him a $4 tip, then, with great athletic ability swung on my heels and went over to the woman barber and gave her $3 to soothe my guilt and alleviate my sense of rudeness. In her Spanish accent, she refused at first telling me I didn’t need to do this and for what? I insisted and Haim told her to take it.

She has cut my hair before, she does a great job when she does, it was just a matter of who was closest.

NURSE CRACHETT

I love nurses I feel that nursing is the best thing to happen to a civilized man in all his glorious history. The nurse is the link between your Mom and the need to feel better while alleviating your fear.

However, there are times or exceptions to the rule. For instance, there is the nurse that is supposed to monitor my daughter Ellen and her comfort and health at the medical care center where she now lives. In particular are her tracheotomy and position on the bed. All too often he gets herself into an uncomfortable position on her bed where her legs hang over the side of the bed. This occurs when I enter her room in the morning for the first time and it angers me that no one has looked in on her. Her nurse, Nurse Crachett seems to be disinterested in anything she does s she will ‘slow-mo’ through her charges then retreat to her computer and usually eat.

The other day I asked Nurse Crachett for assistance since Ellen was in obvious pain and was told she will be there in a moment. Needless to say or expect, after a half-hour of Ellen withering in pain I became angry and went looking for this so-called nurse. There she was wheeling a patient around who was not in any stress or discomfort yet was being taken care of while Nurse Crachett forgot about Ellen!

I stood in front of her and asked: “Did you forget about Ellen?”

She shoved the person in the wheelchair to the wall and entered Ellen’s room, straightened out the situation without saying a word and walking off in a huff. All it took of her time was a few seconds. No apology for forgetting and it leads me to suspect that she has Ellen on her list as a low priority since she can’t speak.

I don’t like to complain about nurses their job is very hard, and my daughter is not the only one being cared for, but I think when someone is in distress like my daughter was, the nurse should respond immediately!

Shame on you nurse Crachett!

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BIZARRO WORLD

The Bizarro World (also known as Htrae, which is "Earth" spelled backward) is a fictional planet appearing in American comic books published by DC Comics. Introduced in the early 1960s, htraE is a cube-shaped planet, home to Bizarro and companions, all of whom were initially Bizarro versions of Superman, Lois Lane and their children and, later, other Bizarros including Batzarro, the World's Worst Detective. In popular culture, "Bizarro World" has come to mean a situation or setting which is weirdly inverted or opposite to expectations.

-WIKIPEDIA

Then there is the real world as we face it today. That magical world of promises that the Orange Man has given us, the world of walls to build, immigrants to step on and friends to hate, the world of nepotism, emoluments and lies, frequented by the tweets of stupidity that affect the market place in general and threaten to destroy our farming industry and wreck all the 401K dreams slipping away.

Here is the strangest part of all this, the real world has gotten more bizarre than Bizarro World. It is like the last part of the morning sleep, that REM that stays with s all day with flashbacks that constantly reappear with the detail but only the bad feelings it gives.

As things get worse by the actions and inactions of Orange Man, he seeks to further the feelings of horror or grief with more of the insane actions of a mad man who has lost touch with reality, has no moral compass to guide him or the nation and has placed us in a position of lost good standing on the world stage. And yet people support him. I wonder how people I know who are of good moral character can do so and feel good about themselves. The Republican Party was once the party of Lincoln but now sits in a puddle of clinging dung as the leaders, Mitch McConnell of the Senate and Lindsey Graham of the House Of Representatives continue to make excuses or gloss over the inadequacies of the orange Man.

The Orange man has rendered the office of the President of the United States to one of such respectability as to fall one level lower than Dog Catcher.

GETTING A WORD IN EDGE WISE

Sometimes my luck runs out before it begins! Take for instance a lunch I was at the other day. There was a woman who I know for years from my old neighborhood who was present and sitting across from the rolls. She was once an attractive woman who aged well considering her age. The problem was over the years she has gotten somewhat over-bearing and opinionated to the point that her husband was suffering from her performance.

Being interrupted can be a nuisance when you are trying to make a point. She interrupts her husband to the point that he forgets what he was saying as she leads the conversation down to another path.

When I was speaking she would cut in and talk about herself once again, annoyingly I shall add. Her hubby would stop what he was saying and give her a dirty look and verbally at one point told her he did not like it.

I kept nudging my wife to abort any conversation she had so we could go home, pointing to my watch. This did not happen because my wife is too polite. Even this woman’s husband started to do it. For the life of me, I don’t understand how he lives with this.

Being she was very critical of her husband she would on occasion lash out at him for past transgressions as she related his sins.

One thing I hate is to be ‘corrected’ by someone when they are wrong! This happens to all married people but never becomes so egregious as warranting divorce or separation, except in this case. I would hightail out of the marriage so fast I would lose my breath form the speed of things.

Her husband is a very nice guy who takes it all in but you see it is making him weary. She was a never-ending marathon of talk destroying one conversation after another.

DINING OUT

TLW

Yesterday TLW (The Little Woman) and I went out to dinner. We went to a little fish place we have been to before and liked. Being it was a Sunday afternoon we knew it would not be crowded and for the most part, it wasn’t. However, there was a large dinner party of about 12 to 16 people sitting together and of course, one individual had to make a lot of noise with a constant annoying laugh.

I often wonder why people need to do that? Are things that genuinely funny or are they trying to impress the other diners that THIS IS THE FUN TABLE! That everything being said is that funny to annoy people who are trying to have a nice dinner the most important thing you can do?

Food is important as a way to give substance to your body, to express peacefully the topics of the day and to relax. No one should have to be annoyed while they eat. I had a friend in high school forbidden to talk at the dinner table by his domineering father. This helped destroy his perspective of life and eventually after high school murdered his family and committed suicide. The dual tragedy of forcing one’s sick ideas on his children and then knowing his son would commit such heinous acts against his own family would make any parent pause on what to expect of a child, even one as old as 16.

I wanted to get up and go over to the table of boisterous people and ask to keep it down but thought who am I to say you can’t laugh or feel good? What problems were torturing this individual that she needed this relief?

To make me feel better, as I was leaving the restaurant a lady was waiting to be seated. I never met her before but stopped to inform her that there was only one party ahead of her, the Dozen Family, a party of twelve

IT'S SPECIAL!

Through the course of the past year, I have wrestled with the concept of God and life thereafter. Having lived the worst part of my life in the past year and a half I can’t imagine a loving God, let alone a compassionate one. The horror of my daughter-in-law’s death during childbirth, the trauma of my grandson having his life saved, the awful pain of my granddaughter’s loss of her mom, have added to the agony of my daughter.

Since August of last year, my daughter Ellen has suffered so much that it is impossible to relate it without making the reader feel I am making it all up.

I included two photos of my grandchildren Darby Shea and Robert Courtney and a comparison that was made of them at the same age. They look very close to being twins, if I do say so myself, they are beautiful children.

Taking stock of #1 Son’s tragic loss of his beautiful wife Courtney, I guess I shall say that she was a blessing she was someone who I would have chosen for my son to marry if I had such power. Not only was she beautiful, but she was also so smart and yet so much fun. She was a fellow artist and raised the greatest little girl in her image that I giggle when I see the signs and thank God for that fact!

Then in her tragic passing Courtney gave us a beautiful son, Bobby, a lasting gift to the World her final gift. He is the miracle child, defying death and brain damage and because of the incredible nurses at the hospital where he was born and the rescue and further preservation by the staff of Los Angeles Children’s Hospital he is here today, alive, beautiful, and full of piss and vinegar!

My daughter has come a long way from the death the doctors told us was inevitable. She beat colon cancer with the need of chemotherapy, defied a brain bleed, recovered from a hip replacement but still battles some issues such as the results of pneumonia and bedsore that goes down to the bone. She is currently living on a tracheotomy that hopefully will disappear at some point and she can return to her home.

But in all this, I know in my heart that I am happy basically. That the survivors of these issues are whom I love as are the victims. That I have them in my life makes me happy and wanting to be with them all! Maybe I’m just plain stupid and don’t know how to suffer, but life is precious and sacred to me. I treasure all I have and that is all whom I love. No money or goods will make me happy, but the voice of a call where I hear “Hey Dad!” from one of my sons, or “Grandpa!”, that gives me great joy, seeing my daughter smile again, lifts my heart. The notion that Courtney chose my family, she was buying into her crazy father-in-law leaves me filled with pride and joy that one of my children was chosen by this kind of person.

ITS HARD BEING NICE

Recently #1 Son sent us an email asking if we could help a friend of his, and I consider mine by collecting some pre-college freshman student’s stuff for his dorm room. It seems the family could not store at the college near us before the week that the new students move in. A bunch of stuff and nowhere to put it, so of course, we said yes to the request. Having met the college student a long time ago (it seemed like yesterday) when I had lunch with his father and little brother in Pasadena, California and we talked trains, a favorite of his.

During the two or three weeks that have gone by we must have about 15 or 16 items from FedEx, some as many as 5 and some as little as one thin package. But knowing the father and children I was happy to do it.

After about a week, the packages stopped coming and all is well and stored safely ready to be turned over to the family. I even have offered to deliver it to them although I don’t know if it will all fit in my RAV 4.

Yesterday TLW (The Little Woman) arrives to take over for me sitting with my daughter and tells me another box had arrived! Wow! I thought business must be picking up! It was addressed to us but was for us! An incredible box from Zabar filled with many ethnic treats that say “New York City”. Things like salami, chocolate babka, rugelach, bagels, knishes and Italian cookies of all kinds aside from the black and white ones you find.

It is very hard to be helpful to good people they feel the need to thank us more than a simple way. We didn’t expect anything except helping a young man settle in for his education and start his life on a new level.

I think we should send them something to show our appreciation, but I’m afraid of starting a thank you war. At least there are no tariffs.

SITTING HERE AND LEARNING

Sitting with someone who is mentally disabled, physically handicapped and imprisoned in her own body, I often wonder what she is thinking. When my wife and I are not with her in her room at the Medford Multi Care center as we are home for the day, I wonder how lonely it must get for her. She still is imprisoned by her tracheotomy and must be reliant on the airflow from the wall that is delivered from behind her bed in a wall.

Sitting with her for hours because she is frightened and alone otherwise makes for a very long day for both my wife and me, and no relief is possible as when we leave her we obsess over all that is wrong as we try to have a peaceful evening. We know that no one cares nor gives a damn in the end, that people have ways of putting it all out of the mind. Oh, they may inquire and hope we don’t dwell too long on the answer so the formality can be covered and passed on. No need to make anyone uncomfortable or saddened any more than he or she should be. We get that and so we go every day, splitting the day by my sitting with my daughter in the morning and my wife relieving me and sitting with my daughter in the afternoon.

Bedtime does not guarantee relief, nor does it make anything go away, we wake up in the middle of the night wondering if my daughter Ellen is OK and not being taken advantage of. If there is any of that and I find out I will go to jail.

During the morning I engage with her and we do the same things over and over again. There is a little conversation and it is all one-sided on my part. I open my I-pad and I go on YouTube and play uplifting songs that sound happy no matter what the words are however inappropriate. I place the I-pad on her bed next to her and sit on a protective pad that is placed on both sides of her bed to prevent her from injury should she fall off the bed. I sit as close as possible so she feels my presence, knows I am engaged with her and that she feels at home in a strange place. If I leave the room to go to the toilet, her eyes follow me as she thinks I am leaving her! I try to assure her I will return quickly, but her eyes are pleading with me saying: “Please don’t leave me, Daddy!” My wife has it harder, she leaves her for the day and that must be tougher.

Funny thing is I don’t mind doing these things every morning seven days a week holidays included. When I think about her life and how I went off to work every day and never thought of her mental loneliness. Now, I am chained to it and glad to do it for her sake. She is a beautiful person who has never said anything bad about anyone, has never plotted or event thought something negative. I love my daughter and like any of my children would never abandon them in a moment of need. They are but an extension of myself, my flesh and blood.

I guess in the scheme of things your children don’t realize what you would do for their sake as a father, that Mom is the center of the Universe they inhabit and that is right as Mom is and should be, but I hope when the day comes and I am called that they will at least remember me as their dad.

GETTING A GRIP ON IT.

I never like to break my rule on this blog when it comes to political discussions or opinions. No one wants to hear from me on that matter and I can agree that it shouldn’t appear in this space.

Would you watch someone get run over by a car and you have the power to warn that person, but don’t? That reasoning is why I will break my self-imposed rule about political views and opinions.

That the Messiah has come or the second coming of God and Jesus, makes me want to either speak out or go to church again. It’s been a while since I saw the inside of a church so I think I will speak out. My going to church will only cause the parishioners money as they repair the roof by committing to weekly or monthly donations beyond what they give already or may afford.

I fear the President of the United States has lost his way, his proclamation of being the: Chosen one” is one for deep pause and reflection. To determine that Democratic Jewish voters will be disloyal to the USA and Israel if they do not vote for him in 2020 is outrageous! That we should value the opinion of Israeli citizens over US citizens is idiotic in their like or dislike of Mr. Trump or the Messiah. American Jews live under this myopic, disingenuous, and faltering administration, seeing first-hand the destruction of our moral standing in this world, the inhumanity it fosters on immigrants that are desperate to free themselves and their families of oppression, poverty, and violence that they risk everything for a chance to live in the US.

My ancestors came to America for the same reasons that they do now, seeking the same freedoms and joy in life. Coming here legally is impossible for some for various reasons like quotas and restrictions. Instead of embracing these poor souls, we find ways to further punish them. Like every American who came to this country over the centuries, this new wave of immigration is as entitled to citizenship as ever before. Who among us can become a self-righteous, self-anointed, gatekeeper of the personal lives and happiness of the incoming poor and desperately seeking? How dare we determine what is good for one and not for another?

I witness the “Fake News” every day of the week. I read the Tweets and listen to the statements that ‘THE MESSIAH’ makes every day and it gets worse until he finds the worst thing to utter or tweet about.

Every day I wonder how we can continue when he makes declarations that tumble the stock market, force farmer who had a decent thriving business wonder what tomorrow will bring? Seeking reason I wonder how we can support tariff wars that he thinks will make him seem like a champion of this country, destroying livelihoods, fortunes, and hope? Similarly, I wonder how do you justify supporting someone who supports our enemy, Russia, Its manipulative quest to undermine our government and electoral system?

Then he decides that maybe being President of the United States of America he can run the government like one of his failing business, maybe sink us into bankruptcy with schemes like buying Greenland. Do his boastfulness and lying give his supporters comfort? All his promises seem to lie in disarray, shattered like the truths we must all reckon with someday because of his inability to govern and sit in a floundering posture that leaves it all over his head.

Let’s wake up America! The fault lies not with Trump, but it does with the Republican Party and its refusal to see the truth, about immigration, gun control, and the interference of the NRA. Trump’s disjointed policy towards China and North Korea, leaving us in a winless situation as he takes a sophomoric and ill-advised stance on matters of great importance. His lack of professional and intelligent advisors is only during us deeper into the great abyss.

As for the Democrats, where does their responsibility lie in terms of Trump’s election? Perhaps we should examine what they put up for President the last time out? Hilary Clinton was not someone we could trust as she demonstrated throughout her career as First Lady and carpetbagger from New York running for a Senate seat and one of the most divisive and disingenuous people that ever took the stage in American politics.

But getting back to Trump, he is not a political problem, he is a national problem that is cancerous and endangering our democracy, we need to rid ourselves of him. Impeachment or voting him out of office is a must, not to get back at Republicans or Democrats, but to get back our country.

MAKING A CHOICE

Recently, I visited and paid my respects to the family of a friend of mine from high school when he passed. The funeral parlor was decently filled with people saying their goodbyes. I stayed for about one hour and conveyed my condolences to the wife ad sister. I checked to find out when the Mass was being said for the departed and understood it to be the next day at 10:00 A.M., around the time I visit and reassure my daughter that no one has abandoned her.

I planned to go to the Mass ad figured I could go early in the morning to visit my daughter then have I sufficient time to go to the Mass. As I went through the day I started to think about the mass and the fact that my friend was gone and I had paid my respects and started to question whether or not I wanted to go to the Mass and leave my daughter. The next morning I went to the Medford Multicare Center where my daughter currently resides and while there decided to not go to the Mass.

Feeling that I had paid my respects and that I had almost lost my daughter, that God forbid I did, I would regret any time I could have spent with her and didn’t. So, I decided to not go and spend that time with her.

So, why am I writing this? I guess to clear my conscience and make it right in my heart and soul. After all, is said and done, I can do more for my daughter while she is still alive than I can for my friend who needs no help or support since he no longer lives. My being at a Mass might bring some comfort to the family, but can I weight it against the comfort I bring to my daughter?

THERE OUGHT TO BE A LAW!

All too often I answer the phone and it is a sales call. Five to ten times a day the phone rings and some recorded voices are telling me that it is the last time they will call me, until the next time.

If you don’t answer, they leave you a message that you have to go through the process of erasing, that can be a real pain in the ass.

Employing caller ID does not help it seems now that the bastards have employed using bogus numbers, some out of your phone book. Calls from what looks like Los Angeles, or Atlanta, or some other city ring you up and it is a credit card or other scheme to interfere with the dinner hour or listening to a TV show.

The latest is the best. Last night I got a call from me. I don’t know where I find the time t answer the phone let alone call me! I see my home number on the TV screen and I look cross-eyed at TLW (The Little Woman) and answer it. She looks at me like she is in a stupor or vacuum and wonders what the hell is going on. Turns out I was selling cr4edit card insurance and this was the second and final time I would try to reach me before canceling my eligibility to save on my interest rates!

Today I got a call from my wife’s phone number and this time it was the same message as before except I was mad and decided to play along. Some Pakistani or Indian (Native Asian) greets me and I tell him to have sex with himself. Not in so many words. I hang up!

Then as I am typing I get another call asking me to extend my vehicle warranty and was it all right to ask me a few questions about my vehicle?
Me: “Sure!
Her: A mousey voiced little girl: “Is everything on your vehicle running OK?”
Me: “NO!”
There is no answer on the other end, maybe mousey went to get her mommy?
Damned Crooks.

GOING HOME, AGAIN!

 Today I will say goodbye to an old friend from high school, whose passing from a long illness causes this sad day. I know what to expect, and I know what I need to do. I will find his widow, tell her that I AM deeply sorry and try in my simple way to encourage her and her children to move on best they can with his memory.

I will look around the room and hope I can find someone I know, maybe sit with them for a short while as we compare notes of our mutual friend and the shock of his passing.

Some of us will be in the room out of sadness, some out of curiosity and some out of a sense of respect for someone they once knew. I will not matter who is who or why they are there, just that they came.

The book will be closed on my friend and old chapters of it will then become revised as we shake the cobwebs of our memories, he will be enhanced and his stories will become part of the mourner's search for something to hold onto.

Today is yesterday, 08-19-19 as I write this and will be history before you read it. I am doing it this way to measure my anticipation of the events as they do unfold. I know that one of the hardest things for people to do is visit at a wake; what do you say to the survivor, how do you say it, where else must you go? These are real and valid fears that most of us go through and somehow we come out of it still standing, maybe even feeling better.

GRANDPA RALPH

“Rafiello” she called him, and when she did, he just groaned. He was a simple humble man, who knew no pretense, and enough sense to keep out of my grandmother’s way when she had something that needed to be done! Although a hard worker who never was still, he did need a little rest from his bride.
He was my Dad’s stepfather, having served in the US Army in World War I with my real grandfather, Joseph, who had died from the Spanish Influenza! Grandpa Ralph, or “Grandpa” as we called him, married my grandmother when she was left with three children in a shack in Rockville Center, where dad was born.

Ralph took on the mantle of fatherhood and with another child, he had with my grandmother, raised all four as his own.

Having inherited two sons, he was quick to administer discipline, and it was usually ferocious. Some might say mean, but in the end, it all made some sense! Don’t forget that back in the 1920’s psychologist had not taken over the behaviors of parents yet. Running the fruit and vegetable store that my grandmother owned, Ralph expected the two boys to help out. They would have to go down into the basement and sort the fruits and vegetables for the day ahead that Ralph had purchased that morning. That meant getting up 3:00 am before the boys went to school or had breakfast, to move the fruits and vegetables up to the street level and sort it out for display every morning in the greengrocer store.

 One morning, dad decided to eat some fruit before starting his day. Dad being young and foolish, ate too much of the unwashed plums, and soon it ran through him. ALL MORNING LONG! It was so bad, he couldn’t go to school, and when Grandpa returned from the Hunts Point market with his horse-drawn wagon and ‘Ginger’ the dog found nothing done, and Dad incapacitated. Grandma was away at her job at the coat factory.

Well, old gramps asked Dad why nothing was done. Dad admitted he ate too many plums and got sick. Grandpa asked how he felt. Dad said he felt much better. Grandpa said, Good, go downstairs and finish up when you do, come to me.” Dad was happy to follow orders in this case and did what he was told. “OK,” said Grandpa Ralph when Dad reported, “Come a with a me”.

 Down the steps Dad follow grandpa, to a pole. Grandpa tied Dad to the pole and said, the next time he was in a hurry to not do what he was told, to remember this little lesson. Dad was tied to the pole all the rest of the morning, and when Grandma came home, found my father tied, she was fit to be tied.

 “Rafiello!” she screamed, as Grandpa came running, forgetting he had tied Dad up!

Grandpa Ralph taught Dad a lesson he never forgot, Grandma Frances taught Grandpa Ralph a lesson he never forgot, and when Grandma was done dispensing lessons in Italian, from the hot-headed redhead she was the whole family learned once again, don’t mess up the routine of life in a bad depression, everyone does his job with not only passion but with compassion, too!

I LOVE THE EXPERTS

If you watch TV occasionally, you might tune into two shows that make me crazy. One is the Dr. Phil Show and one is Jeopardy. The hosts of the respective shows are Dr. Phil McGraw and Alex Trebek. I guess you could call them either educational or informative.

Everyone enjoys the challenge of Jeopardy because the things they ask about that you phrase in a question challenge or test your knowledge. This is fun and I love fun. Then there is Dr. Phil with his expert hold on his audience that can generate cheers for himself anytime he pushes the button.

I have issues with both gentlemen. Alex all too often sounds like he knows all the answers to all the questions presented and if a contestant misses he acts as he knows. I would love to see the show change the format. Alex Trebek asks the questions and a respondent waits for a bell that certifies the answers with a voice over giving the correct answer. This takes away the pretentiousness of Alex Trebek.

To me, Dr. Phil is a self-serving shrill for his books, his son’s publishing company and his wife Robin’s cosmetic company, all subsidized by Dr. Phil. The bad taste that is left in one's mouth by the overt selling of Robin’s cosmetics at the last ten or fifteen minutes of the show s she tries to leave an impression that she is some kind of cosmetologist.

I don’t put on the Dr. Phil show, I rather watch Ellen Degeneres than Dr. Phil and Steve Harvey in Family Feud than listen to Trebek come off like he isn’t.

 

WHEN WE CLOSE OUR EYES

Recently, I found out that another classmate from high school passed away. He died after a long illness and that happens to the young and old alike.

Dying is not something I fear or look forward to, it is final and it is part of the timeline of one’s life. What I find hard is the realization that those I know and love will at some point either before or after me, pass, too. I think of all the students that graduated in that high school class of mine wondering; are there more alive than dead or the reverse? As the numbers increase that pass are we who survive for the moment in the minority now?

It seems to disturb me that this last classmates’ death occurred. He was a gentleman, civic-minded, a wonderful husband and father. He was a good kid in school and was respected by everyone as he was in his final years. That says an awful lot about anyone.

John Matuszak was a simple man, no-frills, no pretentions, and certainly never any excuses, just a humble guy who lived each day honestly, quietly and above all showed respect for all.

Many classmates have passed these last ten years, some I knew about and some I learned from others, but this one was a little hurtful, he was a good man and that is the best we can say about anyone. Often we build a case for someone when they pass, saying how good he was and go on when nothing was ever said while he lived. His living was the case that said it all!

Sleep in peace John, don’t worry about your legacy, instead, let those that loved and know you keep it safe. It is one of my deepest regrets that I didn’t know you better than I do, but I can say I know you and that enriches my life.  

SOMETHING FISHY WITH THE WINE!

Dad was a softy, he never liked to see people unhappy or struggle. When it came to his own family, he was particularly diligent and aware of everyone's aches and pains. In the early 1950s, Dad decided to book a little fishing trip, with Grandpa and me.

Getting grandpa out of the house on Fulton Street in Brooklyn was a major effort, Grandpa didn't like to go anywhere that required his traveling for more than 15 minutes, and that had to be round trip.

Being how we were living on Long Island Dad decided one summer to get grandpa out of the house in Brooklyn and take him fishing;

"We have to get Grandpa out of the house!"

We went to Mastic Beach on a Saturday and rented a rowboat, got a few rods and reels and bait, and set out to fish. Oh, Captain, my Captain!

My thinking was that was all the equipment we would need since we were fishing and could eat what we caught, build a fire on the beach and cook our catch. Dad and Grandpa both seemed perplexed by my plan, and since I was only 11-years old, what the Hell did I know. The problem with the plan was there was a huge package coming on board the ride to the beach, it consisted of three Italian heroes, packed with peppers and eggs, and a chunk of provolone cheese and a Genoa salami, along with a gallon of Grandpa's homemade wine, courtesy of grandfather's bride, Grandma Francesca.

Being the ‘city type', both Dad and Grandpa dressed for the occasion. Dad wore his shorts, sandals and black dress socks, while Grandpa never changed. Grandpa wore his wrinkled work pants, brown unpolished shoes, and white dress shirt, along with his fedora, which he camped under come rain or shine, baptism or wake.

Dad became the grand admiral, directing me, the only crewmember that showed up that day to man the oar, bait the hooks, keep those sandwiches dry, and full steam ahead.

As we set ‘sail', we each had our position on the boat, Dad sat upfront with his rod, tossing it in into the drink (literally), and I trying to get the hook that caught me in the neck was sitting mid-ship so to speak, while Grandpa sat in the back, legs crossed serenely holding his rod, eyes closed, dreaming of home.

Suddenly Grandpa caught a fish, then another, then still another! Dad was still fishing with his rod, and I was almost done getting the hook out of my neck and ready to fish.

After a while with Grandpa's success, I asked him how he was able to catch so many fish.

Grandpa looks at me, squinting in the sun and says: "A SSSHHH".

I looked at him and he says, "A SSSHHH, thatsa how you catcha da fish!!"

As we floated along the Great South Bay, Dad and Grandpa had their wine, and it seemed fine until we reached the shore to unload the boat. When Dad stepped off the boat, he suddenly looked like he saw a ghost stopping in mid-stride to catch himself. Sitting at the edge of the dock with his head in his hands, Dad had too much wine! Grandpa, however, stepped from the boat onto the dock and fish in hand looked at Dad and said: "Tony, prendi il tuo tempo." (Tony, take your time.)

Drinking on the water didn’t make you drunk because of the movement of the rowboat, but step on land and goodbye, or in their case, Ciao!

KEEP IT SIMPLE AND I WILL COME

A great place to eat!

Went to a breakfast Tuesday with some old high school classmates at a popular spot on the golf course in Bellport. The name of the place is Peter’s On the Green and it has the usual clubhouse fare for both breakfast and lunch, having eaten there a few times now I anticipate things to always be up in the air when it comes to the menu.

I like to try things that are somewhat different, not radically different because I compare and get disappointed with what I have or am used to. This particular morning I was in the mood for some old-fashioned pancakes with syrup and butter. This is a very simple thing and an occasional craving I have.

I look at the menu and find Honey Whole Grain Pancakes; Whole wheat batters mixed with oats, pumpkin seeds, craisins, walnuts, and drizzled with honey. Don’t even ask me where they got ‘craisins’ from, let alone why they would put them in pancakes. I can be daring and have bananas with or in or on top of my stack, this is allowable for me. But when you start putting craisins and with whole grain batter, pumpkin seeds, (Yes, those very same pumpkin seeds the ballplayers spit out while the camera is on them), then they don’t spring for the butter but instead give you honey, uh uh! No way will I eat what they have leftover in the pantry and try to call them “pancakes”.

So I ask for some simple pancakes, you know the ones that Mom used to make and too, the Little Woman? Breakfast should be tasty and simple, not a convolution of strange concoctions that the chef thinks will get him past the security at the Culinary Institute of America. In my simple request, I state that I want butter on the side. What do I get? Oh, I got my pancakes alright, but the butter on the side was these damned little plastic packets of butter that take forever to open and apply to the pancakes. After you open a couple, the pancakes are cold like my joy-filled heart at the moment!

WHY THE HELL CAN’T THEY GET RID OF THOSE STUPID PACKETS AND GIVE ME SOME LOOSE BUTTER?

Ever go to a deli or hamburger joint other than the usual chains and order a hamburger with fries? Out, comes this delicious looking hamburger with fried that are dry, too large and too dull to eat. This is so the restaurant can move all the ketchup by having you slop it on the fries.


 

THE NEW MELDING POT

It is not so new as it seems old by now. What am I talking about, the gradual surge of mixing Italian food with American food as to become almost a new category? The ingredients of both pallets seem to mirror to some degree each other. To me, the time has come and it is great. But that cultural renaissance does not stop there, no, with the trend of Asian ‘Fusion’; it now ties into Italian/Asian fusion, a wonderful blend of ideas that is making strides. I guess for an appetizer you could do some Asian inspired mini pizza or, eggrolls stuffed with Italian inspired flavors like a spinach/ricotta mixture maybe? I'm a big fan of Asian food so I could probably have many more good ideas, I'm afraid.

Italian food like Asian is so full of options and wonderful flavors like no other cultural foods on Earth can claim. That is why they are both so popular in this country, and why we see many Italian restaurants overseas, outside of the Italian border.

Mexican also has a trend heading in the direction of fusion inspiration, and can easily be adopted with Italian or Asian foods. You must admit, taking the best culinary traditions and marrying them is just what America is all about. I married an Irishman, am happy to this very day, I’m sure many of you have married other ethnicities and thrive in your lives. We as the younger Americanized generation realize they are all good people and we are now more educated and mixed in with other nationalities, and what a great gift we are giving to our children.

The French claim to cooking is that they learned from the Italians, mostly the northern Italians. When the French occupied Italy way back in the 1700 and 1800’s they learned the local ways of cooking, and since there is no ‘real’ Italian cooking per se, it is regional and adapts to what ingredients are on hand. The French too, have a wonderful culinary tradition that lends itself to both Italian and American fare. This is Italian style cooking, taking what you have in your pantry and “Throwing something together”.

But being Italian I love to eat, I love the old dishes as well as the new I want to experience everything, that is the artist, writer and Italian in me. The comfort foods of Grandma and Mom still linger in the heart and mind, but most importantly on my tongue.

MARRIAGE, IT HAS ITS hicUPS AND DOWNS!

I was watching the Dr. Phil show one morning in my daughter’s room at the Medford Multicare facility where they leave the TV on all day. I don’t pay attention to it, as I don’t care to watch a show that is moderated by a thumb. Let’s face it he looks like a thumb.

As I waited for the nurse to suction out the phlegm from Ellen’s trachea, I turned my attention to the TV where Doctor Phil stated: When as soon as you marry all the nice leaves the relationship. (Something like that)

I thought about that and realize it is true, you do become somewhat critical of each other and sometimes it takes a while to re-find each other as you once thought of your new spouse with corrections.

My immediate thought when this happened years’ ago was how could she? How could she think of me as imperfect? Me, high on the social ladder of mediocrity, me, the mountain of mundane attempts at trying to get up out of bed in the morning, let alone communicate intelligibly?

I would love to say there is no ‘I’ in marriage but alas there is unless I can misspell it. But if I do that the wife will correct it!

ANGUISH, A TWO-WAY STREET!

Every morning as I enter my daughter Ellen’s room at Medford Multicare I look apprehensively at her to read her face how she is doing. In the many weeks she has been residing here I can count on my fingers the good days that they are so few.

This morning she was in clear agony, her face was contorted and she thrashed about in her little prison they call a bed, looking at me with pleading eyes imploring me to do something. Despair and anguish are all I now have, so little hope that that little girl I once held and soothed when she cried may not be with me much longer.

I know that the life of her anguish will cease at some point and I hope it is soon. Her life is nothing but pain and loneliness in spite of her Mom and Dad being with her as long as we can. Understanding that life is a fulfillment of time played out by all of us, that we all live and die slowly as we travel the road. I wish it was me and not her suffering as I would wish for all my children, I know there is nothing I can do about it and that for Ellen, the final act come as soon as possible.

Having a child that is slowly deteriorating is nothing new to me. Having lived through a similar crisis for 8 weeks when my son Joseph passed away in 1981, each day was a series of hope and despair, like a rollercoaster, never-ending violent turns and feeling the world flipping upside down, then the inevitable descent toward the end, because it is what life is.

What I can’t understand is why. Why her? She was born with Angelman’s syndrome and never uttered one unkind word, never hated anyone, never raised her hand in malicious intend and always exuded love and a smiling face. She, is made to suffer for no reason other than to put in question the existence of a God, one who is benevolent and loving?

Under these circumstances, both my wife and I die a little more than usual each day. We have no recourse as we watch her suffer from God’s will.

Sometimes I receive in the mail a solicitation from a religious group asking for money, some set of friars or nuns or some propagation of the faithful, and it does not ring true to me. In their attempts to sway me to give I wonder how with all the stickers with my name on it, the cost of personalization and amount of paper they expend they don’t put that money to good use. There are poor and starving people in pain that have no money, no hope, no tomorrow, why not give it to them in the name of God instead of soliciting in the name of God?

FOR BETTER OR WORSE, THIS IS IT

As I sit here in my daughter Ellen’s nursing home room I seem to have settled into a routine. It’s not one I would recommend but one that does suit me. In a half-day I can do a crossword puzzle, a Sudoku puzzle, read the newspaper and write jokes and blogs and interface with Facebook. It is forced time in a way for me to adjust to a lifestyle that is lonely and sad sometimes.

Every day I enter her room I hold my breath for fear of what I will see, of wondering what kind of day is in store for my poor child. Most of the World will be out today, it is a fine sunny Saturday filled with great possibilities and they will have little to worry about or care for. As for me, shackled to this uncertainty for my daughter, I spend it in an air-conditioned room that is too cold, and the endless ticking of the wall clock that tells me time is running out in life.

Today I made good friends with the laundry lady who brought Ellen’s clothes and hung them up in her closet. I decided to make friends and greeted her with more than a casual, uninterested “Good morning!” but instead said it as I meant it. Thank goodness for the weather and today it seems extra fine as I referenced the beautiful morning. A lovely woman with a Spanish accent, she paused and her eyes lit up, someone was talking to her, freeing her from her routine of dull work. Before long we were into her life, her children and even her history, how she lived in California, Arizona, then moving to New York. We shared notes about our children and grandchildren and when she left the room seemed brighter, I hope her day was, too.

I don’t know how long this lifestyle I find myself in will last. Will it be a lifetime or just a fleeting moment? I do know that I will spend it more like I mean to live it to the fullest, smile or at least try to and make my daughter happy while reassuring her that she is not alone, nor should she be afraid.

COMPULSIONS

Now and then TLW (The Little Woman) comes up with a plan that strikes me as a good idea. This time her idea is one of beauty since few people think of it.

As you may know, my daughter was in the hospital for most of 2019, suffering from cancer and pneumonia, a broken hip and the replacement thereof, along with a tracheotomy and insertion of a feeding tube in her stomach. She spent a lot of time in the ICU of St. Charles Hospital in Port Jefferson.

Being my daughter Ellen does not speak, understands little, and can’t register a complaint like a person without disabilities, so her parents fear she would be overlooked when it came to her care.

The incredible staff of doctors, nurses and even support people all rallied to her side, doing what they could to alleviate her pain, fear, and fright due to her ordeals. When we had to fly to Burbank in June, they even staged a Facetime with Ellen and her parents. On her whiteboard were the words: “The ICU (Heart) Ellen! This was handwritten by one of the angels of God called a nurse.

To acknowledge their thoughtfulness, kindness, and respect for her being a human being, TLW felt that something had to be in order and so bought a huge cheesecake for me to deliver. I also delivered these words.

“I am but an imperfect child of God,
From your care, you saved my life.
Feeling kindness that was not hard,
Gently soothing you eased my strife.

When all feared the end was mine
You softly whispered to me:
“No child it is not your time!
HE has put us to work you see,

To heal your wounds and ease your pain
So you can show a love we pine,
To end the clouds of fear and still the rain
And make this whole World shine.”

But then I closed my eyes and cried:
In my fears, I then knew,
As I looked again and there HE bide,
I was in HIS church, HIS ICU.

Thank you,
Ellen Del Broccolo”
 

HUSBAND, FATHER, HUMBLED SERVANT!

Yes, I am a man of many hats, that all fall under the guise of “Husband, MOSTLY.” My job is to bring my truck for large purchases, load them, assemble and throw out the old stuff.

 TLW (The Little Woman) decides all the domestic issues such as: what we buy, what we throw out, what we eat, and what I say. I decide the more important issues such as do we support dogs or cats, do we like France, and do we wish to continue recognizing Red China. As you can see I am very important.

 Once, I put together a new coffee table for our den, something not too expensive that we could mess up without feeling bad. TLW went off to work and I proceeded to erect this thing of domestic beauty, which weights about as much as the rest of the furniture combined, and has enough parts to recreate a rollercoaster.

 I took out the instructions, laid out all the pieces and took a rest. (No need overextending myself). To complete this task I realized I would need a dish, a spoon and a box of cereal. Once this was accomplished, I decided to take a break and eat what was in the dish, as I pour a little milk into it and in a cup of coffee. (No need to overwork me.)

 I was ready to begin when I decided that I needed to go to the bathroom. I figured that since I was going there I should grab the morning newspaper and read it to catch up on the day’s current events, being fully prepared to have an intelligent conversation with Joe Scarborough if need be. (I can multi-task with the best of them.)

 That completed, I looked at the instructions again and decided to take aspirin since my hair hurt, and I like to rest after all the bad news in the morning edition. (Being up on current events and physical comfort are all important to me.)

 As I figured out all the tools I would need, calculating it all on paper so as not to waste any time, (I’m a stickler), I got a Philips screwdriver and sat in my easy chair so I could read the first instruction to begin. Then it hit me, I better get this down on my blog!

 Well, it was all your fault that the damn table wasn’t put together yet! Thank you very much.

THE ALTER BOY.

Recently as I was passing a church there was a funeral going on that took me back to the old days of yore, or yesteryear or maybe the past.

I, was an altar boy resplendent in surplice and cassock, duty bond by Jesus, the priest, and my mother and of course, God. That was not the order, but Mom was on top of the list. My job was survival and the need to live beyond the next hour, and that is where Mom came in. She thought that if I were a regular churchgoer, my life would then become devoted to Jesus and the Church where I would then be saved from certain eternal damnation. We all harbor hopes.

Being how I hated to go to church, this was all new to me, and my best friend, Jerry, was leading the same life as I was. His Irish background and my Italian background were leading us to the same inevitable end, fun on the altar!

Mom was excited as I took home my altar boy card to practice the Latin responses that would clear my path to Heaven. Every night we would sit in the living room with the card and she would drill me in the responses that were written in red type on the card.

After a while, even I got all the responses down pat and was allowed to serve Mass. This was a major change of events, Mom thought her prayers were answered and that she would see me one day in Heaven along with the other angels and saints. This was an auspicious occasion, meaning all my relatives were to come to the Mass and that Grandma was to be imported once again, this time to East Patchogue, NY., rather than Ellis Island.

There, sitting in the front row of the church was Grandma, my Aunt Angie, my Uncle Joe, and Mom and Dad. Grandma muscled out the usual old ladies that sat upfront for her Joe-Joe’s first ecumenical presentation, praise be, to God.

Alongside me was my friend Jerry, his parents and siblings strung out behind my mob and eager for the first prayer to be set in motion for the congregation. 9:00 A.M. Mass was always crowded, and on this very hot and humid day the windows of the church were all opened since it had no air-conditioning. To make matters worse, I was hungry as I stood on the altar under the long poled crucifix that led us to the center stage.

There sat Grandma as the service began, her rosaries in her fingertips, her lips moving at the rate of a humming bird’s wing over a flower.

I was given the honor of holding the patent, a dish that had a handled that the altar server held under the chin of those receiving communion. I found very quickly that this young lady I had my eyes on was approaching the altar rail and kneeling for her wafer, one I would guarantee would not fall on hard times or the floor. As she knelt and the priest, Father Jeremiah J. Dineen reached her, I gently nudged her chin up and Father Dineen became unglued or at least thought something was wrong. He stopped in mid-air and looked down upon the latest love of my life as she gaped in his face with horror in her eyes! The real horror was mine as Grandma and Mom were next! Both cast their eyes upon the wayward Altar boy in wonderment.

This honor and ringing the bells were usually only attainable after serving for a while and proving you would come back once again when called upon. It was the thing of power! You rang it and the people like Pavlov’s dog, responded in kind, one ring, for one thing, one continuous ringing for something else, and as you did, you felt the sounds and movements of the faithful respond to your command!

There was one other thing that made being an altar boy fun was racing through the Confitiore or Act of contrition. A long prayer that was said in Latin out loud by the altar boys in unison, or so they thought. Jerry and I would race through it and the first bowed head raised was the winner!

After the Mass, Grandma squeezed my cheeks with both hands and with her ring filled fingers kissed then into the air while Mom looked at me cross-eyed. Dad was happy it was over so he could loosen his only tie that Mom bought for him for this occasion and Uncle Joe another non-church goer like his brother my Dad said it all: “You looked like a chicken feeding in that long prayer with your heads bowed!”

Needless to say, this essay will not help get me into Heaven! Maybe when I do finally go, there is a way I can write to Mom from where I suspect I’ll be.

SUDDEN DEATH AND THE WOODEN SPOON!

Growing up in my family under the tutoring of my mother and father was a dynamic structure that I lived under. This structure was by design made to foster my total obedience and understanding that I would stay in line or else.

There was never a way to avoid it, God knows, I tried many times! Mom’s toolbox to rearing her children and me, in particular, was sparse, just one thing, her wooden spoon.

Being a fan of history, I often recall Teddy Roosevelt and his policy of: “Speak softly and carry a big stick!” Mom’s was somewhat like Teddy’s: “Yell once and wave the wooden spoon.” She was a master of wooden spoon diplomacy, She could throw it at 10 yards, have it curve around a wall and out of the blue land upside my head. I suspect she had an implant of a honing device to my head and the bowl of the wooden spoon!

There was a psychological component to Mom's methods, obey or deal with the consequences based on my behavior. Whatever I did wrong and intentional, would be based on my decision or forethought and was subject to what loomed in perhaps a very limited future.

"WAIT ‘til your Father gets home!" This was to say that there is always a two-part plan to keep me in line: 1) The wooden spoon, 2) Dad. When Mom advised Dad: "Do you know what YOUR son did today?" Dad would listen and maybe shake his head, cross his eyes and look at me.

At the tender age of 5 or 6, I was known as a ‘rip'. What's a rip I don't know, but I was one.

In her psychological war using words only, she often used: "WAIT, Just Wait to you have children like yourself" or "Someday, I HOPE you have children just like yourself!" a rather mean thing to wish on me. "The way you make your bed is how you will sleep in it!" This statement was made to confuse me, I had NO idea what she was talking about! "WHAT YOU DO TO ME, I HOPE YOUR CHILDREN DO TO YOU, NO, TWICE THEY SHOULD DO IT!"

Most of the trouble I got into was simple things like teasing my younger sister who was always on the verge of "Poor me Mamma"! A situation might materialize like this:

"Ma! He's looking at me!"
"JOSEPH, stop looking at your sister!"
"Ma! He's still looking at me!"
"Then don't look back!"

Guilt was an effective tool to use on me, as often Mom would yell, ‘STOP, YOU ARE GOING TO MAKE ME BUST!" I, of course, would stand back in fear of the explosion. Her usual declaration before corporal punishment as she reached for the wooden spoon was: "OK, I've had it UP TO HERE!" This was the trigger for lightning-fast foot movement!

Mom was very skillful as a negotiator.
"Ma, can I have a bike?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I said so!"
But Gerry's father got him a bike."
"Good! Go ask Gerry's father for one."

Control of me outside of Mom's line of sight went like this: as I stood in front of her, ready for my first grade class, she would look down at me, and wave her index finger to yell: "IF I FIND OUT THE TEACHER HAD TO DISCIPLINE YOU TODAY, WHEN YOU GET HOME, I WILL GIVE YOU THE REST!

Ah! The house of discipline designed with me in mind.

I love my mother, without that love I could have turned out worse, thanks, Ma.