COVIDMAN AND EXTENDED RETIREMENT

As the sun is about to rise in the East every morning, come rain or snow also, I find myself rising also, with nowhere to go and nothing to do. For months I was rising to visit my daughter at a hospital or nursing facility and getting there at 7:30 A.M. every morning and waiting for her breakfast to be served so I could feed her. I had to do this so she wouldn’t feel alone, and she took it in stride.

As I woke every morning, I wished that I wouldn’t need to do the routine anymor4, that she would finally heal and go home and I could sleep later and get back to a more normal routine that once existed. Oh, how I wished.

Then suddenly I was told that I needed to quarantine myself for the sake of my fellow countrymen. I wear a mask when out in public and try to stay a minimum of six feet from the nearest body in public. I only go out to the store occasionally or to sit in my car at the bay to watch the calm of the sea, the flight of the seagull, and to reminisce about days long past. I write as a matter of rote and draw on artistic skills sometimes. Cooking has become a challenge as I try to create new dishes and revive old ones from my grandmother and mother, comfort foods, and again, reminisce with a pan.

I look eagerly to hear from my sons that they are OK and hear their voices are nice, as is seeing my grandkids on Face Time. But with all this, I wonder if there is a metamorphosis that is occurring with me and for just about everyone else and everything?

I notice I now do a lot of dreaming, especially toward the morning and I remember the dreams vividly, something that rarely occurred for me. It seems every morning I recall the last dream and can carry it in my head most of the day, with flashbacks to it as the day progresses.

As I sit in my chair in the den there is an endless semiconscious viewing of the TV and the talking heads of MSNBC, CNN, and FOX NEWS. This is interspersed with Monk, Judge Judy, and Diagnosis Murder, salted with DVR taped Hogan’s Heroes. It is a tight schedule. I have mastered the art of Apple TV, Amazon Prime, and watch some quality programming such as Grant, The Amazing Mrs. Maisel, Billions, and The Last Tycoon.

Will restaurants ever return to the way I knew them once? Will the economy become modified so much so that the concepts we took for granted be forever changed? Will sports be played under a different set of venues? Do we now make our doctor’s visits with a new set of rules, will out temperature be somehow monitored daily as we go about our lives and seek help?

COVID MAN DO’S AND DON’T’S

If you can put aside the horror of the 100,000 deaths, deaths that are nothing to laugh at, there are some benefits to this thing.

For instance; HUGGING

I hate hugging, finding it awkward and annoying and makes my skin crawl and is unmanly.

Did you ever notice that hugging has replaced the handshake and even the kiss? What happens with this relatively new phenomenon is it starts a few feet distance as one turns to the other and sets the arms waist-high, crooked to look like a paralyzed crab, and slowly moves over to the other. Your heads keep a distance as you embrace but not really body touch, then to complete this stupid act, you pat ever so softly the persons back. The ‘HUG’ – UGH! Give me the damned old handshake and never mind this sissy stuff! How about doing what the Japanese do? Bow. No touching, no hugging, just a bow at a distance?

The mask-that thing that is like the value of money, almost as valuable as toilet paper. Now, if you happen to be ugly and are afraid to come out of your self-personal prison, you stayed away from people and especially little children. Then, the mask came along, and suddenly, with “Social distancing” you can go out and mingle with us really good-looking people as you circulate, mind you, you’re still ugly but nobody is noticing. The Mask – a boon to ugly people!

As an additional side benefit, you can now, as you walk down a street in your new face-wear, successfully stick your tongue out at someone without getting a punch in the nose as your tongue is hidden behind your mask!

Social distancing’ is the new normal. The rule is simple: stay away at a minimal six feet from people when in public and you can start to skip the morning shower! This is important because you can then stay in bed at least 15-minutes longer in the morning. This also means you now have more time before you spend your day sitting around the house as there is no place to go. This distancing also cuts down on laundry as you don’t need to change your underwear every day!

Gloves-A couple of days ago I saw a lady in a supermarket wearing gloves - it was 73 degrees Fahrenheit outdoors, and the gloves were big red woolen gloves, the snow and ice still stuck in the wool from the winter. You can’t buy gloves anywhere since they are sold out and therefore you can’t protect yourself from the lack of toilet paper! The rubber glove industry has taken off and what costs pennies to make will now cost tens of dollars to buy. However, there is a beauty to this, you can now write threatening notes to the IRS or a preacher for a lousy sermon your Rabbi, Priest or Minister made without leaving any fingerprints on the paper or whatever else you send them.

HOW FAR HE’S COME!

Recently, I had the pleasure of visiting with my grandkids on Facetime. The joy of seeing them is indescribable and pleasant. We get our call from #1 Son Anthony and we get to the computer and sign in to the joy that is.

My granddaughter, La Principessa regales us with her funny faces she makes, her dramatic poses, and actress-like demeanor along with body language to emphasize her condition at the moment. She is the light of my life. I even have a shirt with her photo on it! It is love at first sight and that gets stronger every day.


Then, there is Moscolo Marinara (Muscles Marinara). My grandson just needs to move and I crack up, I start to laugh uncontrollably, and yet, I see his face and I marvel at what a wonderful gift he is.

When he was born he had two strikes against him, losing a mother he never met and was about brain-dead at his birth, lying on a hospital bed fighting for his life. This little guy is a fighter!

At our last visit on FACEBOOK, he jumped, climbed and danced, then dropped a toy of some sort and went to pick it up, dropped it again and started to stomp on it, not once but a few times. As he was stomping, I started to laugh and couldn’t stop. Looking into the camera he eyed me laughing and a smile crossed his lips and eyes and did it all over again. I was reprimanded by TLW (The Little Woman) for encouraging him.

The first time I saw him in the hospital because he lost so much oxygen to his brain, the family was all in fear of what the future would hold for him. Would he be permanently mentally disabled? When I saw that frustration and determination, my mind was one of relief and joy.

God bless him.
          

WAIT!

"Wait... just wait 'till your father comes home… I hope you have kids just like you! Managgia, Gesu Cristo, managgia!"

Those were the words that my Italian Momma spoke as she clenched her teeth with a hand jammed tightly in between, as I scampered away as fast as I could. The fury or rage was one of the results of my bad behavior, some infraction either stealing a cookie or three, torturing a sister, or repeating what my dad had said in a fit of unhappiness, straining the Italian cursing for all it was worth.

More often than not, the wooden spoon was removed from the pasta pot to mom’s clenched fist that held a death grip on it, waving higher than Old Glory as it came down dangerously near my harden skull. As I ran for my life I would head for the closet that was deep and too dark for mom to see into as she waved a broom inside it or as I slid under my bed and she was unable to look under enough to tell if she was reaching me with the said broom. If I wanted to survive the afternoon until Dad came home, I would kick the broom and yell: “OW!” Kick and yell “OW!” again. This left Mom satisfied that she had gotten me.

Of course, my deceitfulness was not always my fault, sometimes chance offered me opportunities that I couldn’t say “No” to.

It was a Sunday morning and Mom was in the midst of her gravy preparation as she looked up at the kitchen clock and instructed me to go get some money from my dad. It was time to leave for church and the church had the habit of collecting money. Dad was an avid church ‘go-er’ about once a year or so and was still in bed. Passing through the railroad flat I finally arrive at the benevolent bedside of Dad. I had the law on my side so I was brave enough to wake Dad up AND, instruct him to give me some money, “Mommy said”. It was always wise to use those last two words to avoid a Sunday morning kick in the ass!

Dad rolls over and reaches for his pants laying on the chair next to the bed and from his pants pocket hands me two shiny nickels. Two nickels, or as I sometimes called it ‘ten-cents’, could buy a 6-year old a lot of pleasure, and realizing the fortune I possessed, I advanced back to the kitchen. As I did I noticed Mom’s sewing kit and an idea of beauty struck me! TWO NICKLES could get me a package of six small white donuts and a bottle of cola! The nickels could pass off as buttons, so-the buttons could pass off as nickels, especially in a place where Mom had her head raised to God, instead of attentively watching me. I decided to help myself to two shiny buttons and with the nickels, pocket them all.

Our Lady of Lourdes was situated on Aberdeen Street and Broadway, near the Broadway ‘el’ and only a few blocks away from our apartment on Hull Street. Lourdes was a beautiful place, marble columned supports, marble floors, and a marbled headed attendee that morning, me. Mom leads me to a pew towards the front, and as we take our place I can see the grotto situated behind the Main altar. There seem to be altars everywhere and statues to match. The magnificent altar ran almost the full length of the church. Thick red pads cover the steps where one knelt for communion and a dome-topped it all off like a big hat.

The Mass started and to amuse me, I imagined myself climbing the back wall in the grotto. My eyes would then shift to the long sanctuary lamp as I followed it up to the ceiling, then shifting toward the pulpit that had a canopy that seemed to float over it.

The ushers began their march down the aisle and with their long-handled wicker baskets passed on under my nose. I checked mom and she was deep prayer, so I nonchalantly reached into my pocket and find the first button, I slip it into the basket, and mom puts her dollar in. I look at mom for signs that maybe a wooden spoon will be in my future, but she shows a poker face.

The ushers are not satisfied so they come down one more time and I relieve myself of the remaining button. Once again mom deposits her dollar and doesn’t indicate anything extraordinary.

I GOT AWAY WITH IT! Two buttons deposited and two nickels lined up for donuts and a soda! Life is good!

As we walk home after Mass mom has a steady gait, straight and true, and kind of speedily for someone not noted for her speed. I try to bring up a conversation but she seems far away, almost inattentive. Was she still praying with leftover prayers from the Mass? I wondered.

Arriving at our front door after climbing two flights of stairs I smell trouble.

“Well Ma, I think I’ll go back downstairs and see if Anthony or Michael are out.”

As I turn I feel what seems to be the power of a pair of heavy-duty pliers on my shoulder and a sense of flying backward into the apartment!

“EMBARRASS ME IN CHURCH!” Pow! “SHOW DISRESPECT IN GOD’S HOUSE!” POW!, POW! AND POW!

Dad is sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and minding his own business as mom tosses me to his feet.

“TELL YOUR FATHER WHAT YOU DID!”

“I UH…”

“TELL HIM!”

“I think I put buttons in the collection instead of nickels.”

Dad spits out his coffee and mom is now yelling at him!

‘SURE, ENCOURAGE HIS BAD BEHAVIOR!”

Marching to the stove she takes her gravy-stained wooden spoon and menacingly looks at me. I take off towards the dining room. She begins her pursuit as I manage to get to the other side of the long table, mom following while waving her wooden spoon inches from my head. We go around for a few times and mom is tiring out, she sits at one end with the wooden spoon in full view and I sit at the other end waiting.

“You ready Mom?”

Up she goes and the chase is on once more as I finally flee into the long closet that has saved me so many times before.

NOT TO PICK ON…

But let’s face it; the President of the United States has made a name for himself more than one and all of them can’t be repeated in good company!

But being true to his message, he manages to maintain his lack of popularity among the sane and rational.

If we look back on the last 3 and a half years with the Child-in-Chief, we can see examples that inspire the need to have him put on Mount Rushmore. Yes, Mount Rushmore, buried deep into the rock and we have a perfect pose for the sculpture and Presidential portrait to hang in the White House Toilet, see photo.

On Memorial Day I watched the TV as MSNBC televised along with Fox News, the POTUS at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, his pompous self-standing like a beacon of despair and disappointment to me. His constant need to belittle people’s physical appearance yet he looks like he stole something from somewhere and is hiding it under his clothes makes me wonder if the White House has mirrors.

The CORONAVIRUS has helped emphasize the need that we need people in the White House to lead this country who have experience in leadership. Leadership is planning, anticipating, guiding, and give examples of what the leader wants. We have a ‘president’ in name, but not a leader. It’s like chocolate milk without chocolate.

He wanted to open the churches to appease and win over his base support in the Christian Right, yet he goes off to golf instead of attending church as an example to the people. To keep in the Easter spirit, he deports children back to their homeland with the parent's support or knowledge.

His medical advisors have repeatedly told him and the American Public that wearing a mask was necessary to prevent the spread of the virus, yet he defies the advice and goes out without a mask as an example!

His advice although suggestive is to take a drug called hydroxychloroquine a 'game-changer' for Coronavirus! Or maybe some Lysol or lights will help?

AMERICAN HEROES

There are a few heroes in my life that I still keep close to my heart. Two such heroes from my past are my Uncle Frank, and my second cousin Danny. 

Thanks, Uncle Frank and cousin Danny on this special day as we honor our veterans who risked everything.

Uncle Frank was the child of immigrant parents from Sicily, hard-working Italians that knew nothing other than hard work and prayer and underlining all that was family. Uncle Frank’s Italian immigrant parents raised 2 boys and 2 girls in Brooklyn, New York, and from that grew a wonderful family and highly intelligent people. They were warm and welcoming people and who like all Italians, loving everything in life.

 Frank was a very quiet man. Never boasting, never bragging, just sitting quietly and maybe reading his newspaper or smoking his pipe when not caring for his Marietta. His mind was always working, always thinking and very analytical. His quietness was his trademark. He was a no-nonsense man with a very corny sense of humor. That was the irony: he was also tough, for a man that was always reserved. His trademark was a pencil-thin mustache he kept all his life, and I never saw him without it.

 As I grew up in Brooklyn, Uncle Frank was a small part of my daily life, daily. He was seen on occasions, a party, a holiday, an occasional weekend, maybe at night once in a great while. He was a devoted husband and father to a single child, and he was my uncle through marriage. He was Uncle Frank to me, and one of the few mentors I had in my young life.

 He fought in World War II under General George S. Patton, and regaled me in stories about his experiences in the war under a great general, as I sat at the kitchen table trapped in my imagination living every step he recounted.

 After the war, he went to work in the Brooklyn Navy Yard, and once again told me stories about how during the McCarthy era the government was on alert for communist spies checking waste baskets after hours, and the next day the suspected individual was gone!

 My earliest memory was of him going to night school, carrying books, and doing homework, bettering himself for a higher-grade level in government work. Perhaps that alone impressed me the most. Whenever I saw him, that most of all stuck out in my mind.

 So years later, as I worked my way through college, the fortunes of life being what they were, I was involved in a terrible car crash, that almost took my life. I had to give up my rented room near the college and recuperate for five months in a cast from a compounded fracture to my leg. Once I was ready to return to school, I was not able to afford to live anywhere, so I was about to give up my dream, when Uncle Frank and my Aunt Marietta, my mom’s youngest sister stepped up and offered me their home, which was near the college. I stayed there for most of the end of my education and got my degree.

 When he passed on, I had the honor to deliver his eulogy, to tell the world about this wonderful quiet man, a man with a huge heart and a generous spirit. I didn’t have to mention the fact that he also adopted a child, and when he lost his only biological son, how he continued with the same dignity, that later in life helped me get through my similar ordeal.

 Back in the day when higher education was a thing one did not necessarily attain if one was from an immigrant family, When I was a young child, Uncle Frank would go off to night school, leaving me with the first impressions of how important education is.

 Uncle Frank missed out also. He was a numbers man by nature and utilized his skills by working for the Brooklyn Navy Yard as a clerk. When World War II began and Uncle Frank joined the army and fought under General George S. Patton, fate would intervene.

 As the war progressed Uncle Frank was elevated to Corporal and fought his way through France under Patton’s leadership and by chance saved my Aunt Marietta’s cousin without even knowing it.

 It seems my aunt and mom’s cousin Danny; my second cousin was fighting in the battle of the Bulge and was wounded and trapped behind German lines. Under siege, Danny’s unit was fighting for their lives and things were chaotic. As he and his unit happened to be patrolling when the Germans crashed through the Ardennes forest with their tanks, Danny found himself surrounded by the German attack and fighting for his life with overwhelming odds against him. Suddenly he was hit in his leg and never realized it until the shelling stopped. Lost amid the confusion he sought out to get back to the reeling American line. Crawling from behind enemy lines in rain and snow for many days with shrapnel in his leg he reached US troops under General Patton, Uncle Frank’s Patton. They were sent to relieve Danny’s group! By chance, my uncle found his cousin through marriage while Danny was waiting to be shipped to the States.

 At the end of the war, Uncle Frank returned to the Brooklyn Navy Yard, married my aunt and decided to go to night school to better his grade in his government position, and slowly worked his way up the various grades.

 As we gathered around the mausoleum, a small circle of family and friends, the two soldiers who presented the colors for Corporal Francis Corace, the Army men played taps. With the sound of each note, it took me through each note in MY life that impressed upon me, making me pause to recall how lucky I was to have had him in my life.

 I guess being Italian-American and the son of Italian immigrants back in those days was tough. We as a race, with all we did do for this world, were still being questioned and not trusted by this great country. But we stood tall, brave, and true and served beyond question as all true Americans do.

IT’S ALL IN THE EYES

My wife Ellen and I have the very same physical extension, a growth that has been married to us since 1972, in the guise of our first-born child, Ellen, a now middle-aged woman 48-years old. In these past 48 years my daughter Ellen has been our identity, and where we go collectively or separately, there is the recognition of a fact, now basic, that we are the parents of a disabled child.

For most of my daughter’s life we have tried to come to grips with the fact that we were chosen by God to bear this reality whether we want to or not. Indeed, in the early years it was made painful by strangers who looked at my daughter who appeared as ‘normal’ as any child but was swayed not by obedience, but by proclivity that over-rides all sense of what others perceive as ‘normal’ by her affliction.

The strangers who viewed her as she walked or tottered in public, her hands raised to her hips extended outward, her tongue sticking out and drooling was looked at with disdain or at the least, amazement or even amusement to what may be the problem as they judged my wife and I. Little children would stare at my little girl and ask their parent what was wrong. It all contributed to the many emotional stab wounds that pierced our collective souls and reduced our hearts to sadness and emptiness. As we dealt with each incident we would retreat into the comfort of each other and our loneliness and despair that accompanies a family who becomes avoided by other families. We were always or tried to be good neighbors, if someone needed something we were there, but because of that strange child we were better off alone so they thought.

There was family, but like the outsiders, they too for the most part stayed a distance away, because they had to deal with the ‘normalcy’ of their lives and besides, had opinions of us as to how we should raise our child. Their knowledge of developmentally disabled children was more extensive, their abilities to teach, and most importantly discipline a child-like Ellen was far more superior then my wife and mine were.

But always, we would retreat to our world and cling to each other, creating an inner circle of strength and acceptance that the world was not understanding because they did not know, much of it not caring, and most of it afraid of a reality that was ours. There was an echo in our ears, a defensive refrain to cover the inability to understand as they all said; “God gives you only what you can handle!” Often, I wanted to kill someone when I heard that.

We love our daughter, when we look into her eyes we see only love back. There is nothing else there and nothing else that needs to be there. She reaches out to us with her smile, her specialness so complete it makes me incapable of anything other than loving her and telling her so. She doesn’t understand my words but she does know what I am saying. Her doctors describe her as ‘tactile-defensive’ a fancy term that means don’t touch or come near her, yet, she allows me to hug her as I try to gently ask for that hug, that little kiss, that special sweet feeling of reward she has given me for all the years we have sought to keep her safe, loved, and happy.

Her brothers have been amazing, both of them, they have loved her for all it is worth, and that worth is plenty to them, as they ask about her every time we speak to them. They too worry as we do, and I often worry about how it has affected them.

Every day I think about my son who passed away in 1981 at a tender age of almost two, I have mourned him and I can continue with life, on one hand, yet, on the other hand, I mourn every day for my daughter, knowing that what could have been, is not, never will, and so I hurt inside. I see a bride outside a church and think about what could have been, I hear about a new grandchild and I cry inside for the lost grandchildren she could not give my wife and I. I read about a college graduate or today, of a middle-aged woman who is climbing the corporate ladder and I grieve for her, my wife, and my sons.

As she lies in a nursing home recovering from a broken hip, colon cancer, pneumonia, and the Coronavirus, she shows me what toughness is and what it means. She plows on and refuses to succumb to anything including people’s sneers and opinions.

Few have ever asked how she is doing, some have as a matter of course, and some of my in-laws and my baby sister Joanne, my best friend and brother Phil, and some outside the family friends but for the most part, no one cares.

So, I write this today to remind myself that my daughter Ellen is whole, she is alive and teaching me that I have to forgive, forget, and move on to better things in life. It has been months since we saw her last and she is not totally over the virus, but once again she is fighting her way back. If it were any other woman I would say she is one tough gal, being she is my daughter I will honestly say she is one tough teacher.

HELP! I’M OLDER AND I CAN’T GET UP!

For years I have been seeing this commercial on the TV that sells a personal alarm system, called ‘LIFE ALERT’. You see this old lady laying on the floor with her laundry or in the bathtub or maybe even in the kitchen if she hasn’t ordered takeout.

I’m sure you’ve seen this if you live in the States, the old gray-haired girl wears a necklace that notifies the powers that be to get her help as she screams holding the alarm button: “HELP! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”

I have always laughed at the commercial and imitated the old girl when I see it. “HELP! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” I mimic. I don’t lie down on the floor because it might not be vacuumed yet, so, I don’t want to disturb the balance of nature.

Saturday as I was watching the TV, what appeared but that commercial and what did I discover? I think that the “Old girl” is younger than me!

When the hell did they sneak a youngster in there?

THE LOSING BATTLE

I once considered myself on the cutting edge of technology, now I am going to cut my throat, or at least, use some technology to cut my throat.

I have been having a running battle with ‘The Cloud’, that so-called wonder of cyber life. Given my propensity for getting confused, (I’ve married almost 49 years) my ability to messing things up (Four children), feeling behind the times, (Two grandchildren), life has passed my by, leaving a wrinkled old man looking for the floor so he can fall successfully.

It seems my phone started this all when it started telling me I didn’t have enough space on the phone but between the ears we were still good.

So, while I was alone at home unsupervised as the Little Woman went out to shop, I went into system preferences and started to fool around, clicked here, swiped there and suddenly my contacts were gone.

Well, I had to send out e-mails from people for their phone numbers to restore my contacts.

I wonder if there is somewhere to go to wear I can wear my facemask and be unknown?

WHAT HAPPENED???

My campus

It just dawned on me that I am older than my father and my grandfather when they died. They were old men and I was the kid. I still feel the kid mantle when I think of them and often think about what they would say while doing a chore that they did.

Often, I will cook and think of my mother and grandmother and although they lived in their mid to late 90’s, I see a vision of them telling me what I should do or shouldn’t do while I knead my pasta dough.

Grandma was a mental mentor

When did I become so ancient? What happened? I clearly remember having to listen to the grownups and thinking I’m only a kid. Yet, as I do what I do I still listen to them somehow as they whisper to me. There are times when something will happen and say to myself: “Gee, I wish mom could see this” or “I wonder what Grandma would think.” Lonely is the heart that grows older, but if I have a soul then I can at least have a friend.

What scares me the most now is the realization that it is 50 years ago that I graduated from college, a year before to the day that I got married! I felt that the world was so large and overbearing that I would have to be diligent and mindful for the rest of my life.

These two are always great to listen to!

People knee everything and I knew nothing. My professors warned me in college to look for this and do that and my bosses in the work world warned me to forget what I ever learned, that this was for real.

Did I learn anything? Yes, that I still know very little but to apply what I do know and don’t bite off more than I can chew. Luckily for me, I had some great teachers, my grandparents, and parents, friend and relatives, strangers, and my children, who seem to always correct me and bring me up to date!

OK, I’m an old out-dated man who is up to date and can’t do anything about it.

BUONGIORNO SIGNORES AND SEIGNORAS!

Everyone has heard of the Sistine Chapel, because of the marvels of the work of Michelangelo Buonarroti Simoni, and the ceiling he painted there. But did you ever wonder who did the floors?

Well, due to a recent discovery by the Vatican of old manuscripts that date back to around 1512, we now know! What is so amazing about this discovery is that the man who did the floors was none-other than one of my great ancestors. Yes, that’s right. His name was Michaelantonio Del Broccolo, and he along with his son Giuseppe, laid the whole floor one weekend in July, when the kid had off from school.

The documents found were translated from Alto Italiana to English by a group of Monks. The head Monk, Fra Ilmonacotesta, the Monk Key, was at first reluctant to release them, but then relented when he was threatened with no pasta e fagioli. In it they found a transcript of the conversation between Pope Julius and Michelantonio Del Broccolo that was transcribe by the Vatican secretary who was present, and who later paid the bill. I goes something like this: Il Popa: “Buon Giorno Seignore Della Broccolo!” Michaelantonio: “No your Holy-nessa, that’sa DEL Broccolo, butta my friendser calla me Tony” Il Popa: “Oops, sorry. Listener Signore Tony, I’ma caller a you here to discussa the Cappella Sistina, I’ma needa some a worka done onna the floors. Asa you know, we juster fin-nisher the ceilings, anda I thinker that it be a gooder idea to doer the floorza too.” Michaelantonio: “Wella, the ceiling looksa beautiful. Who’sa the artista?” Il Popa: “Hoh, soma guy froma Caprese, outsidea of a Fiorenze. You knowa hima-hisa name is Michelangelo Buonarroti Simoni. Ehhh!-it tooka him a so long, I tella him “Eh-a when a you gonna fin-nisher hup? I gotta mid-a-nighter mass ina few monthsa, urry uppa.” Michaelantonio: “Ah-Michelangelo! I’ma knowa him from a scuola superiore, he’s a ona my soccer team. Hee hee, we usza to calla him Moses, he stilla hasza that beard? Wella, no worry a Sante Popa, I’ma done by a Monday at the latest. Bada binga, I’ma doner ina no time” 3-Days Later: Il Popa: “Tony, Tony, Tony! I’ma so a ‘appy you doer sucha nizer job, I wanna cry. Tella you what-letsa have a some pizza, we discussa the price anda my planzsa to open la cappella to tourism, juster to see a the floors, si?” Michelangelo: “Si, itsa shamea they gotta walka on it!”

CO-EXISTENCE AND THE CORVID MAN

I am writing this because I am still alive! It has now been months since I was assigned to my home and quarantined by Mr. Cuomo, the governor of my state, the great state of New York.

Having a cellmate who helps me share my cell, a she who happens to be my wife, soon to be ex if she figures out what she is stuck with, helps. I keep my mouth shut and don’t rock the boat; I avoid eye contact to prevent unwanted chores that will only interrupt my tight schedule of naps and meals, filled in with crossword puzzles and Sudoku.

Our conversations have however improved, we now discuss what time the pharmacy opens in the morning, what we will eat for diner, and do “You feel like lunch?” We have mastered the Amazon Prime routine, Apple TV, and the DVR on our cable TV, watching such great stuff as Billions, The last Millionaire, World on Fire, and Last Tango in Halifax. All are worth the time and investment of interest.

The most important thing to remember in this time of abnormality is that you must maintain a normal pattern of daily routine nothing should be out of whack. This means I must make the bed with the same fastidiousness of folding back the bedspread, turning the sheet over the bedspread and neatly creating a fold, then put on all the pillows. This is then followed by breakfast, taking my pills with orange juice while I put a pod into the Keurig coffee maker, with a little half-and-half into the bottom of my mug before pushing the brew button, while centering on dinner and what to make or take from the freezer. This speaks to coordination timely reflexes and the fact that I am still alive after all these years and can remember things. One is to get up each morning.

In the course of the day I must patrol the house, look for things that need to be put away, such as the butter, dirty butter knives and opened packages that are empty while maintaining vigilance over empty beer and carbonated soda bottles, running the recycling to the curb alternated by household garbage, and telling the difference, after all, I don’t want to be led out of my house by the Refuse Police in handcuffs and a face mask.

Since no one is visiting these days both my wife and I have nested. That is to say, we have taken our little bit of self-territory and in our recliner surrounded ourselves with I-pads or laptops or both in my case, books, and various sundry items such as tomatoes. (a poor play at a pun) I do spend time writing jokes for a few Facebook pages such as ‘We Are Italians’, and ‘You Know You’re Italian When…’ and of course, Delbloggolo, voted the most unread blog in existence, even worse than the ones that haven’t been started yet.

Well, I must get back to my day, I’m behind on a nap and a few snacks.

ZOOM AND WE’RE THERE!

It has been months now since we saw our daughter Ellen, The CORVID-19, or Coronavirus has taken not only normalcy but joy away, also.

The Medford Multicare Center is in total disarray as the staff is shorthanded and the communication almost non-existent. Yet, I can’t fault the administration since this virus came unexpectedly and the powers that be are running this country are ill-equipped to lead us.

If you think for one moment that I am being too harsh on the Child-in-Chief then think this. My daughter caught the virus because of his inaction at the onset, and his blaming anyone else but himself only proves he is incompetent, a fake, a fraud, and a phony.

We as parents of an adult child who can’t speak and do for herself and her parents being her only advocates suffer from constant fear, deep anxiety and sleep little, restfully. I cannot seem to grasp the support for this idiot and hope he is gone in January.

As we connect on Zoom with the Center and they focus on her for us, she has lost her perspective, doesn’t want to see us or recognize us. She keeps putting her blanket over her head and we don’t know what they are doing to ensure her health and safety.

I think I am starting to feel the anxiousness in many ways, not only physically, but depression can come over me and I feel like I can’t move, I’m paralyzed. The quarantine is not the issue, it is the lack of knowledge and that bastard in the White House is the cause.

THE CHILD-IN-CHIEF

Well, it’s come down to this; the only way to defeat and prevent CORVID-19 is to fight malaria! This comes from the Child-in-Chief himself.
Yesterday the President said he is taking, after the advice of scientists and even Neil Cavuto from Fox News that you shouldn’t, it will kill you!

I personally don’t believe him I doubt that he is taking the drug Hydroxychloroquine.

Hydroxychloroquine is a medicine used to treat or prevent malaria, a disease caused by parasites that enter the body through the bite of a mosquito. Malaria is common in areas such as Africa, South America, and Southern Asia. This medicine is not effective against all strains of malaria. More importantly, parasites themselves should not be taking quinoline, so Mr. President, you should not be taking it.

What alarms me most is that his physicians have said about Trump and other fallacies presented to the public:

Health and lifestyle
Trump abstains from alcohol, a reaction to his older brother Fred Trump Jr.'s alcoholism and early death.[39] He says he has never smoked cigarettes or cannabis.[40] He likes fast food.[41] He has said he prefers three to four hours of sleep per night.[42] He has called golfing his "primary form of exercise",[43] although he usually does not walk the course.[44] He considers exercise a waste of energy because he believes the body is "like a battery, with a finite amount of energy" which is depleted by exercise.[45][46] 
In December 2015, Harold Bornstein, who had been Trump's personal physician since 1980, wrote in a letter that he would "be the healthiest individual ever elected to the presidency".[47] In May 2018, Bornstein said Trump himself had dictated the contents of the letter,[48] and that three Trump agents had removed his medical records in February 2017 without due authorization.[49] 

In January 2018, White House physician Ronny Jackson said Trump was in excellent health and that his cardiac assessment revealed no issues.[50] Several outside cardiologists commented that Trump's 2018 LDL cholesterol level of 143 did not indicate excellent health.[51] In February 2019, after a new examination, White House physician Sean Conley said Trump was in "very good health overall", although he was clinically obese.[52] His 2019 coronary CT calcium scan score indicates he suffers from a form of coronary artery disease common for white men of his age.[53

wikipedia.org

The man is obviously bereft of any decency since he said he has been taking the drug Hydroxychloroquine for a few weeks now, that he takes a pill every morning, thus stating a fact that the “Fake News” reports. Once he is caught in this nonsense he will, of course, deny it all. Morally and administratively, he has proven to be responsible for over 91,000 people dying from his inability to manage a crisis, as President of the United States, a staggering death number not even equaled by a single Nazi other than Adolph’s: Hitler and Eichmann.

Now he is proclaiming taking a drug highly not recommended by the medical advisors he employs at the White House, making people who believe him into thinking it is safe to take, thus, he has put these people all at risk for his political gain.

THE LIFE OF COVID-MAN

Yesterday the weather was so beautiful that I decided to risk my life and take a walk. Walking these days in the neighborhood can be a risky business. As you may know, two weeks ago Sunday I took a spill in front of my home while on a walk, tripping over a lifted concrete sidewalk square. I came down hard onto my hands, chest, and knees, bruising all three severely and the pain and scabs still linger.

As I walked in the street this time, I noticed this little car and I recall if it was a Honda or something similar but I liked the looks of it. As I walked on further and turned the corner of my street I see the car pass me. As it moved on I took me back to the cars I drove and the personalities they seemed to possess. For instance, my Chevy Camaro made me feel like a hotshot, until I married and it became a gateway to family responsibility Shedding it I became more of a husband and eventually a daddy, recreating my self-image.

Then I got myself a Toyota Corolla, brand new and out of the need to afford rather than impress. I eventually graduated to an Oldsmobile Cutless Supreme, determined to regain some of my imaginary images back. Then one day I decided I needed a Japanese car for dependability as the Olds threw the transmission on the Southern State Parkway leaving me with a traffic-jam I caused by the rubber-neckers. I choose a Toyota Corona and owned two in succession.

Since then I have chosen Toyota except for one that was Japanese also but it may have been a lemon since it was a Hyundai Santa Fe and it threw a rod! I have since returned to Toyota and have not had any incidents to report.

Today I drive a Rav-4 and love it. It even has a slot for my Corvid-19 face mask and a slot for a shopping bag so I don’t get charged for a shopping bag by the supermarket!

THE OLD-FASHIONED WAY!

It was a Saturday morning in the early fall of 1970 and I was on top of the world. Having graduated from college, joining a prestigious advertising agency in Manhattan for my first professional job, and the new owner of a 1971 Chevy Camaro, there was no stopping me. I had a different date every Saturday and I was riding high!

Dad decided that it was time to visit my grandmother to thank her for her generous gift for my graduation and so phoned her for my imminent visit. Grandma Frances was now living with my aunt and uncle in Brooklyn as she sold her house. After Grandpa Ralph passed away in 1956, she was tired of living alone and my aunt graciously took her in. Despite it all, she was still lonely and somewhat unhappy as she had given up most of her charity work and seemed to slow down somewhat. She was organizing trips to Italy for a church group that sponsored Italian war orphans and from her efforts, an orphanage was named after her near Naples.

Grandma, being grandma, was excited to have her grandson come to visit her and made certain plans in her Brooklyn home for my unsuspecting arrival. Being I was her only grandson to graduate from college, she had special plans in the works. Having attended my college graduation, she looked like she had a ‘mission accomplished‘ look of pride and happiness of an Italian immigrant, something to this day I am proud of.

Her planning for that Saturday involved precision timing and coordination of her accomplices out in the field, something that would rival the CIA in covertness and secrecy. The plan focused on me, and I didn’t know it.

So, out to Brooklyn I drove from Long Island and found a parking space in front of grandma’s home. As I approached the door, I could smell the aroma of something good cooking on the stove and knew I would not have any room for dinner that night after lunch with my grandmother.

As the door opened, there stood this little old lady with a smile from The Verrazano Bridge to Highland Park in Bushwick, Brooklyn, and made me feel like I found a $20 bill on the street!

“Jojo! A where’sa your
father?”

“He had to work today, Grandma.”

She smiles and reaches for my cheeks (the ones on my face, thank you) and squeezes them. Chuckling, she leads me past a dish of cheese and a loaf of Italian bread with a pot simmering on her stove into the living room. The room is decorated in the Italian Renaissance with a bust of Julius Caesar overlooking everything.

We sit for a while when suddenly there is a knock on the front door.

I get up and answer the door. As I open it, there stands a little Italian lady and her daughter, who looked like she was mimicking her mother.

“Francesca! Como va?” The lady shouts out to grandma.

The two ladies walk past me, the old one squaring off with me, her eyes scrutinizing this skinny guy and her daughter, her head down avoiding any contact with me. I look back at the old girl and a funny sensation comes over me as I see my car parked in front with an urge to jump in and drive it off to Mexico.

My weak mind is processing the information as rapidly as my fears would allow me to and I totaled up the situation… this is a setup!

Grandma directs the seating and the old girl is offered a chair and the daughter a seat on the couch next to me! She is striking or should I say strikingly like her mother, bun and all. The only thing missing is the gold tooth.

For the first time in my life, I want to strangle grandma’s neck. I mean, she’s seen Sofia Loren and Gina Lollobrigida, hasn’t she?

I am introduced to Carmelina, a sweet girl, shy and demure, who looks like her mother, maybe a little older looking. I could imagine the honeymoon being conducted over the phone, and so grandma finishes me off with an introduction to Carmelina’s mother. She has a round face, a little growth under her chin coming out of a birthmark, and I want my mommy.

Grandma takes the initiative and tells the ladies who I am, (as if they didn’t know) and that I “graduate froma col-ledgea”. 

Francesca, the mastermind who of course arranges the seating with Carmelina next to me, directs us to the kitchen. Grandma starts pouring out her chicken soup with tiny chicken meatballs, the cheese waiting for me along with some black pepper. Suddenly all goes away and I slip into the ecstasy that I have long recalled.

Somehow the day ended, and I got away with my bachelorhood intact, and my virginity never questioned, but it was the longest day of my life with my grandmother.

FINALLY

The first day of spring has finally arrived in real-time. As I sit in my yard I can hear birds, many birds tweeting their song of life and the tic-tic of my laptop computer makes little sense to me and seems like an intrusion of sorts.

The trees are a fresh light green of foliage that adorns their heights and the grass has risen to assert its place on the grand collage of a masterpiece created by the only master of this universe. Yet, I can hear the distant sounds of mankind as their ugly noises of auto and truck movement disturbs the serenity of nature.

The sky… majestic as it shrouds my world is but a continuous peal of cerulean, topped off by the masterstrokes of the almighty. Although there is gloom in the quarantine that pervades our being, there is no denying there is nothing but joy in the freshness of the day, offering relief from the present and hope for the future, it can be compared to other days as the rebirth of joy, a joy we never fully appreciated until it was gone. Today reminds me that all can be good once again.

When I was young and there was nothing but me to consider, I loved the early spring when the days became warm and beautiful as the sun rose height and the sky housed that sun giving off its aurora, I would get excited as the beat in my heart would become pronounced as the spring in my step, as I joyfully expended my youth. Today, as I look upon the world I now own and my mind takes me back to those days and I can almost feel the sensation of being young again.

I have passed on my youth once again, but this time instead of my sons I see my grandson and granddaughter reaching up to their dad to take on the joy of youth just as my son reached to me. Still, the sense of youth I have is the same as I imagined it so long ago, my son preserving it for his offspring as he passes it down.

We build churches, temples, and houses of worship, yet we build them needlessly into God’s creation, for his house prevails as I sit in it, under his sky and trees, with the affirmation of the creatures he created as they sing their song of praise to Him.

We live in the same world us people, yet we divide ourselves into factions to differentiate one another into combative sects, heedless of our humanity as one, but instead, pick apart ourselves for what little differences there are.

The world is paying a price for what we are when we should know who we are. We tend to place everything we do and say with misinterpreted meanings that destroy us and bleed our love.

Who knows what tomorrow brings, what days will be cold and blustery, what days will shine brightly, and what days will rain. We should all look for the shelter and offer it to each other, as one, breaking and sharing a common bread under a common house.

COVID-19 MAN

I am the new generation of man the COVID-19 man. I have developed out of necessity and it was an evolution of both body and mind.

Once you become restricted to a certain atmosphere, you must ad=apt to it, something like a fish that suddenly finds itself out of the water and turns into an amphibian.

For instance, once I would never wear pajamas to bed, let alone socks on my feet as I shun what I thought was the sissy ways of a man. I loved to get into the bed and the cold sheets on a cold night. My body would warm the spot and make for a comfortable sleep. Then, for the first time this winter I started acting like a sissy, wearing tops and bottoms and… socks!

Since the quarantine of COVID-19, I am wearing slippers and enjoying them. Me, in slippers just like the sissy men do. I never wore slippers before in my life. I got them for Christmas presents but they lasted one day and I was through with them.

If this keeps up I’m afraid that I might start experimenting with earrings! God help me!

UNSHROUD TUESDAY

As you all know don’t know, today is ‘UNSHROUD TUESDAY’ and a holy day of obligation if you are married to the Sneaker Lady, AKA, TLW (The Little Woman).

What this means is it is the First Tuesday after Easter Sunday, and like all good Christians and Jews too, (God knows they could squeeze another holiday in for religious purposes too), that we take off our hand-made masks and wash them.

Lord knows, and I say that figuratively and literally, you don’t wish to stick your tongue out at people behind a dirty mask, and that if you don’t wash it, the stink, not the virus will kill you eventually.

God bless and wash the damned thing!

DREAMS

What Veal Sorrentino should look like

What Chicken Picatta should look like

Having a vivid imagination can help me to be a little creative. I can imagine what is and isn’t, just like anyone else. However, it can be redundant in an imaginative way.

On May 11th, I went to Costco and as we entered the store I see a sign stating that there is no red meat for sale along with other items mostly related to the CORVID-19, such as no toilet paper, hand-sanitizer, and masks, among others.

As we traversed through the store our conversation turned to I-phones and I-pads. TLW (The Little Woman) needed an I-pad and I need a new I-phone. Her I-pad was fading and my I-phone has very little capacity since it is an I-phone 10.3.3.

On Mother’s Day, I ordered from an Italian restaurant that is usually pretty reliable. TLW ordered a Chicken Picatta with pasta and I ordered Veal Sorrentino with pasta. Neither dish was good so we threw out half it was so badly prepared. The pasta was absolutely terrible with its flavorless sauce so we tossed that too. I vowed to never go there again and TLW agreed with me.

Then the night we visited Costco, I went to bed, got up about 2:30 A.M. to check that the toilet still worked and went back to bed for my second dream. Dream 2 was one where I remembered in detail a bunch of events.

I dreamt that I was still working in Manhattan and that I needed to buy meat to bring home. As I am walking with a couple of co-workers I’m guessing, I ask one of them if they knew where I could buy meat. One of them directs me uptown and so I go and find this building where I ask a woman where I should purchase meat. She directs me across the street to the NBC building and the 4th floor. I go across the street and enter the building through a side entrance where I have to climb over a small bar to enter the doorway. I find myself on the 4th floor and in a butcher shop! There is a long counter ad a young fellow behind the counter. I ask him for meat, veal and he comes out with this rather large piece of meat which he shows me. I think, maybe I better call TLW first to make sure that the veal is ok. I go on my phone and somehow disable my phone by touching a wrong icon, unable to make phone calls. The young butcher comes over after I ask him for help and we fiddle with the phone to no avail.

Suddenly, I am in my office and who do I see but the young butcher, TLW, and three cups of coffee on my desk. I wonder how they both beat me to my office. The office only has a desk and three chairs, an office I don’t recognize but feel comfortable anyway.

Was this but a rehash of the day before in my waking moments?

THERE IS THE HEALTH, ECONOMIC, AND NOW… MORAL CRISIS.

Child-in-Chief

As we are being led by this madness we call: “Make America Great Again, we have witnessed the tragedy that has befallen our country.

A madman in the White House has been given the tools and assistance to destroy the very foundation of America by first denying our safety and health by ignoring the dire warnings that presented themselves to him way back in January.

Warned that a pandemic was possible and very real he the Child-in-chief chose to ignore them. He tried to bluff his way out of it by denying it existed, then accusing others of the outbreak of COVID-19, praising the Chinese then condemning them for the outbreak in Wuhan, China, calling it the “Chinese Virus”. He proclaimed it would be gone by April with few deaths. Here it is in May and the virus not only lingers, but it is also on the upswing.

He is refusing to act in sensible ways to combat the virus, behaves like a petulant child is his constant denials, and has been the cause of over 80,000 deaths in the last five months by his inactions.

Demonstrating the lack of understanding he has for the crisis, he suggests we all take Lysol and a heat lamp and call him in the morning. He defies the sage advice of the White House Council on the COVID-19 by pushing for the quick reopening of the nation, not wearing a mask in public, and then exploding because one of his staff contacted the virus.

To add to his accomplishments, he is destroying the economy by his idiotic inactions of the past and ruining what the Obama Administration had created. He seeks to destroy Obama Care and blame the prior administration for all that has occurred. He is in charge and yet continues to blame the Chinese and Obama administration for his ineptitude.

He can’t understand, because the reasoning is too far beyond him, that opening up too soon to save the economy will only imperil it all the more as people go back too soon spreading the infection that has a direct effect on the economy.

And now, the moral of the people is sinking quicker than the economy as he has constantly miss-informed and miss-lead the people with his misguided leadership attacking the press for exposing him and his fraudulent leadership.

It is time to take him by the scruff of his neck and lead him out of the White House and into the institutions that deal with mental illness. We need to turn out the cowardly leadership of both the House and Senate Republicans and dispose of them in November, starting with Mitch McConnell, the sniveling lapdog of the Child-in Chief.