OUR HEARTS WERE BROKEN BUT OUR SOULS REFRESHED

As a member and co-chair of the Guardianship Committee, I have to at times get involved when someone is dying who has a disability that the agency is a guardian for. Often, when one dies, I feel it is important to go to the funeral if there is one. Recently was one such case.

I drove out to Wading River on Long Island and after a gloomy rain soaked day the day before, this Autumn day seemed like a spring morning, with the color and tints of the warm colors of Fall to dress the road as I traveled to say goodbye to an old and loveable friend.

Reaching the funeral home, I entered and there in his coffin lay David, a man who I have known for over 25 years. Funky, funny, a character of sincere and simple opinion, the dread of entry turned into an immediate leap of joy. In his death, the staff had captured David and what he was. On a side table were seven different hats he always wore at one time or another, and in his open casket was another, placed by his head. Overlooking him from the closed portion of the casket, like a real dog would look, was his stuffed doggie, the one he took to my house so many years ago when he entered, placed it on the floor next to his chair and said: It $#i+ all over the bus! He was salty, and that was a reminder that he was very much a human.

David was a teacher. I grew up with David as a board member. When I entered the agency's Intermediate Care Facility with my daughter Ellen for the first time to live other than our home, I met David, his eyes closed from blindness, but his ears attuned like sonar, he knew what was going around him at all times. This man taught me that my agenda had to change, that I was a board member not for Ellen but for everyone, a lesson I have taken to heart for over 25-years.

But in the funeral parlor where I went to say my last goodbye, he was visited by about 20 people. If you die and wonder how many attended, ask not about the number, ask instead about how many loved you. David had a full house of those who loved him.

Someone asked me to share some David stories, and of course, I couldn't wait to, he was a source of constant joy in all he did and said. He had remarkable sensory abilities, belying his blindness, amazing people with his uncanny ability to tell one what color they were wearing, just by the touch of his fingers.

Somewhere in Heaven, they prepared a place for David, one without wheelchairs, helmets to protect his head from head trauma if he should fall, where food is the life of eternity and joy will be his name.

Goodbye David, we all loved you then as we do now.

WE NEED AN END TO NONSENSE!

I've been reading in the news with great anger, the protest to the election results. I don't believe that protest should be banned, however these protests seem stupid to me, and the press has done nothing but give it currency when there is none.

The day we went to the polls, what we did in a way is say: OK, the rules are these, this is how we will conduct our election, may the best candidate win. We accepted that the Electoral College would be the final say in the outcome depending on how many electoral votes each state had. Had Hillary won based on Electoral votes and not popular votes, we would all be calm right now and moving on with our lives. There would NOT be any mobs protesting, there would be no crying and wringing of the hands, The East and West Coasts would have had their say as they usually do.

I must ask this question of the left: did you not agree to accept the results when you stepped into the voting booth and pulled the levers of your choice? Did you not watch the TV for the results as the states reported their totals under one column or the other? I'm sure many of you stayed up all night to wait for the final count. No one cared what the popular vote was since it had no real bearing on the results.

The Electoral College was designed to allow smaller states with smaller populations to be able to have an equal voice in the election process of a President of the United States. This concept is used so that the East and West Coast Liberal establishments do not run over the smaller states. These ARE the rules of law.

I ask you? What are you protesting, Trump? Maybe you should re-examine your concerns and realize for far too long, you have taken an elitist attitude toward the working farmers and laborers of the middle of America. You laughed at some many things in the past, that I feel you lost touch with the real problems. The hard facts are that the past 8 years have been ho-hum, the stock market rose but the confidence of the World in respect to our nation fell. We still have the poor and disenfranchised, homeless veterans, the same old political machinery in place which would change nothing in your favor as an ordinary citizen. We put in place the Affordable Care Act, aka ‘Obama Care', and it seems to be getting less affordable, we kept in place all the lobbyist, and many politicians who serve for personal gain and glory, just as Hillary did when she was ‘First Lady of Arkansas, then New York State Senator. Did she like New Yorkers better than Arkansians? Or was New York a strategic stepping stone to the Presidency?

I remember the campaign slogan President Obama used: "Change" and the thing that never happened if anything it revives the same old slogan: "Same old same old."

I liken you to that analogy that Judge Judy uses on her show: "You went to a restaurant, ordered steak, ate it, decided you didn't like it and refused to pay for it." IF YOU VOTED YOU HAVE TO ACCEPT THE RESULTS!

You are responsible for Trump's election. YOU put up a candidate that was just as bad as Trump. If you can't wrap you mind around that point, then realize this, the American voters were numerically equal in their rejection of both, plus you did play by the rules.

“NOOOO PRRROBLEMMMM!”

Sunday, TLW (The Little Woman) and I decided to cease our normal Sunday activities of reading the newspapers, watching talking heads and staring at our electronic babysitters and go for the gold, that is: get the Hell out of the house for a change. We obviously enjoy each other’s company since there hasn’t been a death threat to either one of us from the other since we are married, in over 45 years!

If you are a fan of TURN, the TV story of General George Washington’s spy ring on Long Island, you know how convoluted the process of spying on the British was during the Revolutionary War.

Although Washington never won a battle on Long Island, it could be because he slept all over the island, so irate husbands probably had him on the run and he never got a chance to formulate a decent battle plan. But we put this all aside and decided to visit Raynham Hall Museum in Oyster Bay, a place that was part of the story here on the Island that anchored part of the spy ring for America and was the headquarters of the British who quartered troops in the house itself.

From: http://raynhamhallmuseum.org/

“Home of George Washington’s intelligence operative Robert Townsend, Raynham Hall is a time capsule of Long Island life in the 18th and 19th centuries. Purchased by Robert’s father Samuel around 1740 and expanded from a two-over-two farm house into a four-over-four townhouse whose land extended down to the bay and for acres all around, the Townsend family homestead was named Raynham Hall by Samuel’s grandson, Samuel, when he renovated it according to the Victorian taste of his own time, in the mid-19th century. Having shed most of its surrounding property around the turn of the twentieth century, the house’s final transformation came in the 1940s with the removal of the Victorian elements from the front part of the house, which was then restored back to its original Colonial appearance, but retaining the Victorian rear addition.”

And so, you have it, the guts of this blog in a quote!

After two hours of standing and listening to a great docent tells us so much fascinating history, we got hungry. Yes, that happens and so we drove towards our home and decided to stop along the way and find a place to eat. TLW remembered an Italian restaurant we visited years ago with the kids, not fancy and the food wasn’t bad.

As we were escorted to our table, this little girl jumped out from the shadows of the room with menus in hand and announced: “Hi! My name is Kathy and I will be taking care of you today. Care for a beverage to start?”

Now in anything Italian you want to be careful about. The words: “taking care of you” in such places could have many meanings. There is service, then there is contracts, like the one they put out on the St. Valentine’s Day massacre. One sure way to know if the place is run by the mob would be an item on the menu: Broken Leg of Lamb.

TLW gave her order of a Merlot, and I countered with a John Adams since I was still living in the era of the Revolution.

“NOOOO PRRROBLEMMMM!” said our little caretaker and off she went.

About twenty minutes later I started to wonder where she went for these drinks. I mentioned this to TLW who agreed it seemed to be taking a long time. Suddenly, like an apparition she appeared and seemed flustered.

“I have to apologize, but we don’t have any more of your request,” she said to TLW who promptly gave her another choice.

“NOOOO PRRROBLEMMMM!” she said once again.

We settled in to wait for our drinks when ten minutes later who returns flustered again? Why of course, little miss caretaker.

Looking at me she begins once again: “I am so SORRY, but we don’t have anymore Sam Adams! Would you like to try a pumpkin brew instead?” Why not, because we all knew it was:

“NOOOO PRRROBLEMMMM!”

IT HURTS!

When Mom passed away back in 2014 at the age of 96, outlasting Dad by many years, it marked the end of my childhood officially. That part of my life was over as someone's child and a new phase began, the sadness of all those I know as contemporaries leaving this Earth.

Now as I travel through life, acceptance is all I have left. Over the past few years many cousins, aunts and uncles and friends have all gone to their rewards, and so I wait my turn.

Being a father of a child with multiple disabilities, I have had to pleasure to meet many of her peers, people with disabilities of varying degrees, who have touched me in many ways. One of these amazing people was a fellow named David, or ‘D' as I referred to him recently in this blog. He was the man who lit up the room with his humbleness and sweet demeanor for the most part. He has been to my house for parties and holidays and has always made me laugh by his innocence and simplicity. He was indeed like a cigar-chomping uncle who could swear like a sailor and say outrageous things for everyone to hear and blush about, but that was only one reason to love him.

I told about the stuffed animal he took one Christmas day to my house to have dinner and there was the time he came for a 4th of July party, sitting in his chair he told me how he took the subway with a house manager to Manhattan to have cocktails, an event that never happened, that night I'm sure he was in his pajamas in his group home in West Hampton and ready for bed long before the cocktail hour in Manhattan.

Just this past Saturday he lay in his hospital bed, oblivious to the world since he had lost consciousness and was hooked up to life support, dying, as he fought laboriously to breathe and perhaps create a miracle and live.

The day after y

esterday morning about 9:00 A.M., I received a call from a Medicaid Service Coordinator that he had passed, another beautiful friend I had for so many years.

When you weight all the poor man has lived through, abuse and abandonment by his family, trapped in a body that tried to defeat him every day of his life for so many years, he was always ready to convince you that he was ready for today and tomorrow, you just needed to know that he would take you on the journey if you were brave enough.

I often wonder what purpose lives like David's and my daughter Ellen's serve, what does it all mean, then I interact with my fellow human, realizing he is indeed my equal, that his struggles are mine, and I know this he taught me: Though we go our separate ways, are stories are all different, not better or worse, but different. That I have things I can teach him, it is because he has things to teach me, we are learning together, we are human.

You can ask God why these things called disabilities happen, or why a good person suffered and why he/she was allowed to suffer, and you would be asking the wrong questions, you should be asking yourself those questions, and what you did to try to ease a person's life. God does not react to our wailing and tears, our breast pounding and begging, instead, He will judge us all on how we responded to the work He has given us, for we are His hands and feet, His eyes and ears.

Rest in Peace my friend.

NOW THAT IT’S OVER

Well, we all lived through the election of the century, our lives and the lives to come. We must go on to more important things, primarily my Uncle Felix. ‘Zio’ as he was affectionately called was Grandma’s older brother. When Grandpa died, Zio Felice became the patriarch of all who spoke broken English.

For presentation sake, Zio Felice

Physically he has been described as 2’x4’, the ‘Little half a Cigar’ and my own descriptions, a Joe Stalin wanna-be, long handle-bar mustache and a pair of feet with a hat. He wasn’t very tall yet in his immediate family he towered over everyone at 4’7”. The family got to calling him stretch until he heard it one day and that stopped.

Zio always wore a suit and tie, he was the gang foreman in a construction company and the father of 19 children! Not only was his family large, but he was starting his own Italian neighborhood! Grey fedora, brown suit and tie, black shoes, he made a fashion statement, mainly: “Where are my brown shoes?”

Every night his kids would stand behind their chairs until the little dictator arrived. Once Mr. Stalin sat down, all 19 would then assume their positions around the table and wait for Papa to stick the first few ziti in his mouth. If you are wondering what his hobby was, I just told you.

A story goes that when he came to this country on the boat from Italy, someone told him there was NO macaroni in America, in which he then headed toward the railing to jump overboard and swim back to Italia. What stopped him? He couldn’t find his brown shoes to take with him.

He was a complex man if someone wanted to further their education, say go onto 8th grade, you needed the approval of Zio. Like El Excelente’ in the 70’s coffee commercial, he would give his nod, and the joyous population, all 19 would stand up and cheer, sometimes on a chair to be seen.

He lived on a short fuse, ready to ignite over the littlest of issues such as: “Where’sa my browner shoes?”, and “You gotta bigger plate for this ziti?”

Zio was also a teacher. My Uncle Joe while waiting for an acceptance letter from Harvard or Yale, went to work on Zio’s gang. He was assigned the job of hauling bricks up on a gang plank to the next story being built, the bricks in a wheel barrel. As the first day wore on, around lunch time Uncle Joe went to Zio and showed him his hands, cut and bleeding from blisters.

Zio: “Avete mani molli!”

Uncle Joe: “Whatta I do?”

Zio: “Va l'orina su loro, quella li indurirà.”

So, behind the building, Uncle Joe went to piss on his hands to make them hardened, just as Zio said he should.

It was World War II, and being he was a tyrant, he had a son who wished to become a priest, and Zio wouldn’t hear it. His son decided to join the army to get away from his father, and landed on Anzio beach, not far from his father’s birthplace, where he died fighting for his country. Had his father relented, he would have lived.

Many years later on a Saturday morning when I was about 12 years old, my Dad said to me: “I have to take your Mother somewhere. I expect Zio Felice to come with Grandma and your Aunt to see our house for the first time. If he comes while I’m away, show him around.” Sure enough, the entourage arrives with a flourish, as the little Stretch steps from the car and I greet him. I immediately escort him and those that follow to the house, through all the rooms, and finally, take him back outside to the front of the house at his request. “Tella me, awhata you doer over here?” “What do you mean?” say I. He points to a spot off center of the lawn, about halfway toward the street, and says to me: Wella over here a you puta the bricks ina a nicea big circle an in the middle a here you puta the flaga pole.” “Ona the bottom ofa the flaga pole you puta the flowersa, a nicer colors." “Then I put a nicea picture ova Garibaldi” I whispered under my breath.

He died in the early 1970’s, at the tender age of 93, it might have been the DiNapoli Cigars that did it!

SAYING GOODBYE!

It was yesterday morning about 9:00 AM as I tooled around on my computer writing my November President's report for the Board of Directors when the phone rang.

Saturday morning phone calls get my attention for some reason, with all the weekday sales calls I get, so I answered this one. It was a call about a gentleman I know for over twenty years, who is lying in an ICU in a hospital, slowly dying. The reason I got the call is because I co-chair a guardianship committee in which this gentleman is one of our guardianees. His name is not important to you since you don't know him, but for this purpose, we will call him: ‘D'.

As I got to the hospital I found him like I never hoped to see him, unconscious, tubes down his throat and nose and all kinds of electronic monitors surrounding him, screens beeping out pulses and counts of all kinds, most of which I could not understand.

After the shock of seeing ‘D', I went to the nurse's station where his nurse sat chatting with some personnel like ‘D' was not there as a patient but a visitor. Carefree and non-challan she rested partly on a stool, her radiant blue eyes accentuating her dark hair, I wondered: How can you be so happy with ‘D' laying in a bed fighting a losing battle for his life. It seemed to me to be almost a criminal act, I wanted to shake her and tell her to get her ass in there where ‘D' is and do something to make it better!

We chatted and she answered all my questions, confirming where she could and being non-committal where she could. All the news was bad I thought, so I retreated back into the room and sat with ‘D'.

‘D' is a man with developmental disabilities about 75-years of age, his I.Q. is unknown and although he is verbal, he has a limited capacity and needs supervision since he is also blind. But with all that afflicts him, he is my hero, my kind of guy.  When you enter his presence, you get the sense of a man who could be someone's Jewish uncle, sarcastic, funny and yet loving.

I first met ‘D' when my daughter Ellen entered her first group home and he was a resident in it. He was a funny sweet man with a need to be busy. The story goes by the staff of the house that he could feel his shirt and know what color it was. His language that like that of an old stevedore was salty and hilarious at the same time.

One year we invited the home to my house for Christmas dinner, and when ‘D' arrived, he was carrying a huge stuffed dog, which he immediately placed on the floor next to the chair he was sitting in and said: "He was a bad dog, $#i+ all over the bus!" This, of course, mortified the staff who came but left me rolling on the floor.

When I visited him in his home, he would sit at a typewriter and type on used sheets of paper, rolling one in, typing on it and rolling it out to insert the next page. There was no ribbon on the typewriter but he was happy until one day the State inspectors came on their annual audit and made the staff remove the typewriter because it was an inappropriate use of the typewriter. If you ever read a State memo, you could tell they knew an inappropriate use of typewriters better than anyone.

And so ‘D' lays on his deathbed, struggling to stay alive, no family, a product of the "Willowbrook class" as they are designated, soon to be forgotten just as he was left at the door of Willowbrook.

In my mind I spoke to him in a way, asking where the years had gone to, remembering the first times I met him, around a dining room table singing Happy Birthday, giving him and his housemates cake and ice cream to celebrate. He knew my wife and I and hated my daughter because she was a little unhappy at first. "I hate that woman!" he would say. We laughed and loved him anyway, he was just a harmless man in a punitive body and mind.

There are many like ‘D' who have to fight disabilities, pain, and suffering all their lives, who have no real rewards except death in the end, because it is in the end that we will all be equal, without judgment, without discrimination, and without pain. But in my heart they will always be loved, they are innocent, tortured by what Mother Nature has done to them.

WHAT JUST HAPPENED???????

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WHAT HAPPENED!?

The election is over: it is Saturday and I am still coming to grips with the results. Not liking either candidate I knew I would feel this way. I had two nightmares running to ruin this country and no hope that we as a nation would wind up on top, bring back a coalition of George W. Bush and Barrack Obama, or the good old days.

So, where do we go from here? Is there anywhere to go? I don't know if I can survive under my bed for the next four years, I mean with eating, toileting etc., it is not the best plan. The Canadians would never let American's into their country anymore, after all, look what we picked to run for the highest office in the land? Would you trust us?

I'm not happy about the outcome of the election, but I knew I wouldn't be going into it. I feel like I have not done my homework and the teacher is asking me to turn it in, what can I do? Maybe some prognosticator can give me advice and I'll know what not to do.

Still, what can any of us do? There are some very happy people today looking forward to January 20, 2017, and there are some who will dread it. My plan is to buy a large bottle of Jack Daniels and try to numb myself through the process from under my bed. It's really not a bad plan. I was planning this since August, as the plan to deal with inauguration day.

My wife already took away my belt and shoe laces way back in July, but she is leaving the sheets on the bed where I will be collecting my mail. I will not open my mail, emails or read any rocks thrown through my window, I will not watch TV, the Internet or the radio for four years!

Somehow I just know someone will blame me for all this.

LET'S GET REAL

As an Independent, I choose not to be affiliated to one party or ideology, because there are parts of both parties I like and dislike. I try to find the best guy for the job based on what I think is important to the nation as a whole.

I fully understand the disappointment of the majority not getting their way in the popular vote, you don’t need to be a genius to understand that, and it is an old saw. I’m seeing the demonstrations against a man who many disliked, including myself, however, our system is what it is because the founding fathers look extra close to the idea of small states having a say in the process of governing as a group of equals, so one state does not get control. In our system of checks and balances, we achieved a wonderful compromise.

I’m asking all of us to compromise our disgust and hatred and put aside the division, knowing we need to work for ourselves as a whole, united America in today’s world.

I wasn’t sure when President Obama was elected President in his two terms, but we weren’t necessarily offered a good choice in either of his elections, however as I assess what he has done, it really isn’t bad, except for the infamous ‘Obama Care’. The stock market is way up from when he took office, jobs are growing, and people, in general, are buying and building new homes, I see a lot of construction etc., telling me we are prospering. On the other hand, I see our image in the world diminished by weak foreign policy, and wonder will Hillary do better, and at what cost? The idea that she could flaunt the rules while Secretary of State disturbed me, the First Lady from Arkansas becoming a U.S. Senator from New York makes me wonder what her ambition really is: to serve her country or to serve her appetite for power?

No administration was perfect.

John Kennedy was in trouble with the electorate before he died, there were many issues with Ike, LBJ, Nixon, all of them. The only President we could give high marks to was FDR. Lincoln was great, but he started a civil war by being elected.

If you lost the election in your mind, maybe we need to listen closely to what the winners want. Maybe we rode the wave of how to run this country based on the ‘Old Boys Club’, the entrenched politicians and what they did do to the system. If Mr. Trump did anything in spite of his foul and undignified past, it is to bare the facts as we seemed to ignore them. The adage of: “Everyone complains about the weather, but no one does anything about it” can no longer be true! Maybe we all need to bite the bullet and face the facts that his IS right about corruption. Maybe it is time since the election puts us in this light, to see what Trump CAN do. Is all his rhetoric real or just empty promises? Maybe there is some truth to checking the backgrounds of Muslims BEFORE THEY ENTER THIS COUNTRY, maybe not. I don't like painting a broad stroke about Muslims who are already part of the fabric of this country under suspicion. Let’s see. Let’s not forget the man is a pig and by his very own words. So was JFK, just read his history and start with Judith Exner.

I guess what I wish to convey is that we need each other to deal with the truth, deal with our sense of compromise and unity for our own sake. I don’t want war, hungry children, neglected vets, riots, and families pull apart by divisiveness, it’s not good for our country or ourselves as American citizens.

I remember the past, Bush winning and the crowd doing the same thing: “He’s NOT my president!” What will protesting do? It will divide us, make Trump look like a sympathetic figure because those who dislike him will hinder any progress we make as a nation, which is dangerous to all of us.

I don’t mean to be preachy, just honest in this forum.

Give the new President –elect at least a chance to prove himself.

I HATE TO COMPLAIN…

Well, that's a lie!

Actually, it is Election Day as I write this, and the phone is ringing off the hook from the calls asking me to go vote by the bums running. I don't answer numbers I don't recognize so I don't have to listen to them, but the bastards leave a message that I have to go through and erase.

I know that there is no campaigning at the polls, and I think the law should state that once Election Day comes: NO CAMPAIGNING ON THE PHONE, INTERNET, AND THE POLLS, dammit!

The number of trees that gave up their lives for the sake of politicians is tremendous, I know I get a lot of dead trees from August until Election Day in my mailbox. Do these people really think it changes anyone's mind? Isn't there something else they could do with all that paper. Maybe instead of telling us what they will do, they can explain to us in laymen's terms how the process will be achieved, you know, how they think they can do it. What happens to make these dreams come true.

I have a great regard for politicians, I think they could be used as human shields in a war, maybe trade places with the homeless vets, maybe split the meal money with them since they are ignoring them.

Sometimes I think I'm too cruel when I think of politicians and their ilk, then I compose myself and think: "Nah!"

Did Jesus have any politicians in his circle? A politician did him in, though.

I am proud to say: I approve this message.

SO WHAT’S THE GOOD NEWS????

The other night I got a call, one of many I have been getting during this election, a candidate running for office who wants my vote. This is the night before the general election. It went like this:

“Good evening, this is your candidate for State Assembly, Stacy Stankowski!”

My candidate! If so, why would you waste your time calling, me?

And what does she want? My vote. Will she get it? No.

So what’s the good news? Election day we rid ourselves of the obnoxious politicians asking for my vote. The promise of lower taxes, more jobs, and a balanced budget will no longer be promised as they don’t know how to do that. We go on about our duty to vote, I ask you, after what we put up for candidates, should we be allowed to vote? Isn’t something terribly wrong?

This election I have been getting calls at least two times an hour, and when I’m not home, these bums leave messages on my answering machine. That means I have to go through them to erase them all. I have caller ID and when I don’t recognize the number, I don’t answer their call. Once again, I go through the messages they leave to erase them!

No more until 2020 will I hear how some stupid ill-formed plea for my vote, coupled with at the end of the lousy ad: “I approve this message” will be heard.

Where will we go to hear how the candidates have lied, cheated and raised taxes while in office? Meanwhile, we have no idea what the candidates are really promising in terms of what's needed and how they will do it.

Let’s face it, we are getting what we have been getting for the past 236 years, and we deserve it.

NOT SO EARLY

Every Sunday we go out for breakfast. When the hour hand strikes 7, into the car we go for breakfast. Usually, we go to a favorite diner, but it seemed to be closed this past Sunday caused us to go to I-Hop.

As we sat down to we were greeted by a very cheerful young lady who introduced herself to TLW (The Little Woman) and myself with the usual: "Hi, my name is Tracey and I'll be your server!" Do you know what I would like? I would like for the waitresses and waiters to stop saying that. It sounds very stilted and annoying after a while. Besides, I'm 71 and I don't like to be happy anymore. I rather like it to be sullen and let alone before my first couple of cups of coffee. Being sullen looking and unhappy makes for a wonderful conversation with strangers, you don't have any.

We chase her away by saying we want coffee and get another standard: "NO PROBLEM!" Oh goody, no problem, she is here to take our order, takes it and announces she hasn't any problems yet! We are on a roll.

The place is over-heated in the fall and winter months, it seems sweating to death will increase my appetite and cause me to spend more money, or the owners are brain dead and can't feel how uncomfortable it is in there.

Happy Face returns and takes our order, we give it and get reassurance that once again, under her astute service management, there will be "NO PROBLEM". I get goosebumps thinking how great she is taking care of things for us, all problem free.

Our order comes and as she places the dishes down I ask for a glass of water. Shaking her head from right to left, she once again assures us: "NO PROBLEM!" I tell you this young lady will be some catch for some lucky guy who may be hungry someday.

As we start to enjoy our problem free breakfast a young couple comes in with a 1-year old and a 3-year old. The little 3-year old who I shall call: Brat, only because I don't know her name, begins to run around the place and the annoyance factor is rising in my temperament. They manage to corral the pest and stick her in a chair where she decides to speak over the decibel level of a 747 taking off. This goes on as she talks loud, screeches louder and screams even louder. What do you know! There's a problem!

This morning before I even finished breakfast, I hated a whole bunch of people, the waitress our server, the parents of Brat and Brat herself.

I have a granddaughter as TLW reminded me, but I reminded her that I had breakfast with her recently along with her Mom, Courtney my daughter-in-law. Mamma was all over her as far as table manners and deportment went, she never behaved the way Brat did. None of my kids have ever behaved like Brat did, and frankly, if they did we would put a stop to it asap!

HIS NAME WAS JOSEPH IN ENGLISH

Yesterday was my grandfather's birthday. If grandpa had taken better care of himself, he would have been 120-years old yesterday!

Grandpa was a tough old guy who was always in the midst of adapting to life here in America. He started a business that my grandmother took over when he died. When WWI came along, so did he, joining the American cavalry and communications unit. He along with his best friend Ralph, joined up together.

There are many legends about the man, his strength, and combativeness being some of them, a quick-tempered man who wouldn't deal with nonsense no matter where it was quartered. He was infatuated with my grandmother, a beautiful red head from Naples and together they formed a union that lasted only a short time.

When the war was over, grandpa was shipped home from Europe with Spanish Influenza. They slapped him in a hospital and asked him to kindly stay there. But no, Giuseppe refused to stay down. He was home- sick for his three children. In February of 1920, a snow storm hit the New York Area, a perfect time for grandpa to check up on his family.

Let alone in his room, in the midst of a blizzard of 17.5" of white stuff, he climbed out of his hospital room on the second floor and went home, trudging through the snow. I don't know if he had any clothes on but he did make it home to see his bambinos. Come Father's Day he would have been owed big-time, instead, he never made it past the following week when he died of pneumonia!

The house he died in is still standing!

He left Grandma with three children, and the hospital bills which she paid and the beginnings of a successful career for Grandma who parlayed that into a grocery store, restaurant and a few apartment buildings in Brooklyn. He children helped her with her English and she was able to thrive through the Great Depression.

But it was Grandpa nad his spirit to love and be with his children that I think is most remarkable.

MAKING IT FUNNY

The hardest thing in the world for me to do is to make it funny. I was asked to speak at a ‘Candlelight Ball' and roast the honoree. The man is a wonderful fellow who is more than up to the difficult task of running a $75 million not-for-profit agency. As a member of the board of directors, and presently presiding over that board and the agency, it was my job to introduce the festivities and then the honoree, then roast him.

The days leading to the big event I spent watching roast, especially the Dean Martin Roast, and the tributes made to the honoree, the timing by the roasters, mostly comedians, and the extent of their funniest.

But it was the hours before that got to me the most. The writing and then the rewriting of the jokes, taking some out and adding new ones, toning down some and making others more relevant. During this period, I worried that I would not be well received by the audience of 450 attendees, that I would bomb and that would in itself embarrass me.

Normally I can joke, ad-lib or be flippant, yet when you plan to be funny, it is not a funny process, and a lot goes into it. I wish I had NOT prepared and went up to the dais and just let it fly like I am capable of.

So I dressed in my tuxedo, and started to get the butterflies one might get, my material was not seen by anyone, since if I showed it to say: TLW (The Little Woman) it might become watered down, maybe she would have a reservation and that would infect me even more. I know I can have an edge as they say, but I needed that edge to be there, after all, they were asking me to do it.

Suddenly the hour struck, I was at the center stage moment of my material, and somehow lost all my apprehension and attacked it like it never really bothered me, and when I started to hear the audience response as they laugh, I quickly knew the chances of getting booed off was diminishing as I went on. I got to the point where when I practiced it, it didn't feel right, but when I did it on stage, I knew exactly how it should go and did so.

So much for butterflies!

MOM

Recently I was watching an old movie starring James Cagney called Yankee Doodle Dandy. At one point in the movie, a song is sung that shot me back to my childhood.

Whenever Mom cooked or cleaned, she was known to break out in song. In her own sweet voice, she would sing for her children’s benefit songs that were popular to her childhood and made them so for our childhood. One of those songs was: ‘Mary’

My mother's name was Mary

She was so good and true

Because her name was Mary

She called me Mary, too

She wasn't gay or airy

But plain as she could be

I hate to meet a fairy

Who calls herself Marie

With the deftness of a magician, she could wipe with that dust cloth while singing, to help her while the boredom away as worked through the house. Her soft gentle but untrained voice was the music to my ears, as I listened to her lyrics. There was one song in particular that she always sang, and it never occurred to me as why she sang it until I watched this movie a few days ago.

For it is Mary, Mary

Plain as any name can be

But with propriety, society will say Marie

But it was Mary, Mary

Long before the fashions came

And there is something there that sounds so square

It's a grand old name

Often when she cooked, turning the pasta so it wouldn’t stick, she waited for it to finish, wooden spoon embedded deep in the pot, oblivious to the world around her, she would sing:

For it is Mary, Mary

Plain as any name can be

Now, when her name is Mary

There is no falseness there

When to Marie she'll vary

She'll surely bleach her hair

No matter what her troubles were, no matter what our troubles were, Mom in her heart lit up her home for her children, and singing was her way to tell us that life is good if you let it be that way.

Though Mary's ordinary

Marie is fair to see

Don't ever fear sweet Mary

Beware of sweet Marie

Mary was her mother’s name, and Marie her sister’s.

For it is Mary, Mary

Plain as any name can be

But with propriety, society will say Marie

But it was Mary, Mary

Long before the fashions came

And there is something there that sounds so square

It's a grand old name

108 YEARS LATER…

Chicago is an amazing town. Nowhere else in this great country can compare to the Windy City, the city by the lake, with its’ broad shoulders and industrial muscle.

As you walk the streets of Chicago, down Michigan Avenue, you will see the life-blood of a great metropolis, its people. Their spirit alone makes for the beat and rhythm of business, sports, and financial growth, the transportation so unique you just say: “The Loop” and Chicago comes to mind. But if you look closer, under the grime of the city’s hustle and bustle, you can also see the beauty of architectural splendor and a river that runs through, carrying its own weight to the better glory of what is Chicago. You might for a moment think you were in Vienna, it’s many bridges spanning the rivers, some raised as to salute the barges and tourists that take the cruises along its shores.

But the joy of Chicago is within the soul of the denizen of disappointment. Not in their city but in their beloved Cubs, a team that last won a championship 108 years ago! Yet, year after year they remain faithful, keeping the faith with that old familiar refrain of: “Wait ‘til next year!”

Having had the pleasure of visiting in Chicago during the World Series while they played in Chicago against another old team that is almost as sad in their quest for this Holy Grail they call the World Series trophy, telling how much heart there is in Chicagoans. Everywhere I looked, every place I traveled to, there were people wearing the colors, caps with ‘C’ and shirts pin-striped and emblazoned with ‘Cubs’ or ‘Chicago’ across their chests. Even the Art Institute of Chicago had its 2 sentries, stone lions wearing enormous hats celebrating and announcing their support of their Cubs. On buildings and conveyances was the ‘W’ hanging on flags and buildings, trains, buses, and cabs. To overlook the one place to show their love and their hearts would be to have no compassion for the true fans with passion, all of them.

Watching the reaction of the boisterous fans in the local bars, on the streets and gatherings, seeing the tears running down their faces as their Cubs, their beloved “Cubbies” as the final out was tallied and The Cleveland Indians went down fighting, tells me they are special, that they deserve this championship after all those heart-breaking years of waiting for something to go wrong, and their yearly disappointment. During that last game, it seemed that Cleveland kept taking away their chances, tantalizingly cruel takeaways, that never deterred them, their faith remaining true as it has for over 108 years.

After over a century of heartbreak, the good people of Chicago can cheer, for a beautiful city, themselves and the World Champion Chicago Cubs! Congratulations!

IT’S A TRADITION

For some reason, I get invited to weddings. These events have spotted my life and I find them very interesting. I also find that the traditional wedding is a thing of the past it seems. In the past few weddings since 2014, the intensity of the ceremonial vows has become somewhat watered down.

It used to be a High Mass was the most important thing you could do to connect couples, then there was the Mass, a regular Mass officiated by a Priest. Then Deacons got involved and they started marrying people too. But most importantly: you must marry in a church or temple.

They rolled out the red or sometimes white carpet for the entry of the Bride and her cohorts, leaving the poor groom with his best man alone upon the altar where guests came into the church to stare at them before the ceremony. Passions ran high so that meant family respect was in order. You escorted grandma to her seat and gave her a corsage, you escorted the groom’s mom and she was given a corsage followed finally by the bride’s mother and her corsage. Their hairdos were lacquer sprayed to stand up until the following week. This same application was used on the bride’s father to help him keep a smile until he gave the bride away. The mothers, now competitors would spend a few months with picking out a dress and hoping it looked better on her than on her opposite: God forbid they did purchase the same dress.

Receptions were a gala event, filled with a live band, sit-down dinners with service, a cocktail hour and finished off by a dessert hour, or later called a Viennese Hour. Photography was relegated to one man, with maybe a couple of cameras. All the men in the wedding party wore a tuxedo, the women dressed as if they were attending a ball. Everyone in attendance wore their finest, down to clean underwear.

The bride NEVER cohabitated with the groom, God forbid if Grandma heard about it!

We've come a long way, baby!

These days the slow metamorphosis of the ceremony has swept aside tradition. There are less church or temple weddings like there used to be. You get married in the reception hall, among the shrimp and scotch. Usually, there is a Justice of the Peace who officiates and he does it with some panache to while away the time. Where once a young girl had a dream about her wedding, it being the perfect day of her life, with her the star attraction, has been reduced to no maid or matron of honor (depending on how many men were left standing to marry), no best man or ring bearers or flower girls. Pageantry is out the window among the paneled room that houses a poor light setup, with folding chairs for attendees, (This can easily be converted into a funeral parlor in seconds), maybe a curtain for a backdrop and void of religious symbolism. There are no candles, no sense that it is indeed a sacred event, no sense that it is a privilege to be present.

Today the atmosphere is casual, you take pictures with your cell phone, annoying the photographer who may also be shooting movies or tapes, or some electric gadget to record the event. He is dressed like he helped line up the chairs and is needed in the basement later. The bride still holds onto her traditional gown with a veil or not, depending on how well she lived with the groom prior to the wedding.

All the guests are dressed like they could help out with the chairs later.

The reception follows immediately, you are assigned a seat to a certain table and look at each other just like the old days. Aunt Millie and Uncle Jack still dress like they did in the 1970’s for a wedding, but Junior Jake is stepping out later to a sports bar to hang with the guys. There is no toast, or wedding cakes anymore, maybe a tray of cookies, but no traditional cake cutting. The best man gives his talk about the time in the bar a few years ago, while the bride's maid tells from a long letter she reads how wonderful the bride is to her.

Am I making fun of today's wedding? No. Why? Because of a lot of the ritual, the ceremony that was: was only for those who thought they needed it. Today it is more personal, it does the job and we can get to the shrimp and scotch a lot sooner now. Way to go.

A BEAUTIFUL LADY

She sits along the river, overlooking a beautiful waterfront of Lake Michigan, filled with a history that goes back over 100 years. In those many year's famous people came to gather and plan the history of America and perhaps the world, too. Presidents such as Polk, Harding, Van Buren and Harrison all visited the Congress Hotel planning their political strategies.

Once upon a time she stood majestically on her footprint, overlooking the growing second city, the city in the garden as they say, and over the many years is now draught by the rising physical presence of upstarts and growing financial interests. She sought to overcome that presence and join the elite by building a tower to supplement her client's demand and keep pace within a few short years of her existence.

Congress Plaza Hotel holds many secrets, among them the aging charm is mixed within its walls with the rumors of ghosts without reservations, who roam the halls and create a sense of intrigue and folklore, maybe residents from days gone by?

But when you enter the Lady by the Lake, beware of her majestic charm which overwhelms you upon entering. The marble floors bustle with people coming and going, but the ceilings give testimony to another time and day. If there is one word that aptly describes the Congress Hotel, it is Gilded.

The ceilings were restored to their old world elegance and pre-20th Century charm, a gilded age of architecture and growth both for Chicago and the beautiful lady. Her room doors hold their numbers in brass plates with Times Roman-like fonts, lions etched out to fortify the doors with knobs so old that they must have been the original, only to be contrasted by the modern technologies of room keys that get one into his room by a tap on a pad.

Everyone should have the experience of going back into time, into the days when we did not exist but feel the reverence for the past, and the awe of its splendor and majesty. It reminds us of how far we have come from the past, but that the past was wonderful and beautiful in its own light.

I once visited the Waldorf Astoria in NYC. It too was in so many ways the same experience for me as the Congress Hotel. These old hotels are part of Americana, part of the glorious past of a growing America as she flexed her mighty muscles are and bared a chest of hard work and determination of her peoples. We need to restore that flavor of America to remind us of that past, no always good, but not always bad.

THE CONVERSION

Even the Museum Lions wore Cubs stuff!

That fellow helped me

Not being a religious man per se, I do from time to time pray and keep the faith.

Recently I took a trip to Chicago for a family wedding. It was to celebrate a nephew’s wedding and a chance for a family reunion. Since I don’t have family aside from my children, my wife’s family fills in very nicely.

As two old people, we find it difficult to travel as much as we did since both of us suffer from foot injuries and our age factors in also. As we left O’Hare Airport in Chicago we decided to take the ‘Blue Line’ subway to our hotel, The Congress Plaza, an ancient queen or shall I say: ‘Dowager’ in the midst of downtown modern skyscrapers. But later about that.

Once we found the train we needed, we entered with our roll-on suitcases and a carry bag amidst the crowded car filled with something special! The atmosphere of the first World Series in 71 years! Fans of all ages were wearing things like hats and shirts and pullovers and even underwear all bearing the logo of the Chicago Cubs. The Cleveland Indians against the beloved Cubs was happening and we were in the middle of the historic event. To reveal this little secret, I had to wait until I left Chicago to write this. I was rooting for Cleveland!!!!

As I struggled over the jam-packed car, tripping over suitcases and feet helping my wife to find a seat and struggling mightily, a young man, dressed in his Cubs regalia offered his seat up to me. Suddenly the person next to him offered her seat, and so I worked my way through to the offered seats. Suddenly the train bolted forward, sending me into the crowds of Cubs fans, where inches from the hard floor my headed wandered when out of nowhere reaching hands were grabbing me and saving me from injury!

Needless to say my indifference to Chicago and the fans that reside thereof; I have changed my allegiance. No longer do I secretly smile when they lose a game in the series, instead, I put on my pout, my heavy heart filled with windy city sorrow, and will along with the faithful, root for the home team.