SUNDAY MORNING DISCOURSE

As you might know by now, for the past few years I like to take The Little Woman, a.k.a. TLW to breakfast. Getting out the beginning of the week is a wonderful way to start it. It is here where we discuss the events of the past and the expectations of the future.

 

This Sunday we went to IHOP because I had a yen for pancakes. This is not a Chinese pancake house: the yen was an urge. But the pancakes needed to be with bananas, nothing else, except maybe nuts, I love nuts.

Of course, the waitress gave us an extensive menu that covered everything there is you can eat for breakfast, except pancakes with bananas on top. Oh, they did have pancakes with bananas on top, but it also included strawberries with it. I don't like strawberries. (Get over it, I know you like them but I don't) Strawberries are too sour for me for breakfast. I don't even like strawberry shortcake, it is a bad blend of sweet and sour.

TLW decided since I was making a big deal over my breakfast, that she would have the over 55 breakfast. Yes, you have to be over 55-years of age to qualify for this breakfast, so she the ‘sampler' eggs, Canadian ham, sausage, and pancake. Seeing her order this, I decided to order the slightly older than 55 breakfast, three pancakes.

AS the young lady left us with our order, TLW stated: "Did you notice?"

"Notice what?"

"She didn't ask for proof!"

"Huh?"

"Proof that we were over 55! What would you prefer, that she ask us for proof or assume we are over 55?"

"Well, I guess I would rather ‘assume' because I'm too old to want to bother about reaching for my wallet and giving her my driver's license."

Once we got our orders, she looks over across the room and chuckles.

"What's so funny?"

"There's a gray-haired man that just sent his order back because he didn't like the way it was served. I thought you were the only one who does that! I guess all gray-haired men do that, you are not alone. The staff must see gray-haired men arrive and warn the kitchen."

Ha Ha, one of these days Alice…

A VICTIM OF SUGGESTION

Yes, that is exactly what I am, a victim. Subliminally I can have a yen for anything that is suggested when it comes to food. Naturally, Italian food is my favorite, the smell of a pizzeria, an Italian Restaurant that specializes in certain regional Italian cooking all make me want if I hear about it, see or smell it.

Today in the newspaper the weekly food report is about Chinese food and where to get it. One of my favorite foods is Chinese, anything Chinese. Recently on the History Channel, I watched how once President Nixon opened the diplomatic door to China. He also opened a million Chinese restaurants with that visit. I viewed all the old footage of Nixon at the banquets toasting and eating what appears to be interesting little morsels of Chinese culinary masterpieces, along with toasts to go up the culinary gazoo.

I remember when that happened, I took TLW (The Little Woman) to lunch that day, and you can guess what I ate. Yes, Chinese food. I was in the spirit of things, doing my patriotic duty, imbibing upon oriental atmosphere and enjoying the fact that I helped in my own small way to make history.

I now have a yen (Sometimes I even amaze myself) for Chinese food again. I can taste it, I need it, I drink tea to get my mind off of it, but Chinese people drink tea, lots of it. You would think I’d give myself a break and want English food, but no, I want Chinese food.

So, what happens? My good buddy and former business partner sent me an e-mail. It is time for lunch, what do we always eat? Chinese!

Egg rolls don’t do it for me, that is amateurish. Won Ton Soup, on the other hand, makes me happy. I have to have dim sum, Szechuan beef or pork, maybe a nice fish or veggie in sesame oil with rice. I am even open to sushi. Maybe a little Thai shrimp soup would help me overcome my desire for Chinese food.

I think the thing about Asian food is not only the taste but the exotic look and the different kinds of dishes that are prepared. All are so very interesting to view, taste and celebrate.

I hope this little essay has forced you to have a desire for some Chinese or Asian food, and that it is takeout, so when I do go to a Chinese restaurant it won’t be crowded.

HOW LUCKY I AM

I keep thinking how in life we can attend some awful moments and ask ourselves why it is happening to us. These moments can be anything from a bad report card to someone dying.

When I look back to my youth, the trouble started immediately in the summer after my kindergarten year. That summer there was an epidemic of mumps, and lucky me I was caught in it. It was a most severe case as I remember hallucinating in the midst of pain and swollen cheeks! When it was over, my hearing was gone.

Then in college there was a horrific auto accident that I was part of. I say part of because I was a passenger, my head went through the windshield with such force I don’t recall it! When it was over I was laying in the front seat with the engine next to me wondering if I was OK. I thought I was until I decided to wipe the sweat off my brow, and discovered it was blood and that my foot hurt. Looking down I noticed that the foot was turned inward with a bone protruding through my sock, now a bloody mess!

As life went on, in my 50’s I found out I needed a bypass (triple) because I was on the verge of dropping dead at any moment. Most of the arteries to and from the heart were closed and what were open were only 8% opened.

And finally, there was the carotid artery adventure, a devil may care romp through the edge of demise, in the end, my surgeon telling me it was clogged 99%! Oh, my gosh! I was a walking time bomb!

This got me thinking: was I lucky or unlucky? How many people lost their hearing from mumps? How many died from an auto accident, or heart attacks? I seemed to visit the edge an awful lot, yet somehow managed to find my way away from the abyss of finality. Was all this just plain luck?

Then I started to think of my good luck and who may be behind it. I realized I was born with a large imagination, and good memory and a God-given talent to create graphically. I can paint, wood carve and draw enough to be happy with the results.

Talent got me an education. I got me an opportunity to go with full scholarships, three schools invited me that way. Instead I chose to go to a 4-year college and pursue a Bachelor’s Degree in Fine Art, preferring to study also English Literature, mathematics and science as well as art history.

I also had the luck to have a lovely Aunt and Uncle who I owe so much to. When I started college, I commuted via the Long Island Railroad and an extended thumb to get from the train station every day. By the end of my college days I was living rent free in my aunt’s house, meals and utilities included!

There was my brother-in-law John, the older brother I never had. It was his coming to the college on Friday nights to bring me home because I didn’t have a car. To his last moments on Earth I was with him and visit his grave.

Along the way I met a great guy who became not only my best friend, but like a brother to me. He and I are in touch all the time. We even have operations on the same day! Phil and I have been there for each other throughout it all.

Proud f my grandmother!

I was not a big fan of marriage, couldn’t imagine myself fighting with someone for a period of time, maybe a divorce. Instead I found true love and peaceful days, all the days of my life, no matter how bad things got. My wife and I have been companions for the past 46 years we truly love each other and we are one.

Having my in-laws, particularly my Mother and Father-in-law, people who were so easy to love and get along with was a blessing as were my wife’s siblings. I often think that they thought I was unfriendly or stand-offish when all I was is in awe of them as a family.

The center of my universe!

Here, life went from me to we, and the trials, and tribulations that can batter a marriage. Our first child was born with genetic defects that cause her to live in a home for people with disabilities, a second child who has blessed us with his ability to write, be a steady force in our lives, and has made us proud both in demeanor and actions.

One of those actions was a beautiful daughter-in-law who amazes me, makes me proud and is my son’s best friend. Then they put their talents together to create the love of my life, my little and sweet granddaughter, Darby Shea!

Joseph

We have been tested more than once in our married life. My third, my son Joseph passed from the genetic inheritance, the same one as his sister. His death at almost 2-years of age made us closer than we ever were.

Then we got lucky once more. Another son, one who grew up unpredictable and leaves me wondering how far he will go. Great minds don’t come overnight, they are made from thought, trials and even tribulations. The ones that contribute to the world are the ones that make impact, that impact is coming, and he will do it in grand style! Michael was a God-send to us. After

Joseph died, I was truly happy when he was born. I used to let him lie on my chest and fall asleep when he was an infant, and often as he grew he would come to me, sit on my lap and ask me questions about things he didn’t understand. That was my favorite part of his life.

And now I go to California, and my favorite place in the whole world, Burbank to see my guys, the kid from the Big Bang Theory, my beautiful daughter-in-law and of course, Darby.

So, if I look at the balance sheet, I am a very lucky man, thank you, God!

SAME OLD, SAME OLD!

Last year on January 1st, our health insurance changed from one of going to the pharmacy to ordering on-line, a rather comfortable arrangement. Prior to last year, I would have the doctor send in the prescriptions and the pharmacy would of course screw it up. It is the job of this particular pharmacy to screw up.

The owner and head pharmacist, Mr. A. Paul Ling would come out to speak with me about the missing medication, make faces and annoy me to no end. At one point during his illustrious career as a screw-up, I was ready to climb the counter and force feed him all my medications, sans the one that was missing. Mr. Ling’s excuses ran from: “We never got it” to “We are out of it!”

Then the new company took over, and with great trepidation, I feared the worst, screwed up orders, missing meds and even being late or sending them to the wrong address! Never happened, they were always on time and complete.

So, the god’s that be decided to go back to the old way since I was indeed happy. This meant after a full year of no Mr. A. Paul Ling, on time meds, we were going to be reunited once again! Lucky me!

So, I go to the doctor, and he now rerouted my meds back to the pharmacy and the merry Mr. Ling! Off I go to visit my old friend. He now has employed a sweet lady who is part-time, can’t figure out the computer to line-item all the meds, calls over another person to help out and I am waiting for a half hour! Finally, we are all squared away! Or are we?

I go home and discover that I am missing one of the meds, let’s call it: Stunadacide, a medication for typical customers who use this pharmacy. I call and ask where my Stunadacide is. “Oh! I’m sorry, the doctor mustn’t have ordered it! We’ll call him and ask for it.”

This is at 9:58 AM, at 4:20 PM I call again. “Where’s my Stunadacide?”

“We called Dr. Strangeglove (my primary prostate chaser) and we are waiting to hear back.”

“Dr. Strangeglove retired, I now have Dr. Stranger Glove now, who has taken his place.!”

“Oh!”

And so amigos, off we go into another year of good times with Mr. A. Paul Ling!

TAKING A HIKE

The situation was unbearable. It was time for me to take a stance and assert myself.

Mom and Dad were teasing me, and as a 6-year old, I had my principles. Getting me to eat stew with green peas was not making me happy. There were those big pieces of potatoes and a red sauce that I didn't like the potatoes. It was a Monday night and after the Sunday dinner, the pasta and meat, the salads and later that evening the sandwiches that Dad would make, the stew were a letdown.

Dad was not answering my pleas for help, he was doing what any feckless husband would do, what I still do to this day, throwing me under the bus by keeping his mouth shut.

Mom, on the other hand, had pretty definite ideas about my dietary laws, they didn't matter. (The nerve of Mom!)

"Hmmmm, delicious!" She ate some stew and I didn't believe her.

"Right Anthony?" Anthony was the official name of Dad when Mom wanted cooperation.

Dad: "Hmmmm" I could always rely on him making it worse.

Rising from my chair at the end of the kitchen table, I went into the big closet off the dining room and pulled out the suitcase, taking it into my room and started packing. After I was done packing as many toys that would fit, I set out to leave home. Make it on my own, never ever having to eat stew in a red sauce with those green peas and big potatoes.

Down the two flights of stairs, I set out toward Rockaway avenue, hungry with no place to go. But I would show them, I wasn't taking any stew tonight. About halfway up the block I turned around and looked back, there, sticking out of the third floor of my old home where Mom and Dad watching. Suddenly I realized something, where was I going? Could I go to Grandma's? No, she would turn me in. My Aunt Marie? No, I couldn't cross over to Atlantic Avenue, besides I would have to go back past the apartment with them looking at me.

Hunger was settling into my stomach, I decided I would run away the next day.

That night I had Stew with green peas and big fat potato slices-cold.

IN THE GARDEN OF LOVE

If you face my house from the curb, on your right you will see a trellis, a Japanese maple, and some other bushes sitting together in a cluster, they are all there for a reason.

Thirty-six years ago, my son Joseph was stricken with a genetic disease that took his life. It was something that took hold the day after Thanksgiving in 1980 when he was hospitalized at North Shore University Hospital. From that day in until late January when he passed, it has haunted me. Every day that passed would be a painful experience and dreadful reminder that such a thing happened to a child, not yet 2-years old! I, of course, blamed God. I needed to find someone or something to blame, I blamed the hospital staff in my heart, the doctors and needed to blame more to justify my anger and hurt, and to take my mind off the pain that permeated my very being.

If you look at the picture, you see my two sons, the baby who sits in the background is Joseph, our claim to an angel of our own.

It took me some time to realize that it was no one's fault, it is what life is all about, that Joseph and my daughter Ellen were victims of what life throws at us. We can blame all we want, but in the end, that anger is misdirected.

I decided that for the short sweet time we spent together as father and son, I would memorialize it in some way. But it had to be something that would need my participation, something I did for him. I decided to build a garden in his memory, a place of solace where I could go when the weather was nice and do some thinking.

I ordered decorative bricks, the Japanese maple, a favorite tree of mine, a trellis and some slabs of decorative tile and assembled this little hideaway in his memory.

Every year on his birthday on April 6, I go out there and have a little talk with him, although the conversation is one-sided, I can feel his presence, a sense of tranquility overcomes me and I feel good. I guess what I am saying is that what God gives us is free will to deal with the slings and arrows of life and death. He judges us on what we do with our lives. If we could blame God for everything, then what is the point of our being? If he interceded in aspects of our lives, do we even need to live?

One hundred years from now, no one will know or care about our lives to even remember us.

GETTING TO KNOW YOU

-->

Getting to know you, getting to know all about you.
Getting to like you, getting to hope you like me.
Getting to know you, putting it my way,
But nicely,
You are precisely,
My cup of tea.

Getting to know you,
Getting to feel free and easy
When I am with you,
Getting to know what to say
Haven't you noticed
Suddenly I'm bright and breezy
Because of all the beautiful and new
Things I'm learning about you
Day by day.

This is NOT a political post about my politics, it is about what America is supposed to be, what it's citizens expect it to be, a refuge, a haven, a port in the storm of life.

Once years ago I was traveling through a neighborhood from the South Shore to the North Shore on my way to LaGuardia Airport. It was a bright and sunny day, spring-like and filled with just a feeling that life can be great. As I drove I came to this neighborhood, in the early afternoon. There were people out shopping, music playing and the streets were gaily decorated with colors and art, shops and apartments adorned in a festival atmosphere. At first, my reaction was, I don't belong in this neighborhood, these are not my kind of people, they don't speak my language, we have nothing in common!

As I drove slowly through the streets, stopping for traffic lights and stop signs, little things started to catch my eye. Subtle little things would took me back and reminded me of days gone by. These people were speaking Spanish, they used to speak Italian! Gradually I became more interested in what was going on, the neighborhood was vibrant and filled with life. It dawned on me that this was a part of the future, this is where doctors, nurses, dentist, lawyers and soldiers, teachers, barbers and engineers, scientists and chefs will come from! This was America as I am supposed to understand it. And why not?

Often I hear people say: "If you can't speak English, go back to where the Hell you come from!" That is sadly said by many of us. But I wonder about that, I really do.

What are the circumstances if the shoe is on the other foot? Here you are maybe middle-aged or older, your country is in turmoil, falling into disarray and poverty, maybe revolution by some political or religious insurgents and you need to escape.

You see my point? We are not all able to master new tongues, we can only master our hopes and dreams, and pray to God that we can survive for the sake of our children.

God bless us all!

 And let us imagine China is the only safe refuge we can find, so we risk everything we own, and go to China and settle in. Unless we speak Chinese, we are at a distinct disadvantage, we don't understand anyone! Worst still, there are rules and regulations needed to live in this new world we have adopted. How many of us can learn any new language, especially as we age? What do we do but insist our children learn Chinese, maybe have them speak it at home as much as possible? We find a neighborhood that speaks English and starts a sub-culture of our old-world traditions. As foreigners, we are viewed with suspicion, anger, and discrimination.
If I were hit by a car, and I had to have immediate surgery, I would take the first surgeon that came along. I would not care who he was as long as he was indeed, a surgeon. Then I might want to thank God that his or her ancestors came to this country, in time.

AH! I REMEMBER IT WELL!

When you reach a ripe old age, where the young men hold the door open for you and the young girls smile, you know you have been around the block a few times already. Age has a wonderfully exact way of putting you in your place.

I really don't mind getting old, it allows me time to remember my youth. When I visit one remembrance it takes me to another. Chronologically, it is not the path to remembrance in an orderly fashion, just a trigger.

Popping in my head: Growing up on the streets of Brooklyn, and how I hated to wear shorts because I thought they made me look like a sissy took me to wax Coke bottles with sugar water in them, and don't forget the candy cigarettes! I recall going into Sam's on the corner of Hull Street and Stone Avenue to buy candy dots on a piece of paper, the penny candy bears, and the licorice fedoras that came in red and black.

You could go to a local food store and get a soda from a dispenser that needed only your coins, with an accommodating bottle opener to get you started immediately. Hop over to the coffee shop and sit for an ice cream soda and there on the table was a jukebox to play your favorite songs for a nickel or quarter depending on how old you were at the time.

When we moved from Brooklyn out to Long Island, the newest thing was the red wooden milk box that you opened every morning and took out the glass bottles of milk, replacing them with empty used bottles the milkman took away.

Not everyone had a telephone in their home, so when we finally got one, with a word prefix such as Olive 5-1234, it was a wonder to behold, except when you picked up the receiver and could overhear a conversation between two women who never stopped chatting on the party line! Some party that was!

Getting thrown out of the house on a Saturday afternoon was not uncommon, as we were given a dime and sent to the movies. If we got a quarter, we were good for some candy too. You sat for a newsreel you didn't really care about, a cartoon and the picture itself made you happy. After the movies on a summer's night, you took out your skates and with a skate key locked them onto your feet, skating around the block, almost every day.

Weeknights right before dinner was devoted to Howdy Doodie and Gabby Hayes and the Video Rangers, holding your attention until you could smell the cooking, making you hungry.

As we grew, other icons became apparent with S&H green stamps, or Raleigh Coupons that Dad saved from behind the cigarette pack, where you could order items in the mail by redeeming them.

Do you want your picture taken? Then be prepared to be blinded by the flash bulbs that stayed in your pupils long after the camera was put away. Needed a little music in your life? Out you went to get the latest 45 rpm to listen again to a favorite song you heard on the Allen Freed show on the radio. Of course, the need for a coke or soda was in order, so you reached into your little box freezer that sat in the refrigerator, (mine was a Westinghouse) and pulled out the ice cube tray, cold metal to the touch that required pushing back the cold metal lever that released the tray and ice cubes.

Then you reached the age of high school, where you wore if you were a boy: button-down shirts, penny loafers and tan paints with, your girlfriends wore ponytails, wide skirts with puppies or some cutesy animal and white socks, rolled down to the ankle. You sat in a classroom where the teacher handed out a sheet of freshly mimeographed paper that had a smell you loved. (Yes, you did, don't lie.)

Date night was usually an adventure, off to the drive-in you went with just your girl and maybe two or three unseen friends in either the trunk or under a blanket.

If you remember all these things above, you probably have pre-paid for your own funeral, take more meds than the pharmacy sells each day, and doctor comparisons are the topic of the day.

SPARING PARTNERS

Being married to the same woman for over 45 years you begin to develop a love relationship which borders on the need for diplomacy and a good reason to sleep with your eyes opened.

Let's face it, all relationships, if they are healthy, have that arrangement. Diplomacy is to deal with disagreements in a calm and settling way, sleeping with your eyes opened ensures he/she doesn't get all the blankets at night!

Discussion centered one morning while doing my apportioning of pills for the week to save myself from sudden death, of our new health insurer or pill pusher as I like to think of them.
The old pill pushers would renew online and deliver to me my pills from the doctor to me in my mailbox. However, some days my prescriptions would arrive a day late, which would account for the fact that my mailman was driving rather erratically the day before and I was short a few pills! The new pushers need me to go to the pharmacy and get aggravated with pill counts, the time promised and the renewal effort over the phone. Our disagreement centered over how the renewal process occurs, and the deliverance of said pills, a 90-day prescription vs. a 30-day one with two renewals. I hate when she is right!

The trouble is we both have memories like steel traps. Her steel trap is able to release sparks of memory, mine stay within the trap and just bounce around, never released. These phenomena are due to listening to her and not being able to get out any timely retort to counter what she says until of course, it is too late.

So, to all married men, be defiant and sit down! WE ARE TIRED OF STANDING CORRECTED!

TURNING PAGES

Mike Connors

Barbara Hale

Mary Tyler Moore

Roberta Peters

Eugene Cernan

Buddy Greco

Andy Marte

Charles Shackleford

All these people are people who I knew of while I grew up. They all have something in common, they have passed in 2017. This I am finding shocking and unacceptable.

What happened to my youth? What has been going on that my comfort zone, that is my parents, famous people I knew from the worlds of entertainment and sports have gone beyond the great divide? Is there a way I can reclaim that time? Are all the places I visited still there in their original state, or did that die too?

Once there were members of my family that I enjoyed seeing or calling, gone to their eternal rest, another part of life faded in the process, never more to be seen. Suddenly I am the last generation, the generation that remembers all, that will relay the family history and the times that were to the younger generations, the middle-aged.

And those entertainers, the actors and musicians, comedians and sports figures, that are still alive, the people from my youth that may not have appeared publicly in 30 or 40 years are still alive, do you see what they look like today? 

I remember the days past where I wondered what I would be when I grew up, of dreams that were only vague and times that seemed settled and secure in the cocoon of my parent's home. I recall I couldn't wait for tomorrow, and my parent's telling me that tomorrow will come soon enough. I can remember the enthusiasm of each beautiful spring morning and summer day as the feeling of joy consumed me as I ran out of my house to find my friends and play. The freedom of the grass under my feet and the waters of Bellport Bay or Dunton Avenue Lake, where I learned to swim and dive off the wooden dam that separated the lake from the Great South Bay. Where are those days?

There were the rich days of growing up on the streets of Brooklyn, the fights I got into and the games I played until sunset, an ice cream pop still lingering in my mouth as Mom sounded the announcement that times was up, time to come home and go to bed.

And along the way, as a young man in high school, college, and beginning to work, the first time I met my wife, the joy of my children being born, where did that go?

I recall friends that I started out working with, men and women older than me who took a liking to me, all seem to have passed on, gone sometimes unannounced, and with their demise, they took another page away from my book of life, the mental notes I inscribed into the margins, the echo of past conversation, gone forever, how do I replace all that?

Someday when I'm gone, hopefully resting in God's kingdom, I will meet them all once again, and maybe that is what Heaven is all about.

I’M SO SICK OF POLITICAL TALK!

I totally understand that there is a lot of anger coming from the political left because of the results of the 2016 Presidential Election. The anger stems from the majority of voters in that the majority rule lost out. It is a basic tenet in the concept of democracy that the will of the people always dictates the course our country takes.

Within the structure is the checks and balances of our particular government in regards to our imperfect democracy, the Electoral College, the fly in the electoral process or ointment.

Good friends are becoming nasty to one another, demeaning choices and one's intelligence.

If I may, I would expand on the issue of dissatisfaction by reminding everyone that this past election, the choices presented to us were not overwhelming or even exciting. I am sorry to say that I did not vote this time around because I abhorred both candidates from years ago. Although it is indeed time for a woman to become President of the United States, Hilary Clinton in my heart and soul represented the same old thing we've had before with men running. She was lifeless, uninspiring and I feel she is a liar.

Mr. Trump, I have loathed from the first time I heard his voice. He is a man of self-centered concerns, egotistical and also a liar. He lacks experience and I feel he is not thinking things out as President. Penalizing Mexico will lead Mexico into the arms of China or Russia as a major trading partner, giving them better traction in this already over-competitive world marketplace.

The one thing that Trump did to win over 49% of the populace was to get to the prejudices of voters, the ones that were not openly evident, but simmer under the surface he took them and by legitimizing them with an argument that could sound valid without exploring fully the consequences.

But I don't feel the Electoral College is at fault, but rather the voters who for years supported policies under their brand, never thinking to change their brand to fit with the times. We have embraced unconditionally, the concepts of the Republican and Democratic party year after year, leaving us with no choice but to vote a straight ticket because we feel we are ………'s, thus embedding us into the mire and the slush of outdated thinking.

Today's state of affairs is your and my doing, it is the left and the right, it is the different interest groups who follow blindly, without pause, labeling our political opponents and making them instead, our enemies.

Instead of arguing, let's pray for our country.

THE OPTIONS ARE LESS…

But the joy is greater!

Yesterday morning as I sat with my coffee and the Little Woman, I went on Facebook and found my granddaughter as she played with her daddy under this toy tent that looks like a little bus.
https://www.facebook.com/search

This is how I pass my time. I mean how many times can I watch the same news story over and over again on TV? Instead of watching the weather report on the early morning news, I watch Darby Shea teach her daddy how to play. I watch it more times than I watch the same old on the Early Morning News!

Many people have said that if they retire they don't know what they would do. They should do what I do, watch their grandchildren on little movies, or Facebook pictures. My picture collection has to be over 1,000 poses about a hundred movies and boy I love it!

It is amazing how one little munchkin can turn a cranky old man into melted butter, how a sweet little voice demands more attention that the greatest masterpieces played at a symphony, grandparenting is a blessing, a loving event, and joyous occasion.

Every night when grandma comes home, the first question she asks is: "You're still here?" Then she asks: "Are there any pictures of Darby today?"

Pardon me, I need to go watch that clip again.

BUT FOR THE WILL OF GOD, GO I

Italian-American life in the 30’s 40’s and 50’s was hard. Speaking broken English, or having a need for someone to translate English into Italian or vise verse, could often lead to embarrassment as it made one stand out in the daily flow of life. It could make one feel less than whole somehow, it could affect not only the person who needed the translations but the translator too if he/she was Italian and anyone else connected.

I can remember first hand as young as five standing by helplessly as someone would have to speak to Dad or Mom to convey an insurance policy or a phone call from some official office, a pharmacist or doctor for my grandparents. Most times to take the edge off things, many Italian-Americans went to Italian-American doctors, stayed in much of their community as possible. These men were held in great esteem, high regard and almost to the point of sainthood. “È un Ragazzo Italiano!” if he went to college or was a man in a respected position.

 Most Italian-American’s had hard blue collar jobs, working with their hands, their backs permanently bent from the labor and all they owned was their family and a song on their lips they whistled as they walked to work. Working was the highest profession, feeding your family so your children could have the tomorrow you wouldn’t.

 Growing up and realizing these conditions I developed an admiration for two people who were not my parents, but they were ‘role models’. One was a man who lived downstairs from me, we called him ‘Manduche’. He was of college age and was the son of the janitor who ran our apartment building. Manduche was attending college, he was studying to become an engineer!

“Heza smarta boy, he go to uh collegia! This was told to me as some admiring adult of Italian-Americans who was becoming proud about someone Italian-American. I would look up at him when he returned home from school each night and think: “Wow! He is smart. He goes to college!” Both his parents were immigrants, working hard and giving their children every opportunity they could afford.

 Then there was my Uncle Frank. Uncle Frank was a war hero, returning home from the European theater under General Patton, a corporal. He would tell me horrific stories about his days in the foxholes and the things he learned to do automatically, like entering a building for the first time and looking for all the back doors and windows as a precaution. Not only was he this war hero, he was also holding don a white-collar job, and working for the Brooklyn Navy Yard as a clerk, and here is the big part, going to night school to get a better education that advanced him up the ladder in his government grading! This was impressed upon me by my parents and drilled into me that the only way to lessen misery in life was to better yourself with n education. Mind you I was so young, I had no concept of high school, let alone this college thing that was so mystical, but would need to be achieved.

 The sports world was alive with Italian-American players. Joe Di Maggio, Prima Cannera, Rocky Marciano and the like. As Italian-Americans would gather at a table speaking in Italian and uttering along the line of conversation the hero: “È un Ragazzo Italiano!”

 Today, that feeling still stays with me. My cardiologist, surgeon, and even my eye doctor are Italian last names, kind of gives me a sense of deep pride and I think: “È un Ragazzo Italiano!”

 I cannot be grateful enough the uncertain journey my ancestors took to come to this wonderful country, fighting to earn a place in the fabric of their adopted country, the sacrifices they all made for me, their children who went on to better things because their parents made those sacrifices, paving the road to happiness because of their example, and so I am an American, but remember this: È un Ragazzo Italiano-Americano!

NIGHTMARES

My wife and I are conditioned to wait for the; (not) proverbial another shoe to drop, but the next shoe to drop. As parents of a child with disabilities, we are conditioned for the unbelievable, the improbable and mostly the unexpected.

When times are quiet and my daughter Ellen is doing fine, we put up our guard, hold our breath and wait for the disappointment to spread across our landscape!

 Recently I enrolled my daughter in a new health plan, outside Obama Care but a great plan. It creates a network of providers that all hook up into a mainframe of sorts and maintains all her medical records. This allows a doctor who is treating her for an illness to immediately find her medical records online and make more instantaneous decisions and prescribe the right medications based on what he sees. This system is only found in New York State under the auspices of her agency, and it is supported by Medicare/Medicaid!

 There is one problem, however. You need to use only the participating doctors and clinics, and whatever other medical services needed who belong to the plan as it is slowly growing and gaining momentum.

Recently we went to a neurologist who at one point asked to do a complete medical workup for his records. My wife and I objected to this idea since my daughter is very sensitive and does not tolerate being poked by anyone. After voicing our objections to this plan things became quiet. The medical staff at my daughter’s agency agreed with our decision based on their knowledge of Ellen and what she will tolerate. Everything was well and my daughter was very happy after the trauma she went through for five months after her broken leg, two hospitals, and two different rehab facilities. She slowly adjusted to her old life once again and we were happy.

After a few months, it became apparent that we needed to visit the new neurologist for an evaluation that is mandated, and so my wife and I went. Meeting the new neurologist was a tension-filled meeting on the part of the neurologist. I guess he felt that we would be hostile to him, which we were not and so he made the statement that did rise the tension very high in the room. He said he needed to do tests to determine if she was susceptible to instant death because she is epileptic and her medication, Lithium, could cause death. This was coming from a doctor who did not know my daughter and had no idea how she behaves.

My daughter has been living with her situation all her life, 44 years and never showed us signs of epileptic fits and her seizures were all Petite-mals, not grand-mals. His request was funneled through the idea that if we didn’t do these things or tests to her, it would be on our conscience, in other words, she could drop dead!

 It is interesting how much my wife and I think about our daughter and what is best for her. We have spent countless days and hours at clinics, hospital and what not to help her fight off the agony of her condition. We know how frightened she gets when strangers force her to do things she does not want to do. All too many tests and analysis was only wasted time because of her uncooperative nature. I told the doctor that her past would lead anyone that testing her is never easy, or a complete test, often being aborted in mid-test because they were getting absolutely nothing. He looked at me like I needed help.

 The final suggestion was that if all else failed, they would operate on her brain!

 No damned way that happens unless they lock me up first. They will not experiment on my daughter for the sake of their records, let alone open her skull and perhaps ruined what little she does have. All this in a whim!

 My wife and I agree we would rather let her die by taking the chance that she won’t than subject her to frightening operation on her brain that may make her more dysfunctional than she is already.

 It is very hard to be a parent of a child who does not speak or interact even a little. We have always given her whatever she ant, and I have been on the vanguard of protecting her and advocating for her, as well as my wife has. We will leave her alone. If the time comes where we need to make that kind of decision, we will be there to deal with it.

LONG AGO AND FAR AWAY

Joseph 1979-1981

"Our dead are never dead to us until we have forgotten them."
George Eliot

It was a long week, the trips to the hospital out in Nassau County and the all-day stays by both my wife and I. The weather for January was the usual, cold, blustery and often snow falling and rain pouring down.

Every morning we entered the hospital, often first searching for a parking space and then fighting the elements to reach our son's room, the wind biting through our clothing we would enter apprehensively the ICU and ask our questions. Often the answers were not the best and we needed to put those answers under the surface as we greeted our child, hooked up to an IV, sometimes placed at various points in his black and blue body to keep him alive.

Tomorrow is his anniversary, since 1981 when he passed from this world to the next, he has been in our hearts every day. He, along with his older sister, are the reason I serve on the Board of Director's for AHRC Suffolk, it is my way of doing for the rest of my life all I can for them both. But something more important happened, they, my two children gave me a real reason to live, not just for them but for all those who fight for their happiness and survival that suffer from developmental disabilities. I have grown to expand my agenda and grown to love them all.

Each wheelchair tells a story; every crutch or aid illustrates another of their fight. Some of these wonderful and innocent people become attached to me on a personal level, some I have cried for when they passed or became a sadder physical state than when I saw them last. I've asked God so many times, why? Why is this all necessary, why must they suffer and their families too? How lonely is the frustration, how debilitating is the pain, and how forgotten is the public awareness?

That faith-filled January day so long ago will be etched in my brain, inscribed in my heart and will always weight me down, as we tried to the last hour to save his life.

The day he died started with my wife and I leaving the hospital at about 5:30 that morning and heading home to get some rest. We had sat up with him all night and decided we needed a shower and some rest, some nourishing food to sustain us and went home. We sat with relatives and friends all day, talking about other things than the agony of the coming of a defeat we knew we would not be able to fully understand. His doctors couldn't understand it, from the day he entered the hospital the Friday after Thanksgiving Day.

When everyone went home, my wife was in the shower and I was watching a thing called M TV when the hospital called and asked if we wanted to pull the plug, and we said no, we wanted to see him first. When we arrived at the hospital, a priest raced past us on the stairwell and I began to wonder. As we entered the ICU, we looked down the long corridor and saw his room, and as we got closer, the nurse was sobbing and covering him like he was cold, his little hands were freed of all the IV's, just a gentle look of relief carved into his round little face. We were too late!

Somewhere he sits now up in a Paradise, probably mourning us who he left behind, as we are dealing with earthly pain and remembrances, free from his own. I go to his grave every chance I get and I have the conversations that continue to keep him close to my heart and soul. People say that God only gives you what you can handle; keep on dreaming people it just isn't true. What God gives us is free will, the ability to do and think for ourselves, there are no such things as intercessions on the behalf of those of us on Earth. I have trouble with the cloud of mysticism that offers band-aids for deep wounds, pointless sayings that really don't hold any meaning after the fact. I know people are being kind and offering solace, but yet I know it means nothing in the end.

When I go to the cemetery, I visit his grave then start my rounds. Visiting both my folks and in-laws graves, my wife's parents and some children that also passed too soon. Those are the parents I feel for: will never tell them it is what God gave them because they can handle it. They can't either, don't let exterior looks fool you, going to bed with a shattered heart is not what God wants for you, losing your grip every-once-in-a-while over lost days you realize, such as when someone marries or graduates who is the same age as your child would have been, was not in God's plan for the child or yourself. It is but what life is all about, in the end.

My son Joseph was my third child. Joseph looked like me when I was his ages, an aunt said he looked like someone had cut my head off and put it on his body.

"In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on".
Robert Frost

IT FLOATS!

It was the end of a long boat trip to Italy and then back again to her adopted home, and Grandma Frances had a trunk filled with luggage, or so it seemed. She had just returned from a dedication of an orphanage in her name and a visit to her hometown near Naples. It got me to thinking and remembering an incident when I was very young.

If I could journey beyond my time, I would be willing to be brave enough to take the voyage from my ancestor's hometowns and venture to America. Why? Just a peek to feel the idea of coming to America, to see for the first time the Statue of Liberty, to feel what it was like to see the shores of America for the first time. After all, this was the land of opportunity, the streets were paved in gold, while in Italy the war-ravaged land was being rebuilt, families were reuniting for the first time in the recovery of post-war Italy.

It seems so contradictory to travel to a land called; ‘America' knowing that Amerigo Vespucci was the explorer, a fellow Italian who they named two continents after, yet the arrivals from Italy faced prejudice and hatred, suspicion and humiliation from those who came here first, but I'm not talking about the Native Americans!

I guess it is something akin to penicillin, it grows as a mold but then is turned into something beautiful and helpful. In America, just about every city, town, and hamlet own an Italian restaurant, and it shares with Chinese restaurants, bagel shops, and sushi bars!

I often wondered what went through the mind of my grandparents on the first sighting of the cities, rolling mountains and glorious harbors, all harbors of hope, adventure and of course: uncertainty. There were the language barrier, the local customs and the fear of not being accepted into the fabric of daily life. It reminds of a story of my grandmother once so long ago. She traveled back to Italy, and on her return voyage on a ship, she had purchased a trunk load of salami, cheese, and pork products, all locally in Naples. This was illegal and customs was beginning to crack down on the undeclared imports.

The inspectors were checking luggage and with a sniffing dog, Grandma's large trunk became under suspicion. They asked her to open the trunk, and grandma asked why. To no satisfaction on her part, they refused to answer her. They asked what she had in the trunk and now she kept silent. Then the trunk was opened by customs, under a hail of Italian curse words, that nearly sunk the ship, and caused permanent ear damage to the agents, as the salami and cheeses flew overboard miles before the entry into port. To the day she died, grandma regretted the loss of such precious cargo from "Da sonnamabitches". My dad loved to tell this story whenever we would discuss how feisty grandma, the redhead was.

GRANDMA LAYS DOWN THE LAW!

It was the fall of 1950, and a new school year was beginning at Our Lady of Lourdes elementary school. Mom had an infant at home and me entering first grade. My older sister would accompany me to school every morning while my parents tried to either change the locks or move to a different apartment by 3:00 pm when the school had enough and sent me home.

One of the things that were needed before they would allow a child into their world of religious education and military discipline was an upfront payment of both tuition and books, each was to be paid separately. Mom gave my older sister the money for the books in an envelope and her, in turn, handed it to my cranky first-grade teacher, Miss Langon.

Miss Lagon was a cranky skinny old lay-teacher who wore old-fashioned laced shoes and long floral dresses, who also had a need to give me a hard time. The around the third or fourth day of school Old Miss Langon called my sister over and gave her ‘What for’ for not paying for my books! I remembered that my sister gave her the money in a white envelope my mother gave her with the money in it.

From under her gray bun, severe attitude and squeaky voice my sister got reprimanded for not turning it in. Going home in tears that day she related to Mom her encounter with the Leona Helmsley wanna-be (Queen of Mean) Old Miss Langon. Grandma Frances who happened to be visiting that day listened as Mom translated the sobbing encounter to Grandma into Italian. Grandma said nothing.

The next morning, there stood Grandma, waiting for us to go to school, she wanted to meet the wicked witch of Catholic Schools, the original Our Lady of Sorrows. Off we went to school, my older sister, and Grandma tugging me along by the hand. She was getting to the bottom of this and would set Miss Langon straight about yelling at her grandkids.

We reached my first-grade classroom Grandma stood with her hands on her hips and motioned the old girl over, what she said I don’t remember, but I do remember the witch retreating backward as grandma raised Hell, fingers flashing from all the rings she wore, and hands waving in her nice Italian accent, fingers!  We were never bothered by Miss Langon again. It was later ascertained that she did get the envelope.

TO ALL MY BEAUTIFUL FRIENDS!

As I sit here in pain, swallowing hard, coughing and feeling the swelling that grips my neck. I feel GREAT! All the wonderful wishes that came from all of you who sent them made me realize that the pain doesn't matter for long, but your friendship does.

I was lucky that I did the operation when I did, I was told originally that the blockage of my carotid artery was 90%, but it was 99%! I was ready to die and didn't know it. The blockage was as the surgeon said: "Like a hard ball of mass!" Again, I was lucky.

God works in ways I don't understand, but makes me a believer, twice I have had close calls in my life, then he added another, this time I realize that there are things I still have left to do, not for me but for others. He reminded me of that by the outpouring and love you sent me, I am truly honored, shocked and yet proud.

I could say Thank You to my family and those of you who gave me your encouragement and prayers, instead I say: I love you all. For you innate kindness, devotion to God and sense of family I get from all of you.

Thank you!