Thursday, December 15, 2011

MEATBALL ART


All my life, meatballs were a big part of it. Mom would make them on a Sunday morning, and I learned at an early age you need to dip into the pot and get one! We had a weekly Sunday visitor named Mike who came to the house and paid a visit. Mom would have the pot of meatballs permeating in the sauce and Mike would get a folk and help himself. I would watch this ritual every week and wished I were tall enough to dig into the pot myself and get a meatball.

When I was tall enough to help myself, Mom started to place the wooden spoon on the handle of the big pot as a deterrent to proliferation of the meatball population. This was intimidating since the spoon had been stirring the hot sauce.

Finally I got married and realized that with a plan and an inexperienced meatball maker, I could possibly pull it off, or in the case of meatballs, pull one out! TLW (The Little Woman) had faithfully replicated Mom’s recipe and was leaving the pot unprotected! The possibilities were unlimited! After a few times, I started to get sloppy and leave telltale signs of meatball theft. (I think I wanted to be caught) Although TLW never said “No” to my taking the meaty wonders, she would remark when there were signs. Often she went out to the store or church, opening up my chances. Sometimes she would say: “Joe, would stir the gravy while I’m gone?” It was like asking a horse thief to lock the stable door.

Recently, she interrupted my Jets game with an odd request.

“Joe, will you do me a favor and taste my meatballs?”

“I’m sorry, would you repeat that?”

“Yes, I tried a new recipe and I’m afraid it is too spicy. Go ahead, try one, you can even try a sausage if you want!”

It wasn’t April 1st, I didn’t see any readable traps, and I know she never made explosive meatballs before, and so I took one. It was no fun. Having permission to take a meatball without the art of stealing it, is not the same.

Putting on her coat, she leaves me to the whole exposed rack of meatballs. Feeling somewhat disappointed, I wondered if it was the recipe or the lack of routine. I take one more, taste it and think: “Better, much better!”

Funny thing is I left the sausages alone; there is no tradition in it.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO A MEATBALL FROM CONNECTICUT, #2 SISTER, (NIPPY) FRAN!

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

HISTORICAL TRIVIA-DIGYANO?


Because I love you, and the fact that someone sent me this… 

Did you know the saying "God willing and the Creek don't rise" was in reference to the Creek Indians and not a body of water? 

Benjamin Hawkins wrote in the late 18th century.  He was a politician and Indian diplomat.  While in the south, Hawkins was requested by the President of the U.S. to return to Washington. In his response, he was said to write, "God willing and the Creek don't rise."  Because he capitalized the word "Creek" it is deduced that he was referring to the Creek Indian tribe and not a body of water.

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 In George Washington's days, there were no cameras. One's image was either sculpted or painted.  Some paintings of George Washington showed him standing behind a desk with one arm behind his back while others showed both legs and both arms.  Prices charged by painters were not based on how many people were to be painted, but by how many limbs were to be painted.  Arms and legs are 'limbs,' therefore painting them would cost the buyer more.  Hence the expression, 'Okay, but it'll cost you an arm and a leg.'   (Artists know hands and arms are more difficult to paint)

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 As incredible as it sounds, men and women took baths only twice a year (May and October) Women kept their hair covered, while men shaved their heads (because of lice and bugs) and wore wigs.   Wealthy men could afford good wigs made from wool. They couldn't wash the wigs, so to clean them they would carve out a loaf of bread, put the wig in the shell, and bake it for 30 minutes.   The heat would make the wig big and fluffy, hence the term 'big wig... ' Today we often use the term 'here comes the Big Wig' because someone appears to be or is powerful and wealthy.

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In the late 1700's, many houses consisted of a large room with only one chair. Commonly, a long wide board folded down from the wall, and was used for dining. The 'head of the household' always sat in the chair while everyone else ate sitting on the floor.   Occasionally a guest, who was usually a man, would be invited to sit in this chair during a meal.. To sit in the chair meant you were important and in charge.  They called the one sitting in the chair the 'chair man.' Today in business, we use the expression or title 'Chairman' or 'Chairman of the Board.'

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Personal hygiene left much room for improvement.. As a result, many women and men had developed acne scars by adulthood. The women would spread bee's wax over their facial skin to smooth out their complexions.  When they were speaking to each other, if a woman began to stare at another woman's face she was told, 'mind your own bee's wax.'  Should the woman smile, the wax would crack, hence the term 'crack a smile'.  In addition, when they sat too close to the fire, the wax would melt . .. . Therefore, the expression 'losing face.'

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Ladies wore corsets, which would lace up in the front. A proper and dignified woman, as in 'straight laced' wore a tightly tied lace..

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 Common entertainment included playing cards. However, there was a tax levied when purchasing playing cards but only applicable to the 'Ace of Spades...'  To avoid paying the tax, people would purchase 51 cards instead.  Yet, since most games require 52 cards, these people were thought to be stupid or dumb because they weren't 'playing with a full deck..'

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 Early politicians required feedback from the public to determine what the people considered important. Since there were no telephones, TV's or radios, the politicians sent their assistants to local taverns, pubs, and bars.  They were told to 'go sip some Ale and listen to people's conversations and political concerns. Many assistants were dispatched at different times.  'You go sip here' and 'You go sip there.' The two words 'go sip' were eventually combined when referring to the local opinion and, thus we have the term 'gossip.'

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 At local taverns, pubs, and bars, people drank from pint and quart-sized containers. A bar maid's job was to keep an eye on the customers and keep the drinks coming.  She had to pay close attention and remember who was drinking in 'pints' and who was drinking in 'quarts,' hence the phrase 'minding your 'P's and Q's'.
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One more: bet you didn't know this!

In the heyday of sailing ships, all war ships and many freighters carried iron cannons. Those cannons fired round iron cannon balls.  It was necessary to keep a good supply near the cannon. However, how to prevent them from rolling about the deck?   The best storage method devised was a square-based pyramid with one ball on top, resting on four resting on nine, which rested on sixteen.  Thus, a supply of 30 cannon balls could be stacked in a small area right next to the cannon.  There was only one problem.... how to prevent the bottom layer from sliding or rolling from under the others. The solution was a metal plate called a 'Monkey' with 16 round indentations. However, if this plate were made of iron, the iron balls would quickly rust to it. The solution to the rusting problem was to make 'Brass Monkeys.' Few  landlubbers realize that brass contracts much more and much faster than iron when chilled.. Consequently, when the temperature dropped too far, the brass indentations would shrink so much that the iron cannonballs would come right off the monkey; Thus, it was quite literally, 'Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.' (All this time, you thought that was an improper expression, didn't you.)

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

THE INSTITUTE


All my life people have told me I have very nice penmanship. The reason could be one of two: one may be I am artistically inclined, or two may be because of my early years of education at Our Lady of Lourdes Elementary School on Aberdeen Street in Brooklyn. I like to believe that the later is true.

A whole morning was often dedicated to teaching each student the correct way to hold a pencil, with a pincer grasp, the slant of the paper on the desk, the posture and the correct formation of the letter being created. Up on the wall, surrounding the room, and under the pictures of Washington and Lincoln, who sat under the cross, was the famous alphabet with guidelines from ‘Aa’ to ‘Zz’. The pictures reminded us that we were American; the crucifix reminded us that we better pay attention or that would happen to us, and of course the alphabets gave us a clue.

The teacher would stroll the room overlooking your paper and try very hard to change the left-handers to right-handers, move the pencil from your middle finger to your index finger, straighten your posture and clearly and precisely as possible, form your letters correctly. Non-compliance meant that your ears might hurt.

TLW (The Little Woman) had the same kind of education as I did early on, with the same tools. Unfortunately, she was sick the day they taught penmanship, and so writes left-handed, and because of that, I’m not even sure that she legally signed the marriage license! As you know, I have to take her notes to me to the pharmacist to read back to me. I tried once to hold it up on a mirror, but the darn mirror cracked and she yelled at me to be more careful!

Aside from the penmanship lessons, the school taught me other things as well: deportment, God, and respect. It was a kind of Institute of higher learning. I learned that women were equal to any man, that respect for adults meant something, and that ‘Thank you’ had a meaning.

Mom and Dad also supplemented the institute, with rules such as: “If I hear that the teacher needed to discipline you at school, when you get home you will get the rest!”

It was an imposing building, three stories high and made of brick, which matched the church building and the rectory. There was a large multi-sectioned schoolyard and even a garden where the priests lived. The building had it’s own meaning aside from the classroom. It told me that there was where all I was going to be worth was learned. That was the place where they waited for me in the schoolyard and started to direct my education. They made me line up in a class, move by grade to my classroom, and like Pavlov’s dog, when to move and eat by the sound of a bell!

To Mom it was a happy place. For her! It was where she managed to maintain her sanity for a few precious hours a day, until I left the building and returned home. After a day with the brothers and nuns and frustrated lay-teachers, Mom’s wooden spoons seemed like a great place to be.

Monday, December 12, 2011

BIRTHDAY WISHES


 “A birthday is just the first day of another 365-day journey around the sun. Enjoy the trip.

Best wishes on your upcoming birthday!”
The Wanna-Be Bank & Truss Co.

Last December 1st, I got this wonderful email from the Wanna-Be Bank & Truss Co. It is not often that a bank takes the time to recognize your birthday.

“A birthday is just the first day of another 365-day journey around the sun. Enjoy the trip.”

That is a very true sentiment, one that puts birthdays in perspective.

“Best wishes on your upcoming birthday!”

“Best wishes” How could you not love those words? Yes, it makes me feel special.

For myself, I feel honored that they took the time. When I think about all the people that I know who work there, Like TLW (The Little Woman), The Princess of Foxwoods Points, Toots II, I’ll Do It Doug, and the Bow Tie Lenny, I see their smiling faces and feel the love.

To all of you I say: “Thank you, I appreciate it.” To all of you I say: “Please, no presents?” To all of you I say: “Don’t bother about a card?”

But mostly I say: “My birthday isn’t until July!”

Sunday, December 11, 2011

1955


Life seemed to change in a big way every ten years for me. Something major would occur that marked a turning point in my life and stayed with me.

1955 was the year when someone asked my father: “Is that your kid?” and he was starting to answer “Yes” instead of “Why?”

Mom was coming to the realization that I was growing and started to buy bigger and heavier wooden spoons. She was happy and I was happy for her.

Around the end of the year, about a week before Christmas, we moved from Brooklyn and headed out to the burbs. I was going to be among the countrified, the genteel, the trees and birds and lawns that typified life on Long Island. My parents wanted to turn me into a sissy, not a boy from Brooklyn anymore.

We moved one Saturday evening and as I rode the Long Island Railroad train out to the country from the Atlantic Avenue station in Brooklyn, I watched the city fade away, and with it all I knew. I was going to a strange place, with strange people, and worse, a strange school. I was not happy.


As the train sped away, I could see the grimy, filthy brick and stone buildings, the congested traffic, the thousands of people milling about, the parked cars on the streets, the garbage cans with their deformed lids, and I was going to miss it all, as it faded into the gloom of evening and distance!

Beside my Mom was my baby sister, just a year old and learning to talk, not only fluently, but also - worse still, rapidly! My two other sisters were already out in the new place with my Dad who had to go in early. They could already talk fast, and I knew the odds against me were even greater now.

As we arrived at the Patchogue Railroad Station, we fell out of the train and into my aunt’s car, where she drove us into the still of the night, and the darkness of a strange new home.

As we entered the new house, Dad was relieved of total command as Mom took over. I was warned (precautionary as Mom would say) and given a place to sleep for the night.

The next morning two of my worse fears were confirmed.
1)   My sisters were still there
B)  We really had moved!

Dad had to go back to the city that Monday because he still worked on Canal Street in NYC, for the NY Laboratory and Supply Company, and so I was looked to do a little exploring.

“Joseph, stop teasing your sisters, I need you to find a grocery store.”

“Where am I gonna find a store Ma?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t need you now would I? And while you’re out there, see if you can find a church.”

Out I go into the undeveloped and foreign neighborhood of Hagerman, East Patchogue, or one of those places, and start down the street toward what I hope is civilization of some sort.

Not the Original Church
I was amazed by the lack of civilization, and quickly became worried that there was no TV in the area! All I could actually see was trees, dried winter grass, and old worn out gas stations, with big signs on them. After making the only turn heading west, I decided I would walk a while, and after no luck, would retrace my steps. I was missing Curiale’s and Butlers deli markets! Not even a Spinner’s in the area, this was the boondocks! My feet were starting to hurt when I finally came across a place that looked interesting. “Gene’s Supermarket”, the sign said, and I went in.

There standing behind the counter was this nasty looking old lady who eyed me suspiciously. I went to the bread section and got a loaf of sliced bread, and quart of milk and I think some baloney and mayo. She eyed me in her pink flowered cotton apron, watching my every move. Barely standing with her grey head over the counter. She must have thought that I was going to rob her. I was a stranger, probably one of ‘those city kids’.

No smile was emanating from the lady. No acknowledgment that I was a customer, and no trust that I was honest. Feeling very alone and strange, I placed the groceries on the counter and waited for her to tally it all up. Still no smile from grandma, as she rang me up. I tried smiling, but was greeted with a stone and stern face, and almost hostility. Paying her, I was about to leave, when I had an idea.

Me: “Do you know where the church is?”

Momma Mean: “What church?”

Me: “ Catholic church.” I replied timidly.

Momma mean: “Oh! Sure! St. Joseph The Worker, right across the street on this side of the road, honey!” She was now smiling! I had made a friend.

Thanking her, I told her how happy my mother was going to be!

When I returned home, Mom asked how I did.

“Oh, fine, the store is nearly in Brooklyn!”

“Did you find a church?” she asked.

“Yup! They knew I was coming so they named it after me; St. Joseph the something or other.”

“Yes, they did, didn’t they!”

Saturday, December 10, 2011

COMRAD SON



I was trapped! There was no way of getting out, and the oxygen level was dangerously low! It seemed like the ceiling was caving in on me and soon it would be all over, as my breathing was in short gasps. Fear was overtaking me and it seemed like there was no hope left. I even feared my body was shutting down!

#2 Son was sitting next to me and we were on our way somewhere in the driving rain and I was being questioned once again. It was conversion time, that time when the son who has all the answers is enlightening his father who has no questions and didn’t ask.

The idea of drinking while driving was starting to appeal to me: so was maybe closing my eyes and getting into a fetal position and going into the back seat to do it. The problem with that was #2 Son would then drive. The last time anyone saw driving like that was on the Indy 500 track, and the time before that was against a carrier in the South Pacific by a plane with a meatball painted on it’s wings and sides!

Sobbing has become a seasonal event, usually in the car where #2 Son has a captivated audience of 1, and that audience is named Dad. It seems that all of life’s experience can be gained on the campus of Purchase SUNY. There is no need to live life after that. Marriage, career, social interaction, all are meaningless unless you have spent time on the Purchase SUNY campus! Had I known this sooner, say 45 years ago, I would have attended and then decided there was nothing else to do, and would have gone into the mountains and wrote philosophy of life snippets for the unwashed and uneducated masses.

There was a bigger issue looming. The ride home! I thought at one point of abandoning the car and taking a bus home, or even walking the ten miles or so.

As I feared, the ride home was worse. The category selected by #2 Son was a continuation of the ride going: my politics. The last time he selected: Dad’s political point of view and the time before that was: talking Dad’s political point of view. So you see, the topics were wide and varied.

Suddenly, as I was contemplating abandoning the car on the road and just running back and forth across the east bound traffic on Rte. 347 the next turn to my voyage of the damned came up and I started to have hope. “Hang on DelBloggolo, only a few more miles to rest your soul!”

Finally we arrive, my head is spinning, and my ears ringing and no one is answering! TLW (The Little Woman) I blame her for junior Karl Marx looks at me and chuckles! Sure, she didn’t have to ride with him.

Oh death, sweet relieving death, where are you????

SPORTS FANS: Read my blog: http://joenellen.blogspot.com/

Friday, December 09, 2011

SELF-BRANDING


Recently I attended a presentation on self-branding. The idea is to present the best face of a business or organization to the public, especially on the Internet. This was a few days before I took down a website I had planned to launch. It included some interesting concepts and along with another presentation on how to get your business found quickly, it made for some very interesting strategy.

I decided since I don’t need the info for a business anymore, that maybe I would ‘Re-brand’ DelBloggolo! Yes, my feeling is that it should be used for something that will be helpful, not just something that ruins your first cup of coffee in the morning.

I seem to remember floating the idea of cups or t-shirts with the DelBloggolo logo on it, maybe a board game or maybe even a book on favorite DelBloggolo blogs. That is nice, but does it further a bigger and better cause?

So I am playing with the idea of taking the DelBloggolo merchandising idea and donating the money to charities that the readership (That is you) might like. Every month, we take the proceeds and from your suggestion, send the money there.

I would take one month and send it to AHRC Suffolk, one month to The Compassionate Friends, maybe one month to a Autism group. Every month I would pick a group from your selection and donate the money.

If this idea appeals to you (I promise the merchandise will NOT have my picture on it and will not contain anything objectionable) let me know and I will start the process of thinking it through.

Thursday, December 08, 2011

COMING OUT OF THE CLOSET, HOHOHO!


It’s that time of the year again, and yours, truly is once again playing Santa. There are two places I go to for the last few years, one is a home for developmentally disabled adults, and then 2 nights later I do their annual holiday dance. The home has only 8 people, and they love me! Who wouldn’t, I’m Santa after all. The dance includes over 400 individuals who get their picture taken and get to tell Santa what they want.

The dance usually takes over 2 hours with picture taking of each individual or sometimes his or her boy or girl friends included. The temperature in that suit reaches the point that I start to sweat, through the beard, the hat, and the suit!

But the worst part is the physical abuse your body can take. For instance, posing with someone very small or vary large causes you to strain your own body. Those that are physically disabled require extra effort to get into the picture with them.

But the best thing about playing Santa is that people believe. They express love, and I try to give it back. I work on my HOHOHO’s, and I try to image what Santa should do. It makes my holiday for sure.

There is a big closet at the end of the General Purpose Room where the dance is held, in there I dress and hide out until the curtain call. The live band plays and suddenly the MC makes the announcement, and the big wooden door opens and out Santa comes. Joe Del Bloggolo has disappeared into space somewhere, and Santa takes over. Once out that door, they charge Santa, grabbing him and hugging or kissing or slapping him on the back. God, that feels great!

If I had the power to give them a gift, it would be the gift of healing, so they would be home with their families, rather in a dance because they are disabled. I am grateful for the opportunity to do this kind of thing. It makes me do for someone else, besides myself. I truly believe that to attain true happiness, your actions should be the reason you smile, and see others smiling too. What I do to make people smile, make them laugh and more importantly, put them in the spirit of the holiday is my gift to myself.

Wednesday, December 07, 2011

PEARL HARBOR


70 years ago, the world was once again, fully into conflict. In those 70 years, a lot has been learned and in the immediate past 20 years, and yours truly learned a lot too.

We as westerners come to view the attack on Pearl Harbor as a “sneak” attack. If you ask a Japanese what that was, he or she will tell you from the Bushido code, it is launching a battle, and surprise is the element most needed to succeed.

The Japanese people didn’t want war, and the raging conflict that existed within the Japanese government was between the peace faction and moderates opposed to war against the army and navy hotheads that eventually prevailed. The military even deceived the Emperor!

Many Americans think that Hiroshima was the reason for Japan’s surrender. It wasn’t! What made Japan surrender was the firebombing that the USAF conducted with impunity on the cities of Japan, threatening to wipe out the cities populations and cultures. They, the Japanese viewed the atomic bomb as just another weapon. The Emperor, Hirohito saw the destruction of the Atomic bomb and feared for his people.

The Japanese considered the atomic bomb to be an act of terrorism and a war crime, and had they won the war, General Curtis Lemay would have stood trial for war crimes because of the fire bombing, as well as the atomic bomb!

I personally do not wish to pardon the Japanese for what they did, especially in Nanking, Hong Kong, and Singapore, not to mention the Bataan Death March, or the callous disregard for prisoners of war. What troubles me is we were sending home skeleton heads of dead Japanese soldiers as souvenirs, a ghoulish act in anyone’s book.

So what we have is the sad fact that we wage war, make ourselves self-righteous and condemn the loser as the aggressor, the barbarian, and the war criminal.

I have always admired the Japanese race. They are culturally a beautiful people, dealing with the pleasures of life. Everyone writes poems that depict the moment or a character. The way they view nature, the simplicity in their art and their calligraphy, so beautiful that each character could be a design in itself, which it is. The Japanese food is some of the best in the world, and I am not speaking of sushi, although I love it. Their lives are interwoven with tradition that dates for hundreds and hundreds of years, unchanged, and yet can be adapted to today’s needs. Flower arrangements, tea ceremonies, sword making, lacquer finishing, their dress and utensils, all viewed distinctively as Japanese, and their art is special. They have perfected the art of brush painting. They have taken a war-ravaged economy and turned it into one of the best and most prosperous in the world. They are the leaders now in the auto industry and electronics.

It is too bad we need to fight among ourselves, there is so much to enjoy, so much to learn, and so much to give to each other.

Maybe someday we will all get it.

Tuesday, December 06, 2011

GETTING THE DROP ON ‘EM,


Or scrambled Sunday!

We went to our usual diner for breakfast a few Sundays ago, after Mass. TLW (The Little Woman) in her never ending quest to get me to heaven tries every Sunday. In my quest to reward her for fighting such heavy odds, I buy her breakfast after each desperate attempt.

Seated in the diner, I waited for my chance. It was a usual Sunday and I needed to shake things up, kind of give the day a different twist. Looking around I spotted my ‘mark’, a young waitress heading my way!

Over came the young lady with her perky smile who was going to take our order. Bright and young as a new spring morning, with pen and order pad in hand, she stood before us ready to launch her greeting. But before she even took that first breath to do so…

Me: “Good morning! I’m Joe and this is TLW, we will be your customers today!” (This technique was actually developed by #1 Son a while ago, and I decided to add it to my repertoire of confusions.)

The young lady just stood there, tried to say something, and wondered why her world had gone so badly in such a short time.

Me: “I’ll have two scrambled, French fries extra crispy and rye toast.”

Her: “Huh… oh, er… No meat?”

Now she was really confused, someone had taken her routine and twisted it and was now NOT doing the ordinary, no meat!”

Feeling completely successful I replied: “NO meat, its meatless Sunday!”

She not once came over to interrupt us to ask if everything was alright!

Monday, December 05, 2011

OLD ACQUAINTENCES


Last night I was bringing my daughter back to her home when I met an old friend of TLW (The Little Woman) and mine named Jack. Like us, Jack and his wife have a daughter with developmental disabilities like ours, she lives in an ICF (Intermediate Care Facility), and like us he and his wife care very much for and about their child. Jack is in his late 70’s and carries his burden in his face, as his age takes over his being.

As he was leaving the building with his wife, and I had pulled up I could see that they looked a little down. I decided to get his attention and say hello, and ask about his daughter. From the look on his and her faces, devastation had set in, once again. Parents like us have to deal with the possibilities of having a fragile child and bad news.

I asked about their health and they asked about mine. Then I asked about his daughter. For the first time his wife spoke up. “More tumors on her leg!” she offered. Funny how news like that can hit you. You think; “Thank God my daughter doesn’t have that!” then you feel guilty about thinking it.

“I’m so sorry!”

Jack looked up for the first time, and said: “Well, THIS time they got a great doctor, he’ll nip it in the bud!”

Somehow it didn’t convince me, so I said what I should have; “Good Jack, they have some great doctors these days.” We turned to go our own ways, and as I looked back at him and his wife, the mother of his daughter, a child of 51 in crises from the day she was born, and I hugged my daughter very close and very long.

With children like ours, we can’t afford to worry about tomorrow; we need to embrace the present moments that we have with them.

Sunday, December 04, 2011

ALL OUR PRIORITIES ARE ALL IN ORDER




The other day, I was out for a late afternoon meeting, and no one was home.

TLW (The Little Woman) came home from work and entered an empty house.

I got home and we had dinner. TLW made an announcement-that she came home to an empty house and realized she missed…

Well guess who she missed?

Go on, take a guess.

One of her kids… Nooooo.

Her husband who is there every night for over 40 years…

Noooo!

The FRIGGIN DOG! That’s who!

SHE MISSED THE FRIGGIN DOG!

The dog is dead.

Since early May, the dog has been gone. This is the same dog that greeted her in the morning when she got up with: poops, pee, and the night before’s dinner on the rug! That is who she missed!

Not her husband of 40 years who makes dinner for her every night, not the husband who unscrews the jars, fixes things, listens intently to her stories from the Wanna-Be-Bank and Truss Co! Nooo, The friggin dog she misses.

I’m thinking, maybe I should poop on the rug so she’ll miss me once in a while.


Saturday, December 03, 2011

HO-HO, UH-OH!


It’s that time of the year!  That wonderfully magic day called: Christmas.

Oh, how I hate this time of the year!

As I get older, the joys I used to experience for the season to be jolly have now slipped me by. I have no little children to plan Christmas for, no grandchildren that I know of, so it is just TLW (The Little Woman), and me.

I remember Christmas morning with the kids, presents wrapped and the house decorated like it was vandalized by Santa!

It is also the time that I shop for TLW. I think for putting up with me for the whole year, she should and deserves a present. Maybe present is a little weak for what she deserves, but nonetheless, it is an issue that keeps me awake at nights.

IT IS A NIGHTMARE!

I can’t recall how many years I have had the same bad dream. It is Christmas morning, she gives me a gift that knocks my socks off, and I realize I didn’t get her one! The sense of failure, shame, guilt and remorse, the self-anger is all there, and I was a thoughtless husband, forgetting someone dear.

It is a motivator, big time.

Usually in that dream, the kids are still all living at home, and in my usual fashion, I am teasing them about the gifts they got.

Growing up in Brooklyn, I don’t recall Mom and Dad exchanging gifts for the Holidays. Mom cooked, Dad went out to buy the presents and I guess that was all that was needed. We had a tree, usually purchased on Christmas Eve that needed help, and probably should have been placed in a large bucket so it could catch all the pine needles that were falling off.

Maybe they exchanged gifts quietly, maybe not. I know we were poor so maybe they just had each other. They always made sure we had the same toys as our friends did, so there must have been some kind of checking with other parents as to what to get us so all the kids in the neighborhood had the same.

I know that I have mentioned this before, and I will mention it again… the best gift I got from TLW was our first Christmas. We were struggling to get started in life as a couple, and were married only about 6 months. I had a job and was on my way, but money was tight. My watch had stopped working and I was not using it. As a tradition we have stocking gifts, and in it goes little items, price is not the criterion, just that there be something in it. In my stocking was my watch, which I had forgotten about, repaired! It made me very happy to this day!

Avoid the nightmares-shop for your sweetie – TODAY!

This year I got her her present early! I have to intercept the postman so she doesn't see the bill!

Friday, December 02, 2011

WHAT DIES FIRST?


There is that old question of: what came first, the chicken or the egg. It has been lingering around for many years and indeed, I once used it in a speech in Yorktown Pa. before the Direct Marketing Association convention.

The question seems to be arising in disguise this time.

My sister Tess and I were planning for the traditional Christmas Eve feast that many Italian families have of seven fish. Being Italy is a sea-faring nation, fish is a big part of their diet, and the seven comes from the: 7 hills of Rome. My grandparents brought that tradition over when they landed at Ellis Island. It was probably one of the greatest gifts, aside from their journey to this country, that they gave their children and grandchildren.

Tessie has taken on the tradition from my mother who at 93 will settle for a tuna sandwich on rye as long as she doesn’t have to cook anymore. My sister and I love the tradition, and looked forward to it since childhood. What the tradition really means to us is family. Getting together and keeping in touch with our sibs, cousins and aunts and uncles. Of course that has changed as we got older and now it is our children, and nieces and nephews.

This year sadly we will change the tradition a bit! Instead of cooking we will cater the Christmas Eve dinner. This is an unheard of departure form our beloved tradition, but Tess is getting tired as she approaches a rather big numbered birthday, and she also has a husband who is ill at the moment.

In catering, we have lost our personal touch, our statement that says we love each other, so we bother. That is the cooking aspect; the fish symbolizes our heritage and reminds us of our grandparents and the risks they took to come to this country, not knowing the language.

We still have the fish, without our touch, but we also have the most important ingredient in this celebration, each other. That we will hold onto for all our lives. What traditions are broken will be broken, but not forgotten and will dwell in our collective hearts.

I think like all families, we can have disagreements, but we do love one another, and that settles any dispute that may arise.

So to the family, to the friends we love to have join us, I know I am saddened and sorry we are changing. But walk into the house that evening, smell the food, see the lights of Christmas, and feel the true love that abounds in our hearts. Behind every greeting will be a genuine happiness that you are there, and that we will love having you, and will love you forever for joining us.

But to get back to the original question; What dies first, the person or the tradition, the chicken or the egg?

Thursday, December 01, 2011

CHECK, CHECK, AND … CHECK


Being married to TLW is like being married to a full time secretary and being involved in a military operation, all at once!

When we planned our wedding, we did so on the Long Island Railroad, and there was absolutely no hitch involved. Every morning, from the same seats, we made notes, scheduled and put in place. When we moved from apartment to house and house –to- house, we were labels and sorted, and we still have boxes that were packed over 35 years ago that we haven’t opened. But we know exactly what’s in them.

After all these years nothing has changed.

“Joe, I’m going to give you a list of what you need to remind #2 Son to bring home from school for the holidays!”

She starts to read off a litany of things and says she’ll write it down also.

The morning of the big ‘operation’ a list is left on the kitchen table for me.

Keys
Laptop
Phone
Charges
Laundry
Mike

“Toots, what’s this last thing on your list?”

“Well, that’s the most important thing on the list!”

“Don’t tempt me to partial read.”


Wednesday, November 30, 2011

WHAT A DIFFERENCE A VISIT WILL MAKE!


When it is just the two of us, TLW (The Little Woman) and myself, we tend to have an established pattern in our lives. It is predictable and reliable. She knows what I am doing and she tells me what I need to know about what she is doing.

It is usually the same kinds of foods in the house, the same snacks, anything I don’t like, and all healthy.

Then, right before Thanksgiving, I happened to be in the closet in the kitchen, (I come out once a day to use the toilet) and I noticed this bag of cookies. They seemed to me to have potential as a ‘happy’ bedtime snack, with a glass of milk. It had everything in it, all the essentials for a happy snack, including chocolate chips and nuts.

I went into the refrigerator, and there sitting under my nose was a container of soup. Broccoli and cheddar soup, and now I am beginning to realize, the cookies weren’t for me!


“Don’t touch that soup!” came the admonishment.

Being the man in the house I retorted: “OK” (She isn’t pushing me around)

“And those cookies, you can look at them, but don’t touch.”

Once again, I summoned up my courage and asked: “How come?”

“Your son is coming home from school for Thanksgiving.”

“When does he go back?”

“YOU take him back on Sunday.”

Doing the math I realize, 4 actual days to keep him occupied. The soup and cookies don’t stand a chance beyond 2 days. I might as well kiss the cookies goodbye, and the soup he will inhale before he is even in the door!

I tried to figure out how I might delay the inevitable. Talk politics! That’s it, and to really get him going, say something he will agree with, and then slowly turn it into something he doesn’t agree with. Yes the plan is brilliant; it is a master plan, one that will blowup in my face! I’ll be arguing from behind the bathroom doors, in the cars, over dinner or lunch, and even in my sleep! Besides all that, he argues while he eats!

Then it occurred to me, what am I doing? I hate broccoli and cheddar!

Then another idea comes to mind, #2 Son is a big supporter of the Wall Street rally, Zuccotti Park, here he comes!

No, that will only get me in trouble with TLW.

I come to realize sadly, that the world is passing me by. And so too, are the cookies.