Musings of an Aging Nobody

Vee Get Too Soon Old…Undt Too Late Schmart

May 23, 2025 curtisc27@gmail.com Comments 0 Comment

Do you Curt, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to live together in matrimony, to love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health, in sorrow and in joy, to have and to hold, from this day forward, as long as you both shall live…No matter how many pieces of Pennsbury Pottery she collects?

“I do.”

And Do you Kim, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to live together in matrimony, to love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health, in sorrow and in joy, to have and to hold, from this day forward, as long as you both shall live…No matter how many pieces of horse racing memorabilia he collects?

“I do.”

And that was that.

A match made in antique, collectible Heaven.

I now pronounce you…

Overwhelmed.

Some years back in addition to being obsessed with each other, we learned that we both shared another obsession…old stuff and collecting old stuff.

That made birthdays and holidays easy.

We just bought each other old stuff.

And when we bought our house, we replaced the modern doors with old doors, we replaced the window shades with old shutters, we replaced the entrance hallway closet doors with the front of an old outhouse, and so on and so on.

And when tragedy struck and the “in sorrow” part was put to the test, I decided we needed something to do to distract us in our time of grieving, so I got a Dorchester County, Maryland business license and rented a corner of antique store in Cambridge, Maryland and Christiansen’s Antiques and Collectibles was born.

Soon we expanded to a second location in Sterling, Virginia and then a third in Lucketts, Virginia.

Then one day while buying inventory at Quinn’s Auction House in Falls Church Virginia the auctioneer held up a box that contained two pottery mugs, one with an Amish woman and one with an Amish man.

“Look at those,” I thought, “Amish people…Kim might like that.”

So, I bought them and brought them home.

Then shortly after that, at Tillet’s Auction in Ashburn, Virginia, the auctioneer held up a pottery bread plate, that read “our daily bread” and looked very similar to those Amish mugs.

“Gee,” I thought again, “Kim might like that.”

So, I bought it and brought it home.

And thus, the first three pieces of Pennsbury Pottery found someone to have and to hold them, from that day forward.

And they were fruitful, propagating until there were many more to love.

MANY, MANY more.

To be fair however, I had my sickness too, and in my sorrow and in my joy, my office became the racing memorabilia mecca of the east coast. Derby glasses, Haskell hats, Triple Crown, Breeder’s Cup, Preakness this and that, Monmouth Park everything, and walls loaded with photos of those moments in horse racing history that gave me…

Goosebumps.

But now, with my 69th birthday looming in the not-too-distant future and imagining God whispering in the back of my head “Hey buddy, you’re getting old you know, what do you think you are going to do with all of that STUFF. You know you can’t take it with you…we got rules up here. We got an HOA, you know what that stands for don’t you?”

I know I know, but it’s so hard, it took me so long to accumulate all this STUFF, and who is going to promise to have and to hold and to love and to comfort all of them like I did?

Why is it nobody prepares you for what it is going to be like to grow old and retire.

Growing up in New Jersey my vision of retirement was white loafers, white belts, driver’s hats, cigars, golf clubs, and Bocce ball.

And maybe a gold chain.

Relaxation, on a pension.

Now it’s fifty or sixty years later and I am starting to panic.

I don’t have any white loafers.

And before I can move into my one story small house without the stairs that I can fall down, and in a warmer climate with no snow or ice that I can fall down on, I have to get rid of some of this STUFF.

But it’s hard.

And it’s depressing.

Kim and I spent a long time and had a lot of fun accumulating all this STUFF.

And we decorated our house the way we wanted it to look.

But what now?

Who is going to buy a house with the front of an outhouse greeting them inside the front door?

And what do we do with all the STUFF we collected?

Last weekend we began the process in earnest of preparing to downsize.

Preparing to say goodbye to many of those things that brought us so much joy over the years.

Some we will sell ourselves, most will go to auction.

I am having a hard time with it.

I am having a hard time realizing that getting old and preparing for retirement isn’t all white loafers and Bocce ball.

So if you are young and reading this, let me give you some advice.

Be careful what you accumulate.

It can be overwhelming.

And remember what God said:

You can’t take it with you, and…

they have rules up there you know.

Postscript:

Though we no longer sell antiques at any rented locations, we do continue to operate our business on a smaller scale online. We now call it Kim’s Vintage Cool Stuff. Most everything we buy now is intended to be sold with an occasional item getting squirreled away when I am not looking.

Pennsbury Pottery by the way is no longer in existence and was established in Morrisville Pennsylvania around 1950. The items are very unique and the company often made commemorative items for companies as well as dinnerware. The most valuable piece of Pennsbury Pottery is said to be the lost piece made for Walt Disney. If anybody wants some I know where you can find a few.

Just a couple of many Goosebump moments, and more hats

Ain’t No Grave Gonna Hold My Body Down

April 20, 2025 curtisc27@gmail.com Comments 1 comment

“Oh, there was a battle, a war between death and life
And there on a tree, the lamb of God was crucified
And he went on down to hell, he took back every key
And he rose up as a lion and he set all captives free” (from Ain’t No Grave)

Young Claude Ely was twelve years old in 1934. Despite his young age Claude, sick with tuberculosis, was dying. He claims to have spontaneously been inspired to perform and ultimately write the song “Ain’t No Grave” while his family was praying over him.

Now that is some inspiration.

Maybe I should get my family to pray over me.

It’s Easter.

I was listening to some music on YouTube this week, music videos created by the folks at Christ Church in Easton, Maryland, including one of “Ain’t No Grave”, and had a flashback to Easter of 2020. Deep in the woes of the pandemic, on that Easter Sunday, Kim and I had a sunrise service by ourselves with coffee and the internet on the patio, under the canopy with the fire pit. That morning Kim shared a music video with me that someone had shared with her.

It was awesome.

That was the beginning of an online relationship with Christ Church’s music videos, which were and remain extremely well done, as well as the sermons of Father Bill Ortt.

My friend Frank, who, about a month after that Easter Sunday in 2020 would pass away from complications of the Covid virus, was always encouraging and once told me to keep writing and that I could weave a good story.

I don’t know how true that is anymore, but I felt the same about Bill Ortt’s sermons. He could weave a story into a sermon better than anyone I had ever heard before or since.

Kim and I were fortunate to have attended a couple of services live at Christ Church in Easton and met briefly many of those we had come to be familiar with in the videos.

Unfortunately for us, but good for him, Bill Ortt has since retired, but I still go back and listen to his sermons and his stories from time to time.

Young Claude Ely eventually recovered from his illness and became a songwriter and preacher.

I suppose one could argue that we have never fully recovered from ours. We lost friends, learning time, worship opportunities, job routines; many suffer long term post covid or post vaccine health issues. We lost time with family, time that with some family will never be able to be made up.

Now it’s five years later, and whatever change we experienced is now baked into our routines, and except for the occasional reminder, it seems like ages ago.

And unlike that Easter Sunday in April of 2020, we are able to worship together again. My mother, Kim, and I attended the Easter service at the Milton Methodist Church in Woolford along with 78 members of our Woolford church family.

It’s Easter.

And if you believe like I believe, you know there ain’t no grave that can hold us.

And today we celebrate that.

And so, we have hope.

Because we received Grace.

Happy Easter.

Jesus said unto her, “I am the resurrection and the Life. He that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live

Postscript:

That first video Kim shared on Easter morning from Christ Church was one featuring James Coleman titled “Jesus I Believe.”

The photo above was taken this morning at church. The lily “tree” behind us was built by my father, originally for poinsettias at Christmas, but they leave it up year round now.

ære din far og mor

April 11, 2025 curtisc27@gmail.com Comments 2 comments

Ephesians 6:1-3

Children, obey your parents because you belong to the Lord, for this is the right thing to do. “Honor your father and mother.” This is the first commandment with a promise: If you honor your father and mother “things will go well for you, and you will have a long life on the earth.”

I heard a good sermon recently. It was about family dynamics, all aspects really, fathers and mothers; fathers and their children; children and their parents.

Honor your father and your mother and things will go well for you, and you will have a long life on earth.

I hope my kids are paying attention.

And they want a long life.

Today would have been my dad’s 96^th birthday. Needless to say I miss my dad, I miss him sharing stories, I miss sharing his stories.

My dad wrote the note above to his Uncle Gustav in Norway, and sent it along with the photo posted. I am not exactly sure of the date of the photo, but I am going to guess based on how Kim and I look, it was around 2001, so my dad would have been just a few years older than I am right now. This note and the photo, were shared with me by one of Uncle Gustav’s daughters, one of my dad’s cousins.

A couple of months ago, I was researching my mother’s great-grandfather Charles H. Rosch, who also had some interesting stories to tell that I hope to share someday, in my My Heritage account.

I found the name of a person who was also digging into that side of my family and decided to reach out to her using the My Heritage messaging component, an area of the app I had never visited.

Once there, I sent my message and then noticed I had a message in my inbox from May of 2023, a month before my father died. The message was from a cousin of my dad’s named Bjørg. She explained in her message that her father was Talmar Gustav Jansen, and that Bolette (my grandmother Sophie, Bolette was her first name) was her aunt and that she was the youngest grandchild of Grete and Theodor Jansen, my father’s grandparents.

So it turns out that Bjørg, is my father’s youngest cousin and is in fact younger than me at 67 years old. My grandmother had many siblings, Uncle Gustav was the youngest and only four years old when my grandmother emigrated through Ellis Island to America.

Eventually, Gustav himself would come to the United States. He had his fiancée Anna come over from Norway, and they were married in Brooklyn. My father’s family attended the event, and I have seen photos of their wedding. According to Bjørg, her two oldest siblings were born in the U.S. Then, after about ten years, Gustav and Anna returned to Norway with their children.

In my Norwegian American family, legend had it that “onkel” Gustav returned to Norway and introduced American-style split-level houses to Norway.

Having always heard that story, of course, I had to ask Bjørg if that was accurate.

Bjørg confirmed that to be true and even said a local newspaper wrote an article about it. She also said he traveled back and forth from Norway to the United States many times, bringing back cars and other items he could sell for “good money” in Norway.

I guess my brother Carl and I got that family buying and selling trait honestly.

When my dad was still active on Facebook, he told us he was communicating with at least one of his cousins in Norway. It turns out it was not Bjørg since she is not active on Facebook (a smart one), but she suggested that it might be another cousin named Ove Ludvigsen. So I dipped into my dad’s Facebook page and sure enough, I found Ove. And just last night, I reached out to Ove myself on social media. Ove is the son of my grandmother’s sister Ragna Johanne.

I must say, when I first read that first message from Bjørg, and I realized I had received it only a month before my dad left us, I was very sad. I know it would have made him really happy to learn another one of his cousins was reaching out to him.

Instead, I apologized to Bjørg and explained that I was just now seeing her message and that my dad had passed away about a month after her inquiry.

Now, almost two years later, it is I who is really happy to have connected with family, hear their stories, and share my dad with them.

And even though Bjørg admits that her “engelsk” is not that good, she has since mastered Google Translate and has been able to learn about my dad through the stories he shared with me.

Honor your father and your mother and things will go well for you, and you will have a long life on earth.

My father role modeled that for us. He and his siblings took good care of my grandparents in their later years.

And he lived a long life.

I don’t know how that is going to work out for me and Kim and our siblings. It didn’t work out so well for Carl and he was a great example. But all we can do is try our best.

The rest is in God’s hands.

And once again, with my father providing the inspiration, I am again reminded of the words of Nichole Spector:

…the fact that in the end, we all become stories. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, sure, but also: words to words.

More words to words, more words to share.

And to answer your question, Pop, according to Bjørg, your grandfather lived to be 99 years old.

So thanks Pop, and Happy Birthday.

Postscript:

ære din far og mor means honor thy father and mother in Norwegian…I think…

My great-grandparents Grete and Theodor Jansen

My grandfather Carl Oskar Christiansen with Sophie, Tante Helen (my grandmother’s only sister to come to America), and Gustav

Farsund, the area of Norway where my grandmother is from. Looks nice, huh?

Anyday, Anyway

March 12, 2025 curtisc27@gmail.com Comments 2 comments

This week, the nagging song in my head has been Anyday by Derek and the Dominos, written by Eric Clapton and Bobby Whitlock and from the album Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs.

Anyday, anyday, I will see you smile.
Any way, any way, just for a little, just for a little while.

It’s not that I am complaining, it’s a classic, but I think all this was triggered this week by the word anyway.

You know how we often heard Joe Biden end his sentences with the word “anyway” as his thought process trailed off.

“…Anyway..”

The fact is, my wife had someone point out to her that she often ends a thought by saying “anyway”.

I had never noticed that, but we thought it was funny and it turns out I do it as well so now we find ourselves pointing it out each time one of us does it.

Well…anyway…

Sunday morning drinking my coffee and reading my emails, I received an email from one of the many I get that are related to word meanings or grammar usage, and low and behold, this one was asking the grammatical question: “is it anyway or anyways?”

Last Friday, I headed out to the Eastern Shore to attend the Eastern Shore Writers Association’s annual Bay to Ocean Writers Conference. I have attended a few of these over the years, my first in 2017. It got me thinking about the fact that I wrote my first post on Musings of an Aging Nobody on New Year’s Day 2016 which means this is the tenth year I have been doing this. At the time the “Aging Nobody” part of the title was meant in a kind of a tongue in cheek way. I was all fired up, I was going to take that sabbatical and write that book.

Now ten years later the tongue is out of the cheek and I am facing the cold reality.

I am truly an aging nobody.

Driving out to the Eastern Shore without my wife allowed me to listen to my 60s golden oldies on SiriusXM that cause Kim anxiety but make me happy. But how is it I can remember all the words to Build Me Up Buttercup when sometimes I can’t remember what I did last week.

I am beginning to understand Joe Biden better.

It used to be I would get an idea, pull my truck off the road, and put down seven hundred words right there in a parking lot.

That is not so easy now. Though I am sure some of that is due to external distractions, Lord knows we have a few of those these days, but that aging part is tough.

Fewer words are hitting the paper with far too much time in between.

Last year I registered to attend this same conference but decided at the last minute not to go since I hadn’t been writing much and thought it may be a waste of time.

This year I decided to go hoping it might motivate me to have more of those pull the truck off the road moments.

Maybe it helped a little, I have gotten this far…

But anyway…

You don’t want to hear all that.

But let’s see, is it anyway or anyways?

Well according to the Word Smart email I received, in a nutshell:

“Anyway” is the standard, formal version of the word. This useful adverb means “in any case” or “without regard to other considerations.” It can also signify an additional consideration or a shift in thought. The alternate spelling, “anyways,” retains the same meaning and is listed in Merriam-Webster as a dialectical or informal U.S. spelling of “anyway.”

There you have it, in case you were wondering, and I am sure you were.

Well anyway…

It’s been fun so I think I will keep doing it.

And any day, in any way, if I can make you smile (or cry maybe), even if it’s just for a little while, it’s worth it.

Christmas 2024

January 5, 2025 curtisc27@gmail.com Comments 2 comments

From across the parking lot, the ringing of the handbell could be heard as they approached the grocery store. Reluctantly, but not wanting to portray a bad example for the children, the curmudgeonish grandfather reached into his pocket. He began to peel off a one-dollar bill to put in the bucket manned by a nice young lady all dressed festively in red just like the bucket hanging on the tripod.

But before the old man could make his move with his one-dollar bill, his young grandson opened his wallet, took out a twenty and bounded toward the young lady and her bucket, rolling up the bill and stuffing it in the slot.

“Hey bud that was a twenty dollar bill you put in there,” said the grandfather queryingly.

“I know, I just wanted to…” the boy replied.

“Well, that was very nice of you.”

After picking out the groceries and making sure everything on the list was there, along with a few additional items that always seem to end up in the grocery basket when grandchildren are shopping with their grandparents, they checked out and started their trip back to car exiting the store.

The young lady in red was still ringing.

The little boy stopped, reaching again for his wallet with his eyes getting big.

“Wait,” said the grandfather seeing what was again about to happen, “you already gave twenty bucks.”

But the little boy was determined and dashed down the sidewalk, once again to the red bucket, this time putting in a ten-dollar bill.

“Why did you do that” the old man inquired a second time.

“I just wanted to,” said the boy.

“Well, that was really very nice of you.”

On Christmas Eve the boys made sugar cookies with their grandmother, in shapes of Christmas trees, and snowmen, and gingerbread houses; they decorated the cookies in their own way with red and green sprinkles and icing.

Then they packed up their cookies in Christmas tins and containers and headed over to the local fire station. Once there, they rang the doorbell as the instructions advised and waited. A fireman appeared from the back and opened the door. The cookies, it was explained, were made for the fireman who had to work on Christmas. And because they were made with some almond flour, the cookies came with a warning in case there was a fireman allergic to nuts. The fireman invited the boys, their mom and grandparents into the firehouse and asked the boys if they would like to see the fire engines.

Of course! And two nice firemen gave the boys the tour of the fire engine and thanked the boys for bringing them cookies.

Gee.

A couple of nice and unexpected Christmas stories.

Kim and I were determined to minimize the stress of Christmas this year.

The Christmas decorations remained in their boxes and storage bins.

The plans for a Christmas card and Christmas letter for 2024 were abandoned.

Instructions were given to the kids that we were going to keep things simple this year, keeping gifts to $25 gift cards for the adults and focusing only on Ethan, Christian, and Cameron.

And to top that off, we were going on a road trip and wouldn’t be home for Christmas in Herndon. Kim and I were going to take our time and drive to Florida to spend Christmas with the Florida family.

No decorating, no cooking, no entertaining, no major gift giving and unwrapping, no trash…

No stress.

So, after having an early Christmas dinner with the Northern Virginia crew and exchanging our gift cards, Kim and I packed up and left for Florida on Saturday the 21^st. I made sure that before I left the house, I hung some greenery on the front door so we wouldn’t look too much like those people.

You know…scrooges.

Those people.

We took our time, stopping in Santee, South Carolina in time to watch the Steeler’s game in a local establishment called The Oasis where everyone was nice to us.

The next day, we finished our trip to Oviedo in time to celebrate Namaan’s birthday on Sunday.

We had a great week, took the kids to one of those bouncy places, saw an awesome movie called Sonic the Hedgehog 3, went to Cracker Barrel; wandered the neighborhood capturing Pokémon; played games, watched more Steeler’s and bowl games; ate, drank, and was merry…

But not at our house.

It was awesome.

Then with Christmas over, on Friday morning we took off to take even more time getting home.

We spent some time in Savannah, Georgia walking up and down River Street, taking a dinner cruise on an old river boat, doing some shopping and more merriment.

And, everyone we encountered, and we talked to many, were exceptionally nice.

The next morning, we stopped in Hardeeville, South Carolina and visited with our sister-in-law Teesha.

Then it was up the road to Fayetteville where we spent our last night, having dinner, watching old movies and yup, everyone was nice.

Sunday, we arrived home, ordered some Chinese food, watched football and went to bed.

We didn’t have to clean up or put away any decorations.

No stress.

On Christmas Eve, the kids put out eighteen carrots for the reindeer, some of those Christmas sugar cookies they baked and decorated, and some milk and candy canes.

Along with a letter that went like this:

Dear Santa Claus

I’m sorry I didn’t give you a candy cane last year so here’s 2. I also am giving each reindeer 2 carrots. I’m sorry for the bad things I’ve done this year. I tried to make up for it by giving $30 to the Salvation Army and giving cookies to firefighters. Thank you for being so nice and generous to people all over the world.

From, Christian Salem 12/24/2024

(address)

Oviedo, FL 32766

Warning! These cookies have almond flour, do not eat if you have nut allergies

Yeesh.

Kim, get me a tissue again.

Nice…somehow, I don’t think he learned that from the guy reluctant to give up a buck.

I need redemption.

Dear Santa,

I too am sorry for all the bad things I have done this year.

I’m sorry I didn’t decorate the Christmas tree and only hung the green thing on the front door.

I’m sorry I had such a hard time squeezing that one dollar bill out of my pocket to give to the Salvation Army.

I’m sorry I was so cheap, only giving out $25 gift cards and didn’t send any Christmas cards.

And I don’t have any carrots or homemade cookies, but I do have some homemade wine for next year.

But I too also thank you for being so nice to people all over the world.

And I would like to thank all those people and family who were so nice to Kim and I this Christmas.

I will try to do better next year.

From, Curt 12/31/2024

Herndon, VA 20170

And Warning, watch the wine, it contains Sulfites!

I think the best gift I got from this Christmas was experiencing how nice people can be.

And that I don’t want to be one of those people.

You know…those people.

That’s right, and next year, I might even up those gift cards to $50.

Merry Christmas everybody!

And we hope your 2025 and ours turn out to be a happy ones.

Kim, Curt, Cameron, Ethan, Christian, Savannah, Leon, Hayley, Malcolm, Alexa, Namaan, and Donny too.

Postscript:

The photo on the card was taken after Hayley and Malcolm’s wedding last May when the whole crew was in Northern Virginia.

Kim and I hope everyone had a Merry Christmas and thank you for all the cards and letters we received. And a special shout out to my cousin Judy, my sister, and my wife for some nudges in the Christmas spirit direction.

Ghosts of Christmases Past 2

December 20, 2024 curtisc27@gmail.com Comments 1 comment

“On Christmas Eve many years ago I laid quietly in my bed. I did not rustle the sheets, I breathed slowly and silently. I was listening for a sound I was afraid I would never hear: the sound of Santa’s sleigh bells.” (from The Polar Express)

We moved into the split-level house my dad built in late 1960 from the bungalow next door.

My brother Gary was born in May 1961, ending my nearly five-year reign as the youngest child and immediately thrusting me into the abyss of middle-child status. Not that I was bitter; who wanted all that attention anyway?

My sister Patty had her own room. Carl and I shared a bedroom that my dad designed for all three boys once Gary graduated from the crib in my parent’s bedroom. My bed was on the end, Carl in the middle, and Gary would be in the first bed.

Since my parents were the “early adopters” so to speak of having children amongst their friends, Christmas Eves at our house always included our extended family of my parent’s adult friends, mostly firemen and their wives, since they had to be home to prepare Christmas for us.

And then came the hour on Christmas Eve when we were all three ushered up to bed, while the adults continued the festivities below. Once in bed we busted out the Dan Electro transistor radios and followed Santa’s travels on WMCA or WABC radio out of New York City.

Sleep didn’t come easy but eventually, it would. In the morning whoever woke up first would wake up the others and we would all huddle at the top of the steps because we couldn’t go down the stairs until my mother and father got up.

One of us got picked to sneak down the stairs and do some scouting to see if Santa had really come. That changed as we all got older, depending on “your persuasion on the Big Man,” and was typically the younger believer, which like I said earlier and in case you forgot, was me for nearly five years.

We had a similar routine every year, captured in photos first by black and whites, then eventually in color, some of which I have already shared. My dad also had one of those early 60s eight mm movie cameras with the infamous light bar with the four flood lights. We opened gifts in an organized way making sure we each saw what the other one got.

Then my father would leave to join the other Oceanport Hook and Ladder firemen who every year would purchase gifts for all the kids in town under a certain age and with a Santa Claus on the back of the fire truck, would go street by street, house by house, delivering gifts to the kids they had on their list.

This was a tradition that went way back with the fire company in Oceanport and even my dad would tell stories of waiting for the fire truck when he was a kid in the 1930s when he would leap the hedge to get to greet the firemen and Santa.

While my dad was gone, we also would wait for the fire truck to come to our house, then revisit our gifts until my dad got home, which wasn’t always as predictable as you might think since there was always a little bit of Christmas cheer involved in that tradition as well.

Once my dad returned, we would walk across the street and down the rear driveway of my grandmother’s house and have Christmas and lunch with my mother’s family and my cousins.

Then we were off to Hillcrest and my other grandparents’ house and finally to my Uncle Teddy’s. Teddy always had the funniest-looking Christmas trees and those oversized Christmas light bulbs.

It was nice having not all but a good portion of our family living in the same town or very close by.

Over the years as we got older and we became volunteer fireman, both my brothers and I got to share that Christmas experience of riding the fire truck with my dad. And even after I moved away and would return home for the holiday, I would share that Christmas morning experience with my father. And we even developed some new traditions like on Christmas Eve, driving to Point Pleasant Beach to the Norwegian store to buy Norwegian cheese, fiskebollers (Codfish balls), and only once Lutefisk (because with Lutefisk only once was enough), and cod fish to make sandwiches.

And that Christmas Eve open house for whoever wanted to visit just got bigger and bigger, and even now my sister still tries to keep that tradition going in Oceanport.

I am too old now to lie in bed listening for sleigh bells or Santa’s location on the radio, or waiting for my brothers and sister to wake me up. But I have lots of nice memories of Christmases growing up. I guess when they say “the true spirit of Christmas lies in your heart,” that’s where the memories live for as long as we are able to remember them, which gets more challenging the older we get. Of course there have been Christmases since with sad memories, but even the sad ones remind us there is comfort and hope on the other side of those in time.

And writing about them and looking at old photos, reminds me of how much I miss my father and my brother. Maybe I will have a codfish sandwich and some Norwegian cheese, an Akvavit on the rocks, and turn on Glen Campbell’s That Christmas Feeling album on Christmas Eve this year.

“At one time most of my friends could hear the bell, but as years passed it fell silent for all of them. Though I’ve grown old the bell still rings for me, as it does for all who truly believe” (from The Polar Express)

And who knows, maybe after a couple of those Akvavits, I will hear some bells too.

The time stamp on this featured photo says Jan 1963 so probably Christmas 1962. Gary would be about a year a half old, me about 6 1/2, Carl 8 almost 9, and Patty about 10 1/2.

Early one, Patty at my Grandmother’s. Look at those legs!

Early one, Carl and Patty, bungalow Christmas, I was a baby…youngest child

The Ghosts of Christmases Past

December 13, 2024 curtisc27@gmail.com Comments 4 comments

I remember my dad standing in the hallway near the front door while my mother would roll up the sleeves of his Banlon shirt to show more of his muscles, I guess. Or maybe that was just the style around 1960. My father worked the second shift as a drill press operator at Bendix in Eatontown, New Jersey, on Route 35, and he was getting ready to go to work. This was the ritual.

Bendix sponsored an art contest every year for their employees at Christmas. I was young then, so I really didn’t know much other than I remember my dad creating beautiful drawings using pastels, and entering the contests during those years. I think one of his drawings won a ribbon one Christmas. This was the only time I can think of where he exhibited his artistic talent with something other than wood.

The Count Basie Center for the Arts is now a happening place on Monmouth Street in Red Bank New Jersey. It’s owned by the Monmouth County Arts Council and reopened as the Count Basie Theatre in the early 1980s. It’s a venue where you may have been entertained by Bruce Springsteen or Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes over the years.

But when I was four or five years old it was known as the Carlton theater, Reade’s Carlton to be exact, a beautiful old theater built in the 1920s first for Vaudeville shows, then transformed into a movie theater.

Every Christmas season, Bendix would host a Christmas program for the children of Bendix employees. I have memories of standing in a very long line of families that wrapped around the corner and down a long Red Bank block in the cold patiently waiting for my turn to enter the lobby and get a bag of snacks, and I think, a small gift. Then we watched a movie, the only one I remember was Walt Disney’s Pinocchio.

My dad would give up his drill press and Bendix and go on to work as a union carpenter in those early years of the 1960s, so I only remember a couple of those Bendix Carlton Christmases. I seem to recall three of the drawings he submitted to the Bendix contests. I was able to salvage one of them, though he had cut part way through it with one of his saws. Saws and woodworking tools were much more associated with my dad than colored pastel pencils, so having at least a cut-down version of one of his Christmas drawings is pretty special.

The ghosts, the memories of this Christmas past writing, were 1960ish. My brother Gary was born in May 1961 so, at this point, he is a ghost of a Christmas future I suppose. The photo below was date stamped Jan 1960 so I think it was from Christmas 1959 when I was three and half. I must have asked Santa for a gun that year.

The photo below is from an even earlier Christmas, 1957 maybe? I am the little pudgy kid in the middle. I must have asked Santa for a car that year. Maybe I will ask Santa for a car again this year.

The Sweet Kiss of Something

December 6, 2024 curtisc27@gmail.com Comments 0 Comment

Frank Hayes was born in Ireland. Though there seems to be some debate over when Frank was born, some say 1888 and some say 1901, one thing was for sure, Frank always wanted to be a jockey.

But Frank was built more like me when I was in my 20’s and 30’s at 140 pounds. Not that 140 pounds was heavy, but it was if you wanted to be jockey.

Frank moved to New York City and when he found he couldn’t be a jockey, he decided to be a horse trainer and groom instead, at least he was in the game. It was the 1920’s and thoroughbred horse racing was beginning its golden era in this country.

When I worked on the ambulance at Monmouth Park Racetrack in the 1970’s, for a few days later in the meet, the track would feature a few steeplechase races on the card each summer. For us on the ambulance crew it was the busier days of the season because jumpers more frequently lost their riders.

Belmont Park, located on New York’s Long Island in the early 1920’s featured a similar steeplechase program.

One day Frank the trainer found himself an owner with a horse entered into one of Belmont’s steeplechase races who didn’t have a jockey to ride her.

The horse’s name was Sweet Kiss.

Sweet Kiss was a seven-year-old mare, an unraced maiden, and Frank saw an opportunity. If he could get down to jockey weight of 130 pounds, he could ride Sweet Kiss and fulfill his dream to finally be a jockey.

So, Frank did the impossible and in a matter of 24 hours managed to lose twelve pounds to qualify.

Frank’s dream was finally going to come true.

He was about to check “Jockey” off his bucket list.

I have been having a bit of a nostalgic horse racing week, kind of reliving A Sentimental Racetrack Journey once again. With November’s Breeder’s Cup in the books, the sport of horse racing winds down a bit as it awaits January’s Eclipse Awards, which are kind of like the Oscars for horse racing, the naming of the Horse of the Year for 2024, and the new year when all two year olds turn three and thus the beginning of the 2025 three year old season which includes the Triple Crown races.

My sentimental journey this week was once again triggered by my perennial Horse of the Year…

Sir Sidney.

Sid.

I reached out to Marilyne this week to check on Sid:

He’s doing very well. I just got a new job that is very time consuming so I leased him out to a lesson program In Alpharetta for 6 months to a year where he is spoiled and pampered and so happy, and I can still go ride whenever I want. She sends me pictures periodically, and he has 3 friends and a big field, and lots of daily love and attention. Here is one of my favorite funnies from this summer because he has quite the personality.

In the next picture his little brother Walker is learning good ground manners from him at the trailer.

The last two pics are from the leasing barn called Autograph Farm. They spoil him rotten!

Thanks for checking in!!

As is usual, I got a little teary-eyed.

Lucky Sid, after a long career of racing, is enjoying retirement. Marilyne is his second owner I have kept in contact with since he retired.

Somehow, I don’t think Sid struggled with the same stress and fear of being retired that I find myself experiencing. Sid is pampered and spoiled, and happy in his retirement.

And he has three friends and a big field and lots of love and attention.

And I am so envious.

I don’t have three friends or a big field.

I don’t know whether Sid has a bucket list, but he is a horse, so I am sure he has a bucket of something.

But it makes me happy that Sid is happy.

Frank’s dream finally came true. He rode Sweet Kiss over the twelve-jump course. Going off at the odds of 20 to 1 against the favorite Gimme. Gimme led most of the race though Sweet Kiss was just off the pace. Entering the home turn Frank shifted in the saddle and the two horses nearly collided, they made the last jump (somehow), straightened themselves out, and in the stretch Sweet Kiss dug in and pulled away by a length and a half.

Crossing the finish line instead of raising his crop in victory, Frank remained slumped over.

Eventually Frank would slide off the saddle and hit the ground. Though doctors rushed to his aid, Frank was pronounced dead right there on the racetrack.

Apparently, Frank had a heart attack and died probably around the time the two horses nearly collided entering the home turn. Some say it was the stress of the race and losing so much weight in such a short period of time that got him.

And because the rule books said the jockey had to remain in the saddle and cross the finish line in order to officially win, even though he was dead, Frank had won his first and his only race as a jockey.

Sweet Kiss broke her maiden status with the win but would race no more.

She went on to earn the nickname “the Sweet Kiss of Death.”

And Frank Hayes, as a result “is in the Guinness Book of World Records as the first Jockey (and probably first athlete of any sport) to ride to victory after his own death.”

Though Frank’s dream was fulfilled, he not only checked off the bucket, but kicked it too.

I don’t know what the moral of this story is.

Maybe fulfilling dreams aren’t always worth the stress, the effort, and the expense.

Look what it cost Frank Hayes.

Maybe following Sid’s example and just going wherever the bridle leads you is the way to go.

A few friends and a big field.

Or maybe a dock and a fishing pole.

Or a cabin and stream close by.

And of course lots of daily love and attention.

Checking off those buckets before we kick them.

November Twenty Two

November 22, 2024 curtisc27@gmail.com Comments 3 comments

I remember the adults, the teachers, they were visibly upset.

We were being let out of school early for some reason.

As I exited the rear school doorway onto the pavement that surrounded the back side of Wolf Hill School, before the school fields and playground, an older boy yelled out, “the President’s been shot.” I crossed the school playground to the old railroad track that used to bring the coal into Fort Monmouth, then down the tracks to Pemberton Avenue, and the three small town blocks that took me to the path through the neighbor’s yard and into our backyard.

I was seven years old and in the second grade. I don’t remember who I walked home with, I just remember sitting in front of the small black and white TV in the living room and watching events relived and unfolding for the rest of that day.

I remember my mother was upset.

President Kennedy was dead.

Assassinated.

November 22, 1963.

It was just going to be a small wedding in a friend’s backyard, there was no need for you to come, I was told.

Well okay then, I won’t worry about it.

Besides, I am just the father, and there will be pictures, I am sure.

But I did worry about it.

So, the Friday before the wedding in the friend’s backyard, I flew into Palm Beach Airport and headed towards Fort Lauderdale in my rented Camaro. Not knowing much about this backyard wedding, I stopped at a mall in Boca Raton to buy a new hat. I picked up a new pair of jeans to wear to the wedding as well. Then I headed down to Fort Lauderdale and got a hotel room near where the cruise ships docked.

The next day I put on my new jeans and hat, got in my rented Camaro, and surprised Alexa at her wedding.

I even got to dance the father-daughter dance.

And it turns out I was right for a change; I did need to be there.

November 22, 2014.

Alexa and Namaan have been married now for ten years.

It’s been 61 years since JFK’s assassination.

I am tired because I stayed up late last night to watch the Steelers get beat by the Browns, in a snowstorm.

I am monitoring the western Pennsylvania weather and that snowstorm and stressing a little because we are considering making a pre-Thanksgiving visit with Kim’s mom.

Snow in western PA before Thanksgiving? Who would have thought?

But this morning in my History Channel email I was reminded of the events of 61 years ago; and in my Facebook memories, the events of ten years ago.

I still have those jeans, in fact, I wore them at Savannah and Leon’s wedding and Hayley and Malcolm’s as well. They needed to be there.

And like me, they are a little worn out, a little frayed and faded, yet they remain ready for the next event.

As long as it’s not another wedding.

And through all this reflection, I am being reminded of “the great significance of the passage of time.”

Only this time it is making sense.

November 22, 2024.

More Mookie Please

November 1, 2024 curtisc27@gmail.com Comments 4 comments

Mookie.

Is there a better name for a baseball player?

I don’t think so.

If you are even a casual Mets fan like me, you remember the 1980s and Mookie Wilson, and of course the 1986 Mets World Series. Mookie Wilson is said to have gotten his nickname by the way he pronounced milk as a young child. Come to think of it, I may have also had a kid who asked for “more mook please.”

Kim and I arrived at my mother’s around 7 pm last Friday evening, and my mom was all excited to watch the Dodgers in the first game of the World Series.

I thought this was odd behavior for my mother, but then, thinking maybe there was a Manhattan involved, I just rolled with it.

“My grandmother was a huge Dodger fan, the Brooklyn Dodgers, and I want to watch the game,” she explained.

Great, I thought, this was kind of a welcome diversion, a break from Fox News and the Hallmark Channel. A break from the stress of the upcoming election, with all the fascist talk, the threats to democracy, swing states, blue walls, and fake news.

Yeah, it turns out Great Grandma Flora was a big Brooklyn Dodgers fan. I had never met Flora. My mother, however, was very close to her grandmother.

And, I wasn’t too familiar with the Brooklyn Dodgers either because not too long after I was born, in 1957, both the Brooklyn Dodgers and the New York Giants decided “California’s the place you otta be,” so they loaded up and moved west to Los Angeles and San Fransisco respectively.

This left the New York Yankees as the only team in New York until 1962 when Mookie Wilson’s Mets were established as one of baseball’s first expansion teams.

Now sitting and watching the game with my mother, I was happy to find out the Dodgers had a “Mookie” too!

Mookie Betts.

We watched all the way to 10^th inning when the Dodgers’ Freddie Freeman made history by hitting the first game ending grand slam in World Series history.

Game One…Dodgers 6, Yankees 3.

Baseball used to be America’s sport.

As a kid I would walk down my street Willow Court in Oceanport, NJ, past the house my family called “the big house” then owned by my grandmother but also the house where Flora once lived; making my way down to Park’s Drugstore to buy the bubble gum pack with the baseball cards inside. It never occurred to me that the Roger Maris or Mickey Mantle card I had attached to my bike with a clothespin might be worth some big money someday. Nope, for me, it had much more immediate value clicking between the spokes of my rear bicycle wheel.

Saturday evening we were invited to a neighbor’s for a Halloween dinner party, so we got back to the TV and the game a little late. Kim went to bed, but my mother and I watched the second game till the end.

Game two…Dodgers 4, Yankees 2.

I never played baseball growing up, though we had Little League and Babe Ruth teams in Oceanport, I wasn’t very athletic. I played catch in the yard with my brother and friends and street baseball on summer evenings with the neighborhood kids. Since we lived on a dead end, we didn’t have to vacate the “field” too often by neighbors coming home from work.

The best baseball experience I can boast of is playing Cub Scout softball.

I wasn’t very good at softball either, but, I did manage some brief notoriety when I was playing catch on the sideline behind the bench one game with another teammate and managed to knock out another one of my Cub Scout teammates when the ball I threw didn’t quite reach the intended but instead found its way to another kids head. I remember he was talking to someone and went down, came right back up resumed the conversation, and then went down again.

Monday night, I am back home but even without my mother, feeling like I had to watch the Dodgers. The problem was the Steelers were playing on Monday night football, so up and down the stairs I went, as I tried to watch both games. After the Steelers’ 26-18 win over the New York football Giants, I watched the rest of the Dodgers game three, now playing in New York. And though I didn’t see the whole game I did see Mookie Betts hit a base hit that allowed for the third run of the third game.

Game Three…Dodgers 4, Yankees 2, again.

I remember the time I watched my friend Bob Woolley who unlike me was a very good athlete, on one of those Little League or Babe Ruth teams, throw a very exaggerated “change-up” pitch that effectively struck the batter out but also engrained in me an understanding of what a “change up” pitch was forever.

I remember the mid-sixties, and especially the 1968 World Series St. Louis Cardinals with my two favorite players of that series Lou Brock and Curt Flood stealing bases. They were fun to watch and along with pitcher Bob Gibson, they won the series.

And who could forget the ’69 Miracle Mets and the ‘73 Mets who weren’t as lucky.

Tuesday Kim and I had something scheduled, and by the time we got home and I turned the game on, it was clear the Yankees offense had awoken. They added five runs in the eighth inning to the six they had already, and as a result, I got to bed a little earlier.

Game four…Yankees 11, Dodgers only 4.

My last experience that involved a bat, ball, and glove was a short stint on the Oceanport Hook & Ladder Fireman’s softball team. I was the pitcher and after almost being taken out by a line drive, I walked off the mound and retired at the young age of 20 never to return to the diamond again.

Game five looked at first, to be a repeat of game four. Down by five runs, the Dodgers came back to tie the score in the fifth, only to be bested by one run in the sixth. With the score now 6 to 5 Yankees, the Dodgers would add two more in the eighth inning. Going into the ninth, the Dodgers couldn’t add any more runs, now with the Yankees at bat, they called in Walker Buehler in relief. Walker had started game three and would have started game seven had it gone that far, but with no more relievers left in the bullpen; he got the call.

Dodgers7, Yankees 6…the Dodgers are the World Series champs of 2024.

So that was that.

Great Grandma Flora’s team, once the Dodgers from Brooklyn, now LA, beat their once cross-town rivals, the New York Yankees.

My mom was happy, imagining her grandmother waving her flag (or pennant maybe) in celebration.

That’s awesome!

But now what do we do?

What are we going to do without a game six or seven?

We need a couple more days of Mookie, I don’t wanna go back to the election…

Ma, more mook, please.

More Mookie!

Because I, who had a better average at knocking out my teammates than I had knocking the ball out of the park, wanted just a couple more days of baseball.

Oh well, at least I had the experience of watching a couple of baseball games with my mother, creating a memory I never would have imagined happening in the first place, but also one that I may not have had the opportunity to repeat.

And besides, there are plenty of distractions I can find that will last me until Tuesday. This weekend is the Breeder’s Cup, the World Series of horse racing, at Del Mar Racecourse in San Diego. Though there have been Mookie horses in the past, like Bet on Mookie, Mr. Mookie, MVP Mookie, and Miracle Mookie; I couldn’t find any Mookies running this weekend.

And of course, I always have football that will take me through to Monday Night.

Then on Election Day, I can follow the play-by-play well into the wee hours of Wednesday morning if I decide to.

Or I can drink my Mookie and go to bed.

But before I go to bed I will pray for fairness and integrity in our election process, and, that the days that follow be calm, peaceful, and healing.

Amen?

Amen.

Postscript: The photo above is Mookie Wilson in the 1986 World Series. Mets baserunner Mookie Wilson slides into third base as Wade Boggs can only watch.

ID 69007491

| Dreamstime.com

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