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Love and Devotion

Love and Devotion

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Love and Devotion

May I love you?

Your sweet lips are the sweetest of all.  I love every inch of your heart, your mind, your soul.  I love the ground you walk on, the air you breathe.

I am longing for you dear, longing to be able to whisper my true honest love into your own precious little ears.

I could tell you I love you once for every hair on your precious head, and then I would not have expressed one half the devotion I feel for you.

 

Obviously, I didn’t write that.

There aren’t any “maybe’s” in there.

The author of that piece was a young lady named Marguerite Fadeley, and it was written around 1907.

One of the cool things about buying and selling other people’s stuff is that sometimes you find a treasure buried in a box of junk.

A treasure that may not even have any monetary value to anyone, but a window to someone’s heart and soul, and therefore might even be priceless.

I wrote in my dad’s obituary, in the words of Nichole Spector, we are all stories:

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

I don’t know much about Marguerite Fadeley.

But I am finding her words fascinating.

From what I could find:

She was born May 12, 1891.

She died at the young age of 59 on March 29, 1951.

She would have been about 16 or 17 when she wrote the words above, the first passage in her notebook dated 1907.

Apparently, she lived in Leesburg, Virginia and married William Carlton Whitmore in 1921 who was the Leesburg Virginia Postmaster.

She was survived by one son, William Carlton Jr. who also has since passed.

To the best of my knowledge this may be the first time her words have been published in any form for others to read.

 

Today is my 25th wedding anniversary.

And though I love every inch of Kim’s heart, her mind, and her soul; and I love the ground she walks on, the air she breathes, I don’t think I could have written those words to her.

Maybe.

But maybe not.

We have shared many joys, and we have faced many challenges.

Some of those challenges have been known to have destroyed many marriages.

Yet our relationship prevailed.

Got stronger even.

 

Oddly enough, finding Kim at that time in my life, I found some parallels in Marguerite’s words.

Like the first time I saw her:

Eyes have met,

Lips are not yet,

But oh, you kid,

I will get you yet

(Marguerite Fadeley)

And I did!

 

And now it is twenty-five years of marriage later.

And I am sure we will share many more joys, and face many more challenges…

but we will continue to do that together.

 

May I love you?

Thankfully, you said yes.

Happy Anniversary Kim!

 

I have shared this one before, that was us July 1, 2000
Father’s Day Weekend

Father’s Day Weekend

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The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

2 He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

3 He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.

4 Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

5 Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

6 Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

 

 

It’s Father’s Day Weekend.

Last Monday I was in church.

A church I have attended off and on for the last 27 years.

The plaque on the wall outside reads “Addition 1998.”

I remember the first time I attended this church, my future father-in-law gave me a tour of the new addition he had worked so hard to make a reality.

An addition that even included an elevator, knowing his knees could only be replaced so many times.

That was July of 1998, and I had gone up to Somerset to surprise Kim and run the Daily American 10K.  At that time Donny and Savannah would spend summers on the farm and running this race was kind of a family thing.

Even that first weekend, without introduction, I was redirected from my hotel room just off the Somerset exit of the Pennsylvania Turnpike and was invited to stay at the farmhouse.  Once there I remember Kim’s mom pointing out the window and explaining the acreage, the barn, the corn,  the milking parlor, and the dairy cows.  I was way, way, out of my element (“have you got any waves here?” you know, that sort of thing).

Even further out of my element at the time, it was mandatory to attend church. This same church, a Church of the Brethren church, Geiger Church of the Brethren.  Not a washed out Methodist Church (as my father-in-law would say sometimes) a Brethren church. I think I had to borrow clothes to dress for church that morning.

Over the years I listened to many good sermons, preached by three different pastors and even one of my all-time favorites delivered by a lay speaker.  I attended the Sunday school class.  I would experience the Brethren ritual of Holy Communion and be humbled by the act of having my feet washed and kneeling to wash another brother’s feet.  I would experience my then father-in-law singing a solo to my mother-in-law in church on her birthday in what I thought was maybe the greatest act of love I could witness.

 

Then last Monday, I was there once again.

Maybe for the very last time.

Listening to the 23rd Psalm.

A Psalm that is often read at funerals.

A Psalm I heard read the last time I was here.

Now I am hearing it read again.

 

Thursday, May 29th, I got a haircut.

Getting a haircut is not something I would normally write about, but in this story, it is important.

Kim and I were planning to go see Kim’s mom that upcoming weekend, and my mother-in-law had never liked my hair long.  So, I would usually try to get a haircut before going up to visit, so I could say “mom, do you like my haircut?”

And she would say, “No, I don’t like it long, it’s not short enough!”

But as it turned out, Kim’s mom took a turn for the worse that Friday and was admitted to the hospital in Johnstown.  We decided it would be best for Kim to go up alone in case she needed to stay longer.  I had a throbbing toothache and an emergency dentist visit scheduled for Monday, and as much as I hated to go to the dentist, I didn’t want to miss that experience.

That would begin maybe the longest week that I could remember since Donny’s accident.

Monitoring my mother-in-law’s condition, my dental anxiety, communicating mostly through texts with Kim as I was once again “home alone,” since the cell service is still spotty in that part of the world, it was stressful for all.   I took the opportunity with Kim not home to further prepare for our downsizing, filling the garage and our living room with everything I could identify that needed to go to auction while I waited for the phone call that would give me the green light to move all that stuff to the sale.

Thursday morning, I got the phone call.  There was no room for our stuff in the upcoming sale and the next opportunity wouldn’t be until August at the earliest.

Though I was disappointed to say the least, with my garage and my living room unusable,  now I could just worry about Kim’s mom and Kim.

As it really should have been.

Kim, much like after Donny’s accident when she would describe being lifted by the Holy Spirit that carried her through and set the example for the rest of us, remained by her mom’s side all week as she went from hospital, back to Laurel View Village, her room and then to Hospice care.  Once again, setting the example.

Very early Friday morning, Kim’s mom Faye, went home to be with Jesus, with Kim and her sister Kathy at their mom’s bedside.

As I drove off the Pennsylvania Turnpike on my way to Geiger Church of the Brethren on Monday, past the hotel where I spent that Friday night in July of 1998, I thought about the nice welcome I received from Kim’s mom that first introduction, and how out of place I felt, though it now seemed kind of silly.

Over the years I got over that and eventually I became my mother-in-law’s favorite son-in-law, ignoring the fact that I was her only son-in-law, I wore that title well, often bragging to the other residents at Laurel View of my status.

 

Now it is the weekend, and we have had some days to move from sleeplessness and sadness to a time for decompression and the nice memories that will keep Faye always alive in our hearts.

Though it is Father’s Day weekend, I couldn’t think of a better way to spend it, writing about the mother-in-law I grew to love, and sharing time with my mother and my wife.

As I watch the gentle waves spawned by the wakes of passing boats out on the water and throw in the crab pots, I find myself thinking about cows, the milking parlor, corn knee high by the Fourth of July, and my favorite mother-in-law.

Nice memories.

I hope you are allowing for some decompression time too, honoring your fathers, and your mothers, as well.

Happy Father’s Day weekend.

Postscript:

A happy life and happy memories require many nice people to help make that happen.  I have experienced many in western Pennsylvania as I have often shared in these writings.  Thanks to Linda and John Stoner, the pastors, and all the nice people who were a part of Faye and Royal’s life in the church and the community, and in Kim’s life.  And especially for making last Monday special.

The many friendships we made with the residents and the staff at Laurel View Village, we will miss greatly.  And the great care Faye received will never be forgotten. Maybe there is another Que Classic in our future and a visit.

 

See look here, she was probably telling me to get a haircut
the farm
Donny and I and some cows

 

The 10K Tee shirt from July 11, 1998
Dentophobia

Dentophobia

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I lay there tethered to the chair by the mask pumping gas into my nose.

The bright light shining directly into my face was dimmed only by the shaded glasses meant to protect my eyes from objects unforeseen.

All the prayers I had uttered in the days and hours leading up to this moment seemed to be in vain as my heart raced and my hands gripped whatever I could grab on to.

“Jesus why have you forsaken me?” I questioned to myself, unable to speak, my mouth chocked open like the exit door I would have liked to be going through.

Why?

It’s too late, I am trapped, fight or flight is not an option for me.

Gagging and choking, I begged God for the end to come quickly.

 

 

Fear and anxiety are horrible things.

The following, according to the internet, are said to be the top 10 fears or phobias:

  • Arachnophobia: an intense fear of spiders and other arachnids
  • Ophidiophobia: an intense fear of snakes
  • Acrophobia: an intense fear of heights
  • Aerophobia: an intense fear of flying
  • Cynophobia: an intense fear of dogs
  • Astraphobia: an intense fear of thunder and lightning
  • Trypanophobia: an intense fear of injections
  • Social phobia: an intense fear of social interactions
  • Agoraphobia: an intense fear of places that are difficult to escape, sometimes involving a fear of crowded or open spaces
  • Mysophobia: an intense fear of germs, dirt, and other contaminants

I have a couple of sons-in-law who fit the bill with the spiders.

And Kim hates needles and snakes so I guess she is trypanophobic and ophidiophobic.

I suffer from a little acrophobia and agoraphobia.

But my real fear is not on the list of top ten.

My real phobia is… Dentophobia.

Fear of the dentist.

Though I have never enjoyed going to the dentist, I haven’t always had the level of fear and anxiety about going to the dentist that I have now.

It was one botched root canal and subsequent root canal to fix the botched one that put me over the edge.

Having no more patience, I went to an oral surgeon who put me to sleep and took what was left of the tooth out entirely.  Bingo,  I woke up and the problem was gone and I didn’t remember a thing.

But since then, other than cleanings, which I now hate as well, I have avoided dealing with issues with my teeth.

Until this week.

Two broken crowns I had been living with for quite a while finally had to be repaired.

So, I found a dentist that was supposed to help me with my dental anxiety.

Nitrous Oxide was the plan.

A good plan maybe?

Maybe for most.

But I learned, on the battlefield and under fire, that I must have a high tolerance to Nitrous Oxide.

Because it didn’t phase me a bit.

And for two hours I endured the equivalent of spiders, snakes, and dogs crawling all over me while I was trapped flying high in a small plane with no way out in a thunderstorm, as I laid helpless in a pool of dirt, germs, and other contaminants.

It was awful.

I couldn’t return to work.

I was too traumatized.

 

And to top it off, that night, another small ache I had been ignoring in a tooth on the other side of my mouth suddenly became a big ache.

Probably the result of constant teeth clenching I was experiencing in the weeks leading up to my appointment.

So as a result, the anxiety set in again.

Now what was I going to do?

I contemplated calling the oral surgeon again and just having it pulled because at this point I am thinking who needs teeth,  I would rather be tube fed than to have to go through what I went through with the dentist.

But then I thought it would be weird to show up for my follow up appointment to have my permanent crowns put in, and for them to find another tooth was missing out of my mouth.

“Wasn’t there a tooth there a few weeks ago?”

“A tooth?  What tooth?”

No that would be awkward.

So, I called my dentist back and explained my problem, asked for a different plan, and made an appointment.

So far however, I haven’t heard the new plan.

I may still need that oral surgeon.

In the meantime I will suffer with my anxiety.

Because according to the Cleveland Clinic, in addition to the chills, dizziness, sweating, heart palpations, nausea, shaking, and upset stomach that dentophobia can cause, some people may experience:

  • Crying when thinking about going to the dentist
  • And have insomnia before a dental appointment

So, Kim, don’t be surprised if I keep you up until my appointment on Monday.

Hand me a tissue, its going to be a long weekend.

ære din far og mor

ære din far og mor

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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 96th 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…

 

Uncle Gustav’s split-level in Norway

 

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


 


Uncle Gustav and Anna’s wedding


 


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


							


	

			







	
	        

        	        	
                                             
        

        
	

		Anyday, Anyway
					

				Anyday, Anyway
			

		
				

			
 
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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
					

				Christmas 2024
			

		
				

			
 
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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 21st.   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
					

				Ghosts of Christmases Past 2
			

		
				

			
 
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“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.


 


Gary, Christmas 1965?


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


Not sure, 1966 or 67?


Gar got a bike


I don’t know


Patty Christmas 1965


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


							


	

			







	
	        

        	        	
                                             
        

        
	

		The Ghosts of Christmases Past
					

				The Ghosts of Christmases Past
			

		
				

			
 
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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.




							


	

			







	
	        

        	        	
                                             
        

        
	

		November Twenty Two
					

				November Twenty Two
			

		
				

			
 
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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
					

				More Mookie Please
			

		
				

			
 
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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 10th 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


© Gerald T. Coli



Lou Brock and Bob Gibson in this photo. Photo by Mick Haupt on Unsplash