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Another Beautiful October Day

Another Beautiful October Day

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Bittersweet.

That is how I view it.

Though it was a beautiful morning, the fog lay eerily on the calm river surface.  A sign that the now cold night air is clashing with the still warmer waters of this tiny finger of the Chesapeake Bay. But in the developing bright sunshine of this late October day, it doesn’t take long for the mist to clear.

Activity on the water this time of the year is slow to materialize.  The crabbers are gone, the trotlines and crab pots, now replaced by a lone work boat dropping eel pots instead.

The purple martins, one of the early messengers of the approaching spring, are also gone, having already made their migration south to winter in Brazil. The three purple martin houses now sitting atop their high poles vacant in the wind.

Optimistically I baited the crab pots and threw them in for one last attempt to hold on to the summer and enjoy its flavors.  But only two crabs were interested in my chicken necks on this day.

Hardly the crab feast I had hoped for.

I let them go.

Stealing some words from Bowie, I realized I couldn’t trace time, but I could be sure that time would change me.

There is no fighting that.

Giving in,  I lowered the martin houses to protect them from the cold winds to come.

I brought in the crab pots.

Removing the traces and putting an end to another season.

 

 

Winter will soon be upon us.

The sunset, which at the peak of the summer would be straight up the river, now has shifted to the left as it begins its descent earlier than I would like.

The shorter days invite the darkness in sooner than I am ready and I pack up my fishing gear after catching one small perch to put the finishing touches on my day and probably my fishing year.

It was another beautiful October day.

In contrast to the gloom looming in my winter fears, the flowers I planted sometime around Mother’s Day, still stand tall and exhibit their bright colors, awaiting the frost soon to come.

Who knows what the next six months will bring?

Until then I will keep warm and wait for the day when the first martin returns.

And I will pray that in that six months, time doesn’t change me too much.

And I will be allowed to write about another beautiful day, in another season, in another year, in time.

 

The morning fog
Reminders of the spring remain
The Wall of Sound

The Wall of Sound

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I whistle a lot.

And sometimes I sing or hum instead of whistling, but mostly I whistle.

My wife tells me she can always locate me in a store or antique shop by hearing me whistle.

At my work, the joke is similar.  If you want to know where Curt is just listen,  you will hear him.

But the truth is you are only hearing the whistle.

What is actually going on in my head is completely different.

There is a large production occurring in my head.

Like Phil Spector’s “Wall of Sound.”

There might be a horn section jumping in, an awesome guitar riff busting through, or the drums banging it out.

It’s hard to whistle the drum accompaniment.

And the vocals are amazing if I must say so myself.

All in my head.

Only I know what is really going on.

Only I can say what is really going on in my head.

You can only hear the whistle.

 

I read somewhere that Monday, October 10 is World Mental Health Day.  A day “to raise awareness of mental health issues around the world and to mobilize efforts in support of mental health,” according to the World Health Association.

I guess mental health has a stigma that ironically further feeds the issue of mental health.

And if you think about it, you don’t have to think too hard to find the insidious ways it creeps into all of our lives to some degree.  But you may not always characterize it as a mental health problem.

But it is.

And it is all around us

It is called life.

And I am not suggesting to minimize the seriousness of those who would be clinically diagnosed with mental health issues, I just think we have a more prevalent problem than we might care to admit.

 

It might be a teenager you know struggling with family issues, or bullying, or self-esteem.

Or someone you know wrestling with an addiction or a substance abuse problem.

Maybe it’s a relationship going bad or a marriage that is breaking apart.

It could be someone you know experiencing physical abuse in a relationship, and too scared to get out.

Maybe it’s a person suffering from the grief of losing a child or a grandchild.

Or a sibling.

Or a parent.

It could be someone suffering from the anxiety associated with PTSD caused by witnessing a horrible experience that no one else could ever really understand.

It might be watching someone go through the effects of aging or experiencing that yourself, or an illness maybe.

Maybe it’s a person experiencing job stress or instability.

Or financial burdens.

Maybe you just lived through a hurricane.

Or it might even be a person who whistles, even on days when he doesn’t really feel like whistling.

 

The World Health Organization says that “about one in eight people in the world live with a mental disorder.”

I would venture to say that maybe seven of those eight people are dealing with something that is causing stress, anxiety, depression, or sadness.

We don’t know for sure.

We don’t know what is really going on inside their heads.

Because we can only hear the whistle.

 

But it’s not anyone’s fault really.

Like my “wall of sound,” you couldn’t have known about that until just now.

You wouldn’t have learned about the grand production going on in my head if I hadn’t just written it down.

And shared it.

 

Sharing is sometimes hard.

So maybe fostering an environment that is more conducive to sharing is a good idea.

Listening deeper, if that is possible.

Encouraging writing instead of talking, because sometimes it is easier to express the hard things in written words.

Embracing your faith.

I couldn’t imagine going through some of my life’s events without my faith.

Knowing we are loved.

And loved unconditionally.

 

And sometimes, it even helps to whistle.

 

My brother Carl, with three of his grandsons.
A Laurel View

A Laurel View

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Johnstown is a small city in western Pennsylvania about 56 miles east of Pittsburgh.  It sits nestled in the Laurel Mountains in the steep valley where the Conemaugh River meets the Stonycreek River. Once known for its coal, iron, and steel production, the evidence of those heydays now lie as empty relics over sprawling blocks of the once thriving city.  A victim of at least three major floods, one in 1889, one in 1936, and the last in 1977, it is now in a struggle to stage its comeback.

Old Orchard Way is at the top of the hill as you climb steeply up Sell Street.  On the corner, at 102 Old Orchard Way is the house as we have been told, that Arlene Ober’s grandfather built.  At the bottom of the hill on Sell Street near the intersection of Franklin stands the Roxbury Church of the Brethren, a beautiful old building of stone, large windows, and heavy wooden doors.  A young Arlene Ober would walk down that hill every Sunday, even in the cold and the snow and ice of the western Pennsylvania winters, hurrying so as not to be late for Sunday school.

Just inside those large, heavy wooden entrance doors that take you into the vestibule and then to the sanctuary, is a small sign on the left that marks the Heritage Room.  On the walls are old photos, newspaper articles, and even a vintage quilt that is proof that this was once a large and vibrant congregation.  In the corner is a mannequin of an early Brethren woman in what was the traditional dress of the time.   Another photo we saw on the piano in the sanctuary was of a large group that included young people and children, dated 1938, that no doubt included a young Arlene Ober, though it was beyond our ability to discern.

 

Kim and I were back in western PA for the weekend.  Kim’s mom Faye lives at Laurel View Village, a retirement community and assisted living in Davidsville, Pennsylvania just west of Johnstown. Named appropriately for its location along the Laurel Highlands and the scenic view of the Laurel Mountains, it’s a wonderful place. Saturday morning was the Que Classic (pronounced “kwee”) a 5 and 10 K walk and run held at the Quemahoning Dam, where the proceeds were to benefit Laurel View Village. So, wanting to support the cause, we signed up for the 5K, and though our running days are behind us, we managed to mix it up a bit and cross the finish line running.

Kim’s mom lives in an area designated as “personal care” meaning those residents are independent but require a little more assistance with activities of daily living. The more often we go up, the closer we get to the residents, Faye’s friends, and neighbors.  Sadly many, we have learned, have little contact with their families so they love to share their stories when the opportunity presents itself.  Once striking up a conversation, you can expect that out of the pockets of the attachments on their walkers, will come photos and other items that help to provide perspective to the details of their families and their lives before Laurel View Village.

Like our friend Arlene, many have Brethren roots, in fact, Kim’s family was raised or are still members of the Church of the Brethren.   I remember during the early years of our relationship and marriage I got pretty comfortable with my father-in-law preaching and sharing his beliefs with me, as a good dad should have, while he vetted me out on my position on the Big Guy.  The Brethren only have communion twice a year, it is called the Love Feast, and it involves the washing of one another’s feet, just as Jesus did at the Last Supper.  I was blessed to have shared that experience with my father-in-law once before he passed away.

 

Kim and Arlene (her married name Pfost), now relocated to Northern Virginia and practicing Methodists, would occasionally attend the local Dranesville Church of the Brethren for the Love Feast.  And even though there was a great difference in age since Arlene was born in 1935, they had plenty of similar experiences to share, like Camp Harmony in Kim’s Somerset County PA, a summer camp for Brethren youth that is still active and both Kim and Arlene attended as kids.

Before Arlene passed away last May, knowing we were beginning to make frequent visits to the Davidsville and the Johnstown area, she asked Kim if she would return the commemorative Roxbury Church of the Brethren plate that she had, back to the church of her childhood.  She said to go in the front door and there was a small room to the left containing the history of her church, and that is where she wanted it to remain.

This past Sunday, Kim and I returned Arlene’s plate to Roxbury.

Though it was Sunday morning, there was only one car in the parking lot.  We found the front doors unlocked and entered the vestibule and viewed the large and beautiful old sanctuary.  We saw the door on the left to the area that Arlene had described and eventually, I wandered around and found the church office.  In the office was an elderly woman and a more middle-aged man named Jim Mosholder.  I began to explain about Arlene and the reason for our surprise visit, and now with Kim present,  plate in hand, she told the story of Arlene’s request.  Kim presented the plate to Mr. Mosholder along with a bit of written history of Arlene’s life.

We spent some time in the Heritage Room viewing and reading and imagining the church as Arlene would have as a child.  On the wall was that very large quilt with hundreds of names of members sewn onto it.  Somewhere on that quilt of familiar western Pennsylvania names like Mishler, Ream, and Mosholder were the names of Sara Ober and Blodwen Ober.  Blodwen Ober was Arlene’s mother.  Sara, the best I could determine was Arlene’s sister who died in infancy.

The sign in the vestibule next to the entrance doors with the changeable numbers indicated the current number on the Sunday school roll as twenty-one, and the attendance the last two Sundays was five and seven.

But Roxbury Church of the Brethren is still surviving.

 

Arlene and our friends at Laurel View are of the generation of my mother and father and Kim’s mother and father.  We are blessed to have learned and be able to retell the stories our parents have shared and in some cases are still sharing.

We continue to have the honor and the joy of being able to share in the lives of Faye’s new friends and hear their stories.

For Kim and me, Arlene was a blessing.  It was a privilege to have known Arlene as a friend and a member of our church family and to have been able to be a part of her life and share that experience to a small degree.   This past Sunday I think we felt like we brought some closure to Arlene’s Johnstown memories and our commitment to our friend. Kim, who was unable to attend Arlene’s funeral due to an out-of-town business meeting,  felt at peace, walking the same walk up those steps and through the doors of the church that Arlene had described to her, coming down that hill to attend Sunday school.

 

Sunday afternoon I was reading a silly story on social media that was meant to be humorous, but it was the last line that made me think about Arlene:

“Life isn’t about how to survive the storm, but how to dance in the rain.”

Our friend Arlene, danced.

 

Roxbury Church of the Brethren

 

102 Old Orchard Way

 

Kim with “Roxie” an example of a Brethren woman of the past

 

The sanctuary

 

Kim with Jim Mosholder

 

The quilt in the Heritage Room

 

The quilt has the names of Blodwen Ober and Sara Ober.

 

The weekly attendance

 

Arlene on the left, with our friend Karen at my Kentucky Derby party in 2019. Arlene loved to watch the horse races.

 

The feature photo above is a selfie taken at the end of the Que Classic.

This was Kim and I crossing the finish line, and yes it looks like I am about to plant my face in the pavement, thankfully that did not happen.
A Bad Day Fishing is…

A Bad Day Fishing is…

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As skillfully as a surgeon might remove a fishhook embedded in the skin of a human being, a fish has the ability to remove bait that has also been embedded by the fishhook.  The gentle tugs on the line as well as the sometimes not so gentle has the fisherman waiting in anticipation for that big pull and the awesome feeling of the fish attempting to swim away, hook in mouth.

But more often than not the end result is a fishing line reeled in exposing the empty hook that once supported a nice big chunk of peeler crab.

If you have ever eaten a crab and you cut the body in half with your little crab knife, then quarter it to expose the muscles used to power the swimming fins and the walking legs and the claws,  then you are familiar with the work involved in picking a crab in order to eat it.

A fish doesn’t seem to have that problem. They can pull and suck the crab meat from around a fishhook swiftly and with ease.  Like those surgeons in an operating room I imagine four of them planning the crab meat lumpectomy from my hook:

“Okay you two guys take the right side, me and Junior here will take the left.  And be careful not to engage with that shiny pointy thing in the middle or it’s curtains.”

And there you have it.

The line pulls, the pole may bend, the anticipation builds, and you begin to reel your line in but then everything goes limp.

As the excitement quickly wanes the hook finally breaks the surface showing the bait removed with just a bit of shell remaining from the area where the swimming fin connected to the body.

In medical terms, a CABG (aka Coronary Artery Bypass Graft) but in fishing with peelers, it stands for Crab-All Bait Gone.

 

Kim and I went on vacation last week.

That may not sound like a big deal to most but in our case, other than visiting kids, it’s the first time we have done such a thing since 2014.  I know that because I am reminded of it daily by the Delaware Surf Fishing License plate on the front of my truck with the “14” decal which I leave there on purpose as a motivator.

But we didn’t revisit the Delaware beaches, we based out of the house in Woolford on Maryland’s Eastern Shore and as we explored those activities we don’t usually have time for, mostly in Dorchester County and to the north, Talbot County where Easton, St. Michaels, and Tilghman Island are located.

We brought our bikes and our kayaks.

We visited St. Michaels and biked Tilghman Island and discovered a cool place to eat, drink, and even spend the night called Lowe’s Wharf Marina Inn just on the mainland side near the bridge to Tilghman Island.

We took the short family-operated Oxford Bellevue ferry ride from the St. Michaels side to Oxford.

We got to know the neighborhood better by kayaking Fishing Creek and Church Creek.

While kayaking and biking on Blackwater National Wildlife Refuge we observed many bald eagles, a variety of herons, ospreys, and other wetland birds.

On our kayak trip on the Blackwater River Kim was reluctant to approach something in the water (she thought it was an alligator), so I kayaked close to it and poked it with my paddle assuring her it was an old stump covered in mud or something like that.   On our return trip, we were more than a little surprised to see our “stump” moving fairly efficiently across to the other side of the river.  Describing our experience to our friend Mare who has volunteered at Blackwater for the last sixteen or seventeen years, she explained our paddling stump was more likely a large snapping turtle.

I was pretty happy he didn’t raise his head while I was poking him with my paddle.

It could have got very messy in my kayak.

 

We spent a night in Salisbury and attended the Salisbury University Seagulls’ opening football game where we were able to watch the debut of their new placekicker and field goal kicker, the son of friends of ours, kick seven extra points and numerous kickoffs.

We did some crabbing and ate some crabs.

 

And wanting to learn more about the history of the area and the role Harriet Tubman played, we returned to the Harriet Tubman Underground Railroad Visitor’s Center to spend some additional time reading and learning.  Then we drove around the area and visited some of the sites significant to her life in Dorchester County.  Madison, the next town down the road from Woolford towards Taylor’s Island in Harriet’s time was known as Tobacco Stick and it is there she worked lumbering, boat building, and working the docks.  Today it is the site of a marina, a campground, a fun restaurant called Maryland Blue, and the crab processing plant where I buy my peelers, the Madison Bay Seafood Co.

 

Oh yeah, my peelers.

I didn’t fish as much as I expected to this trip but I think I got out maybe three evening high tides and one morning.

In all that time, however, I only caught one fish.

A croaker, also known locally as a hardhead.

I threw him back.

But I got lots of bites, and experienced many moments of anticipation, only to be followed by disappointment.

Mostly, I very generously fed the fish providing the opportunity for them to perform those crab meat lumpectomies on my peeler crab bait over and over again.

 

But you know what they say about a bad day fishing.

And the same could be said for everything else I think.

I shared some photos and links below.

 

 

Postscript:

I have been traveling to this area for a long time but I have learned more about this part of Maryland in the past year than I have in the last thirty or so.  There is much to learn and much to do in the rivers, swamps, and country roads of Dorchester County and neighboring counties.  I would highly recommend a visit.

A peeler crab by the way is one that has developed its soft new shell under its existing hard shell as it prepares to shed, expand its new shell and grow to a bigger size.  Fish love them.

Tomorrow will be one year since my dad was discharged from the hospital and entered a rehab facility in Easton.  He lasted about three days there before falling, returning to the hospital, and ultimately being discharged to the facility where he now resides in Cambridge.  It’s been a year of adjustment, but he is in a good place.

 

Getting ready to kayak
Biking, waiting for the draw bridge on Tilghman Island
The swimming stump
At Lowes Wharf Marina
Kim and I with Sammy Sea Gull
Kayaking
Harriet and me
On the ferry to Oxford, we were the only vehicle
The sun going down on Fishing Creek
Pelicans on Hooper’s Island
St. Michaels

 

More Kayaking
Bald Eagle over the Blackwater River
Raising the new colors for the 2022 season
Crabs

 

Lowes Wharf Marina and Inn

Harriet Tubman Underground Railroad National Historical Park

Blackwater National Wildlife Refuge

Blackwater Paddle & Peddle Adventures

Oxford Bellevue Ferry

Maryland Blue 

 

New Jersey Turnaround

New Jersey Turnaround

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This weekend, Kim was up visiting her mom, so after a morning work meeting on Saturday, I did a quick trip up to New Jersey to help with some family business.

A New Jersey Turnaround so to speak.

The nagging song in my head the last couple of weeks has been Las Vegas Turnaround by Hall and Oates.

Las Vegas Turnaround was on the album Abandoned Luncheonette released in November of 1973.

I wasn’t a really big Hall and Oates fan back then in that I don’t think I ever bought any of their music and besides, you could hear plenty of it on the radio.

But I remember the first time I heard this song.

 

To my parents, it was known as Hi-Henry’s.  Then for a little while, the Cat’s Meow and I am told, JM’s River Edge.  Then for many years and up until recently, it had been the Casa Comida Restaurant.

In my life experience, however, in the early to mid-1970’s, it will always be remembered as Barry’s.

Crossing over one of the two bridges that connected Oceanport with Long Branch, the Branchport Bridge, the old building, and the prominent sign always greeted you on your right.  I remember that sign growing up, in whatever iteration it was at the time.

 

The last couple of years, other than two day trips, once for my brother Carl’s memorial service and once for my Aunt Joan’s funeral, I hadn’t been back to New Jersey.  In fact, the last time I spent a night there was the night before my brother passed away.

But in late July Kim and I had the opportunity to go back up to celebrate my sister’s 70 th birthday and visit an old friend, Monmouth Park, on Haskell Stakes day.  It was a nice weekend and it was nice to be back.

And then yesterday, arriving late in the afternoon, I made the nostalgic trip over the Branchport bridge with the building that was Barry’s in my teenage years, now empty and for sale on the right as I left Oceanport.  Then I made the left on Atlantic Avenue to head to the ocean to visit another place that had significance in my life growing up, the North Long Branch beaches.

 

In 1973, the legal age to be served alcohol in New Jersey was eighteen. Even though I didn’t turn eighteen until June of 1974, that didn’t keep me from being one of the regulars at Barry’s.  Some long hair, an early attempt at growing some facial hair, my brother’s draft card, and a good friend who was already eighteen who worked there, and I was good to go.

I even remember nights we closed the joint and ended up sitting at a table having a beer with the owner, Barry himself.

Barry’s always had good live music.  Tim McLoone, of McLoone’s restaurant fame, played there regularly early in his career.  He is somewhat of a legend along the section of the Jersey shore where I am from but with a restaurant now at the National Harbor he is known in the Washington DC area as well.

Another band whose name escapes me would let me join them and play harmonica occasionally.  That sometimes went well and other times did not.

And then there was my favorite band, Guildersleeve (I think that is how it was spelled).  A versatile band with a female and a male lead singer.  There were a couple of songs, however, during their sets, when the bass player would sing.  One was Drive my Car by the Beatles.  The other was Las Vegas Turnaround.

 

I guess going back to Oceanport after a couple of years, spending some time in the picnic area of Monmouth Park on Haskell Day, and having that song playing over and over in my head recently has made these last few weeks a bit nostalgic for me.

It was about this time of the year 44 years ago that I was getting prepared to leave Oceanport.  I remember at the time friends telling me I would be back in three months, and that I would never be able to leave Oceanport.  And though that first year I probably spent more of my weekends in Oceanport than I did away from Oceanport, I never did go back there to live.

But hey, who says you can’t go back?

Who says you can’t go home?

Somebody from Jersey maybe?

But it’s alright.

Yeah, it’s alright.

Unlike Bon Jovi though, I am still waiting to crash into my pot of gold.

But it’s alright.

In fact, it’s good.

 

The Branchport bridge with “Barry’s” in the background
North Long Branch
Where The Choo Choo Go

Where The Choo Choo Go

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I have been home these past five days.

Quarantined, under house arrest, battling and recovering from my first bout of Covid-19.

In fact, I should probably apologize for my last post which I should have never posted because I was going down like the Titanic with a temperature of 103 as I was trying to write.  But not wanting to waste the time already invested I hit the publish button.

Sorry.

Though being sick is no fun, there is something oddly relaxing about being in this situation.  I can’t see anyone, no one wants to see me; I am forbidden until I meet certain criteria to return to work; so other than seeing my wife who has been sleeping in another room I am just home chilling.

Needless to say, with nothing better to do, I watched TV, listened to podcasts, watched some races, and slept a lot.

Well, mostly I slept a lot.

I could argue that Mike Lindell commercials, Balance of Nature commercials, and especially The Gutfeld Show, are all three good reasons to turn off Fox News and watch CNN.

So, I did, I watched some CNN.

And, I began listening to the Barak Obama and Bruce Springsteen podcast Renegades: Born in the USA.

Somehow this news overload got me thinking first about our Vice Presidents and how they really got to be Vice Presidents. You can’t really argue it was their qualifications to govern as our current example proves, more than their ability to gain votes for the Presidential candidate.

I imagined Obama sitting around with his team trying to find the most racist old white guy Democrat to balance out his ticket and maybe gain some votes from other racist old white guys of all parties.

And Trump probably chose Mike Pence to help grab the evangelical vote and help balance out his negatives.

Of course, the most obvious example of this would be Kamala Harris, this time balancing out the old racist white guy with potentially the first female Vice President of color. That was a ringer in my opinion.  The slam dunk. And it seems to have worked out well. At least in terms of the election result.

 

Looking back though, there was no way, in my opinion, Joe Biden was going to be allowed to lose that election regardless of whether you thought he was the best candidate or the worst candidate.

So then I began to wonder, now that we are in this mess with really no solution in sight to resolve it, does anyone who worked so hard to get us here have any regrets?

I thought about the Renegades, Barak Obama and Bruce Springsteen, having listened to some of their podcasts.  And couldn’t help but imagine what they might be thinking off the microphone.

But not only that.

Barak and Bruce…somehow the idea of the two of them working together conjured up more of a familiar visual for me.  I thought about the parallels to another population who needed saving, though fictitious, and imagined a conversation like this:

“Hey Boss, I think we are in some deep do-do.”

“Yeah Mr. Boss, it doesn’t look we are having a house party tonight anymore does it?”

“So Boss, what should we do?  We helped to get ourselves into this mess, how do we get out of it.”

“Well Mr. Boss, maybe it’s time for a new sheriff in Washington to save the country. I got a plan.”

“Okay Boss, let’s hear it.”

“We’ll work up a Number 6 on ’em.”

“A Number 6”? I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that one, Boss.”

Well, Mr. Boss, that’s where we go a-ridin’ into Washington, a-whompin’ and a-whumpin’ on my motorcycle, and then we…”

 

Kind of like Blazing Saddles and saving the poor people of Rock Ridge right?

Blazing Saddles, the 1974 movie by Mel Brooks that satirized racism and bigotry.  Brooks used humor to exemplify the extremely stupid behaviors of those who practiced it both in the historical context of white people settling in the west and their mistreatment of immigrant groups such as the Chinese and the Irish; the African Americans; and also the attitudes and treatment towards Native Americans; but also to show the idiocy of the bigotry of modern times.

It is fairly well accepted that Blazing Saddles would not have been able to be made today.

But I imagined a modern-day politically correct version, focused only on saving the country, not having anything to do with racism. This dynamic duo the “Renegades,” Barak and Bruce ‘a-ridin’ into Washington, D.C on Bruce’s motorcycle wearing cowboy and motorcycle boots on a mission to rescue the U.S.A.  from sure collapse.

With Barak Obama acting as the Sheriff Bart character.

And Bruce Springsteen would be like Jim, the “The Waco Kid” his trusty partner, but in this case maybe we would have to call him “The Jersey Kid” or the “The Asbury Kid.”

And Joe Biden to be the perfect Gabby Johnson.

And though it may be a stretch but maybe only to some degree, Kamala Harris playing a Governor William J. Le Petomane like part.

Then how about Nancy Pelosi as a Californian Lili Von Shtupp (“a wed wose, how womantic”).

Of course, the villain, the Hedley Lamarr role would have to be Donald Trump as evil as he is alleged to be.

 

Yeah, wouldn’t it be great if we could write a script with someone…anyone, riding into Washington, setting the government straight and our national policies, and once their work is complete, ride humbly off on their motorcycle into the Jersey Turnpike skyline?

I have said before I don’t want to nor am I capable of writing about politics, at least not seriously.

I even proposed to support Mickey Mouse for President in the 2016 election.

And as silly as the idea of a Sheriff Barak and “The Asbury Kid” saving our country sounds, I am praying for a miracle, any miracle, even one this crazy.

Because the reality is, just like Mongo, when asked why it was important where the Choo Choo go:

“Don’t know. Mongo only a pawn in the game of life.”

 

That’s me too, I don’t know either for I, am only a pawn in the game of life too.

 

It may be time to break out the paddle boards.

 

 

“He conquered fear and he conquered hate.

He turned our night into day.

He made his blazing saddle

A torch to light the way.”

(from the theme song “Blazing Saddles,” sounds like something worth praying for? I rooting for this guy)

Feet Faddish Three

Feet Faddish Three

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It was hot today.

I got a reminder that three years ago on another July 13th I posted a photo of my feet, next to the pool I had just opened and the palm tree I had recently planted. Feet Faddish I called it. Then in September of 2021 I returned to my lawn chair with Feet Faddish Two.

Once again it’s the 13th of July and since it was hot and I was tired from working outside, I thought I would stop for the day, and revisit my feet, my pool, and my palm tree once more.

So I inflated my pool, and positioned my lawn chair so that my feet would rest “under” one of my palm trees.  My palm trees are growing but I had a scare in April when we had an unexpected cold snap.  My palm trees are still young so I wrap them in bubble wrap to protect them from the cold in the winter.  I made the mistake of unwrapping them a little early this year and I thought I had lost a number of trees.  Though most have come back, one didn’t make it and a couple more are struggling.

If you look close you can see on the other side of my pool is my Par One golf course green so the pool can double as a water hazard.

My sister-in-law Teesha has recently made the decision to retire to the somewhat mythically sounding place called Margaritaville, in South Carolina.  I am happy for her.  With my brother Carl now gone it has to be hard to remain in that house.

 

The Fourth of July week was pretty cool. Kim and I got to hang out with all the local family on the fourth.  Later in the week we took Cameron out to the Eastern Shore to see my dad who he hadn’t seen in a while and spend some time fishing and crabbing.  My California brother Gary was on the east coast with my sister in law Marie so we got to hang out a little.

 

Sunday morning I got a call from my old friend Donny R.   We grew up together, spending time in school, the Boy Scouts, and Oceanport Hook and Ladder.  Donny was a police officer in Oceanport and is now retired in upstate New York.  His birthday is close to mine in June so I wished him a late happy birthday.  Before I left New Jersey, we would often throw ourselves a combined birthday party in his backyard.

 

It was nice to hear from him.  He told me he lives about 20 miles from Saratoga Racecourse and I told him that visiting Saratoga was on my bucket list so he said we were welcome anytime.

Though it was very nice to hear from him, when you are my age, phone calls from old friends from home often come with some bad news too.  In the case of Donny’s phone call, it came with lots of bad news, the passing of three friends I knew from Oceanport.

 

Karen S.  was the daughter of two of my mom and dad’s best friends so we saw a lot of each other growing up though she was a bit younger.  And she ultimately married another friend of mine from Oceanport.

Larry Y.  was another Oceanport guy and member of the Oceanport Hook and Ladder.

Kevin A. was an Oceanport guy who was also a member of Oceanport Hook and Ladder.  Like Donny, Kevin was also a police officer in Oceanport.  My favorite Kevin story is the night he found me and my buddy Joe (who I have written about a number of times before) after a couple of beers attempting to get Joe on the back of my motorcycle so I could take him home.  Instead, Kevin nicely suggested we put Joe in the Police car and he followed me on my motorcycle first to Joe’s address to drop him off and then to my house where I waved him thanks and went safely to bed.

That was the mid 70’s.  It probably wouldn’t happen that way now, and probably shouldn’t.

 

In less than a week we will acknowledge another year of our Donny being gone, this year will make twenty years believe it or not.  His accident occurred July 19, 2002.

 

I have heard two messages discussing fear in the last week both originating from a similar part of our world on the Eastern Shore. One from our buddy Bill Ortt in Easton, and one in the Harriet Tubman story.  Harriet’s birthplace was just a few miles from my parent’s house in Dorchester County.

I must admit Harriet has become my new Sheroe in recent days and I have been trying to learn as much as I can about her.  Maybe that is another story for another day.

 

Trusting the information Kim received from the policeman she spoke with on the phone, Donny experienced no pain. But I have always been troubled by the concern of whether he experienced fear.

We know Savannah experienced fear that day and is still working to sort that out.

 

Bill Ortt’s message included quotes from Zig Ziglar, an author and motivational speaker who died in 2012.

Rev. Ortt explained that Zig would propose you could look at fear two ways:

One is FEAR meaning “Fear Everything and Run.”

The other is FEAR meaning “Face Everything and Rise.”

 

 

In Harriet’s story from the movie anyway, she is helped by a “conductor” on the Underground Railroad, Reverend Green who before she left on her first journey to freedom would advise her that “fear is our enemy. Trust in God. The North Star will guide you, follow the North Star…”

 

It’s a tough challenge but facing our fears does allow us to learn and grow.

And, trusting in God.

It worked for Harriet.

I know our Donny trusted in God, and that helps to mitigate the sorrow.

 

I don’t fear the day God calls me.  And like my wise friend Donny R. said, every day we wake up and get out of bed is another birthday and should be celebrated.

 

It’s not that I don’t get scared.  Like those times Kim is almost home from visiting her mother and the house is a wreck. But that is a different kind of fear.

Listen to Rev. Green and Father Bill.

Fear is your enemy.  Trust in God.  Let the stars guide you. And if you can’t see the stars follow the river.

Face your fears and rise up.

 

And as I remember the events of July 13, 2019:

“Cameron told me this morning that when I am not alive anymore, he wants my truck.

That caught me off guard a little but hey you never know.

You never know what God’s plan is.

 

So today, I think I will just sit by the pool, next to my little palm tree, and look at my feet.

The garage will be there tomorrow.

Me, and days like this, may not.”

 

Today was a day for me to take a little break.

And though I am really happy for my sister-in-law and her move to the mythical place called Margaritaville, I am sure that comes with some fears.

For now, me, with my little pool, my little palm trees, my banana trees, my one-hole golf course, I have all the amenities I need to rest my feet in my mythical place I can call “Box Wine Ville” if I want.

Fear will be there tomorrow, me, and days like this may not.

Trust in God, He will guide you.

 

Postscript:

Our thoughts and prayers go out to the families of Karen, Larry, and Kevin.

I’ll Stand

I’ll Stand

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I was startled to find the pastor standing over me.

This “Pastor” was not like any pastor I have ever seen before.  Dressed all in black with a demonic look, more Satan-like, he was standing on my pew near where my head laid.  He was preaching about me and drawing the attention of the congregation sitting in the pews around me.  He was mocking me and humiliating me for stretching out in the pew and falling asleep during his sermon, so I became the sermon. And pointed out to all in the room I was even using Bibles as a pillow.

 

It was about 2 a.m. and after not being able to fall asleep in my office chair, I wandered down the hallway to the sanctuary and in the dark, I picked a pew a few rows from the front and laid down.  Better, I thought, though nothing like my bed, at least I could stretch out. Without a pillow, I reached out and grabbed a couple of books, hymnals or Bibles, not sure, and put them under my head.

This is kind of creepy, I thought.  I am trying to sleep in the same place where I got married and baptized; a place where I have attended the funerals of my friends, and Donny’s funeral.

Exhausted though, I drifted off to sleep

Maybe an hour later I was awoken In the middle of my dream with the demonic, Satan-like pastor. I checked the books beneath my head to see if they were Bibles. Finding only hymnals, I felt some relief.

For the first time since before the pandemic, my church held its annual yard sale.   I have written about it before.  It is quite a large, work-intensive event and typically it requires a few of us to work all night long in preparation. On this early pre-sale morning, however, we were fairly organized and it allowed me the opportunity to try to grab a little rest.

Not sure the church pew idea was my best choice though.

 

On June 16 I got a nice early Father’s Day gift.  Hayley was asked to be the keynote speaker at the Broad Run High School Graduation.  And it was broadcast online so Kim and I could watch it from our living room.  That was probably a good thing too because I didn’t even make it through the introduction by the Principal before the tears started rolling down my face.   Hayley did an awesome job, of course using the example of her “She-roe,” Ruth Bader Ginsburg to base her message.

Life Lessons (abridged version):

  1. Empower yourself, be independent.
  2. Find a true life partner, one that loves you unconditionally.
  3. Learn to welcome debate and difference. There is nothing wrong with having difficult conversations.
  4. We should all do our part to positively change the world. Work to repair the world.

It was awesome, she did a great job, and I was very proud, but little more dehydrated by the end.

Father’s Day weekend I was home alone again.    Kim had to go up to see her mom and I had work to do here. Though we find ourselves needing to do this a lot, I don’t think you ever really get used to it.  And I will admit I was a little depressed.  I listened to Bill Ortt’s 5:00 sermon on Saturday afternoon.  Then I listened to it again.  Then I listened again.

Interestingly his message contained elements similar to Hayley’s:

“What can I do” (to make the world better).

“We do have a stewardship responsibility for the way we communicate with one another.”

“Let each of you speak the truth with your neighbor, for we are members of one another”

 

Wise messages from some wise folks.  I hope I can live up.

 

On Father’s Day of course I heard from all the kids, but it was hearing my dad wish me a “happy father’s day” on my mother’s cell phone that was the highlight of my day.  I didn’t think I was going to be able to work out talking to him but it was a nice surprise and he did pretty good.

As I mentioned at the beginning, this past weekend was my church’s yard sale which was a lot of work but a lot of fun too with some awesome people.

And today is my birthday.

I just listened to the voice mail from Kim’s 97-year-old Aunt Laferne.  Every year she calls to sing “Happy Birthday” to you.  We don’t answer on purpose because we want to save it.

And like Father’s Day, I got to talk to my dad on my mom’s cell phone again and he wished me a “Happy Birthday” and he talked about having too many boats.  I told him you can never have too many boats.

 

Tomorrow we will celebrate Cameron’s birthday, on Wednesday Kim’s birthday, on Thursday we will remember the anniversary of my brother Carl going Home, and on Friday celebrate our 22nd wedding anniversary.

A busy time.

 

Sorry for rambling a bit.

But I suppose there are some morals in the story.

Like, find a true life partner, one that loves you unconditionally.  I will celebrate that later in the week.

Welcome debate and difference but we do have a stewardship responsibility for the way we communicate with each other.

We should all do what we can to make the world better.

Never fall asleep in church.

And finally, you can never have too many boats.

 

Postscript:

The birthday crown I am wearing in the photo above was made for me by Miss Laurie, co-teacher of my BFF’s, aka the “Dreamers.”

I haven’t had a chance to read my FB but will later, thanks for the birthday wishes.

I woke up this morning with the song “In Christ Alone” in my head. The version that Alison Krauss sings with the Getty’s.  I think if ever I would imagine an angel singing it would have the voice of Alison Krauss. She sings the first verse in this version.

“Till He returns, or calls me home,

Here in the power of Christ I’ll stand”

The “Davids” and the “Goliaths”

The “Davids” and the “Goliaths”

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I was told a story recently.

One about a great person in the world of sports.

A tale of a player whose only concern was for his team.

A story of selflessness, and looking shame right in the eye…

All for the sake of his teammates and his coach.

 

What is it that makes one a great athlete?

What is it that makes a great leader?

Is it winning?

I do not think so.

Is it hitting that grand slam home run?

Nope.

Or throwing that Hail Mary pass to win the game with no time left on the clock?

Not on your life.

Or making The Greatest Header Goal Ever Scored in Soccer to take the lead while your parents were at the snack bar?

Well, maybe…

but back to the story:

 

It wasn’t just any game.

It wasn’t the playoffs.

It wasn’t the championship series.

It wasn’t like the World Cup.

No, it wasn’t like any game.

Because it was this game.

And to this player, this game was just as important as any game.

 

The proud parents were on the sidelines in their spot near third base cheering on their player and his team.

Their son stood at second base alertly waiting for play that might come his way at a moment’s notice.

The opposing team was one of the best.

They were like “Goliaths” in this particular league of Tee Ball.

And their team?

Well, they were like “Davids.”

The odds were against them even on a good day, but on this day three players were absent and they were playing with only eight on the field.

Every man counted.

And the second baseman knew that.

 

When the inning was over, the players began leaving the field for the dugout.  Watching her son, mom said to dad:

“I think he peed his pants.”

“No, no it’s got to be water,” said dad.

“I don’t think so, it wasn’t there before” replied mom.

 

Once the team was back in the dugout, intuitively as you would expect a mom to do, she went over to see if everything was alright with her player.

“Hey buddy, is everything okay?

“Yup,” he said, sitting on the bench as he waited his turn to bat.

“Is there anything the matter?”

“Nope,” replied her player.

“Okay,” said mom, “good job out there.”

 

Not satisfied but without wanting to call attention to her son, Mom returned to her place near third base.

 

Soon it was time for the second baseman to step into the batter’s box.

There he stood, bat in hand, and in his stance like a 3 foot 10 inch Babe Ruth.

Heck, he might as well have been pointing to the left-field fence with his bat.

Standing proudly, in front of all the spectators, the opposing team, his coach and his teammates, and his parents, he was cool and remained focused.

He got a hit.

But it was now obvious as he ran the bases, he had peed his pants.

Eventually, he scored.

 

When the inning was over the players and the second baseman returned to the field.

The third-base coach asked him “Hey buddy, did you like spill water on yourself or something?”

“No,” replied the player “I went to the bathroom.”

The coach inquired some more “what happened did you have an accident, do you want me to throw some dirt on it to kind of hide it?”

“No, I had to go and I didn’t want to leave the field so I just went,” he said calmly.

The coach turned to the young boy’s parents and said “oh my goodness I LOVE this kid!”

 

Now back in the dugout, some of the younger kids noticed it and began asking the second basement “Oh my, did you pee your pants?”

The more experienced player replied without hesitation “yeah, I had to go, but it was in the middle of the inning, and I didn’t want to let you guys down by leaving the field, so I just peed my pants.”

The coach was proud of his young player wanting to tell his other players “yeah, that’s right, the next time you have to go to the bathroom just do what that guy does!”

The story of the second baseman who peed his pants rather than leave the field and let his teammates down quickly spread through the team’s other parents.

The other dads were very impressed.

His dad was proud.

And his mom was too.

 

Professional athletes pee themselves on the field all the time.

They get paid millions of dollars to perform at a certain level and sometimes they can’t let bodily functions get in the way.

But what about when you’re not playing for millions of dollars?

What if you are not getting paid to perform at all?

What if you are just six years old?

And the most important thing to you at the moment is your team, and your younger players, those that are five maybe.

And not letting them down.

Putting the welfare of your teammates over your own personal embarrassment and potential future humiliation at school maybe or maybe the next game.

I don’t know whether that makes a great athlete.

Nor do I know whether that makes a great leader.

But it sounds to me like it might be the beginnings of the making of a good person.

And a local legend maybe.

Someone to be looked up to.

Even when you are six.

 

Postscript:

In October of 2001, Kim and I were in Virginia Beach on Columbus Day weekend.  Donny’s travel soccer team was playing in a tournament.

At one point in the game, Kim and I decided to go to the refreshment stand.

And that’s when it happened.

The Greatest Header Goal Ever Scored in Soccer.

And we missed watching Donny make it.

Because we were at the snack bar.

 

As far as the Tee Ball game, unlike the story in the Bible, the “David” team did not prevail.

The “Goliath” team won.

The score was 23 to 10 and as a result, the game was called early because of the number of runs made.  Something called The Mercy Rule.

But winning didn’t matter anyhow.

Because there are more important things than winning.

Even when you are six.

 

Because He Lives

Because He Lives

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Almost twenty years ago now, Donny’s accident occurred on Friday, July 19, 2002.  His funeral was Tuesday, July 23. Tired from grief and everything else unimaginable that week, we needed to “get out of Dodge.”   So we gathered up some kids and some close friends for support and headed out to my parent’s house on the Eastern Shore in Woolford, Maryland.

My dad was crabbing at the time so he still had his crab boat which made for the perfect diversion spending some time on the water, fishing, and crabbing.

Outside of our world, the rest of the country was watching the events unfold in Somerset County, Pennsylvania where on July 24 eighteen coal miners were trapped in the Quecreek Mine. Somerset County was where Kim’s family resided so that crisis hit close to home as well and captured our concerns too.

Woolford is a small town about halfway between Cambridge and Taylor’s Island.  There is not much to the town but a small post office attached to the Woolford Store.  The Woolford Store had everything you needed for fishing, crabbing, and back then, hunting. You could also pick up your beer and groceries or have a seat at one of the few tables in front of the deli/grill and have breakfast or lunch. Camo was common or whatever you liked to fish in and pick-up trucks lined the road out in front.

Just a little ways further up Taylor’s Island Road was a small United Methodist Church named Milton United Methodist Church.

The Milton United Methodist church in Woolford at the time was part of the four church “Church Creek Charge.” The Church Creek Charge consisted of the Whitehaven UMC in Church Creek, Milton in Woolford, Madison UMC in Madison, and the Taylor’s Island United Methodist Church on Taylor’s Island.  The Pastor at the time was Reverend Bob Kirkley.  Kirkley was a preacher’s son who himself spent many years preaching in Baltimore and in St. Mary’s county on the Western Shore. Like my dad, he was born in 1929, so he could have easily been retired.  But instead, every Sunday morning Reverend Kirkley would start his preaching at 8:45 a.m. at the Whitehaven UMC in Church Creek, and once finished he would beat feet down the road to Milton at 9:45 a.m. then Madison at 10:45 a.m. finishing up the morning at Taylor’s Island UMC.

On that particular late July, Sunday, Kim and I felt like we needed to be in church and we convinced my parents to attend with us.  We sat down in one of the pews of the small very traditional-looking aging church sanctuary.  As strangers in church that morning, once we were acknowledged my dad very uncharacteristically stood up and introduced us and explained the circumstances with Donny.

Though I don’t remember what the sermon was about that Sunday, I do remember Kim and me thinking that it was speaking directly to us on that day.

At the end of the service, everyone stood and sang “God Bless America.”

Later that morning we went over to the Volunteer Fire Department in Secretary, Maryland for buckwheat pancakes and caught some TV replays of the miners in Pennsylvania being brought to the surface one at a time in their rescue capsule.

Answered prayers for those families.

 

Once we returned to Herndon Kim emailed Reverend Kirkley and explained that my parents really needed a church family and could he visit with them and try to get them to start going to church.

He did, and it worked, and eventually, my parents became active members of the Milton United Methodist Church.

The aging church building benefited from some of my dad’s carpentry skills and in addition, he would build a new church sign out front and a special Christmas tree-shaped stand for the poinsettias at Christmas in the sanctuary.

 

As my dad’s health began to fail and walking became more difficult, they eventually had to stop attending services.

Kim and I would attend from time to time while visiting.

 

Eventually, Reverend Kirkley’s health failed too and he had to retire, and just this past February, he passed away.

And the once four charge “Church Creek Charge” over time became a three church charge with the closing of the Taylor’s Island church.

Now with a new pastor, Pastor Ben, who is actually a police officer on the western shore when he is not preaching on the weekends, the same traditions of the small-town congregation continue.

 

Yesterday Kim and I returned with my mom for Easter services at Milton.  She hadn’t been to church in a while and they were happy to see her.

Most of the faces of the small congregation were familiar.

The sign on the wall said “last week’s attendance 31.”

With Easter, however, this Sunday’s attendance swelled to 46.

The stand my dad built for the Christmas poinsettias was still present in the corner now decorated with American flags.

And since the lady who used to play the piano moved away, the hymns are sung accompanied by recorded music and vocals.  We sang “He Lives” along with Alan Jackson and “Because He Lives” with Bill Gaither.

And just like it was twenty years ago, “God Bless America” still ends every service.  No accompaniment was needed for that one.

 

After church, we visited with my dad and tried to remember Easters of the past when the big deal was packing the family in the Corvair and driving all the way to Middletown to have dinner at McDonald’s.

Now with our visit over, Kim and I got back in the truck to head home.

But not before a quick stop at the McDonald’s in Cambridge to keep the tradition going.

 

It was a nice Easter.

“Because He lives, I can face tomorrow
Because He lives, all fear is gone
Because I know He holds the future
And life is worth a living just because He lives”

(From “Because He Lives” by Bill Gaither)

 

Postscript

The photo above was taken at the time the new sign that my dad built was installed at the church.

 

Pastor Ben leading the service
The poinsettia tree, now adorned with American flags
The sign my dad built, as it looked on Easter 2022