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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
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.

The Strongest Kid in Oceanport

The Strongest Kid in Oceanport

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“When are we going to go upstairs and eat?”

“Carl, we don’t go upstairs to eat, we eat here.”

“We always go upstairs and eat.”

“No, we don’t Carl, we don’t have an upstairs, we always eat here on the porch.”

“Yes, we do!  We eat upstairs!”

“Alright, alright.”

 

 

This past January I was going through a cabinet in my home “office” that was full of my old notebooks and journals, and I began to leaf through them.  I am not particularly organized so it’s not always clear if the entries are chronological or not, but in one notebook that contained most of my 2016 first-year Musings notes, I found a page dated April 29.  I am going to assume, therefore, that this was April 29, 2016. Here is a somewhat edited version of that day’s notes:

Yesterday my dad was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease. His primary care had suspected he might have the disease and he sent him to a specialist in Salisbury who confirmed the diagnosis.  He was ordered to be put on medication to start treatment.

Since I have had a couple of weeks to process the possibility of this diagnosis, to some degree I am glad that it has been confirmed and possibly the medication will help him.  He has endured changes that have noticeably impacted his activities of daily living and maybe some of those changes can be relieved.

Last week he had my mother ask me over the phone if I wanted his bicycle.  He was told by the doctor he could no longer ride his bicycle. 

I thought that was sad and told him to keep it out there for me to ride when I visited. 

It must be really hard.

I don’t know much about Parkinson’s Disease at this point, but I suppose I will begin to learn. 

I guess only time will tell.

In the meantime, I will learn as my dad goes through this, at least as much as I can.

 

And so began the learning experience.  The journey of watching the life of a once-proud, confident, independent, talented, competent, most of the time charming, and all the time stubborn individual, whose life had impacted so many, begin to implode.

A guy who was known for his physical abilities, his sense of balance, his strength, and his accuracy.  He could cross a log over a stream with ease, he could lean comfortably over the edge of the roof of a building while pulling a roll of tar paper up on the end of a rope; he could climb a rope using only his arm strength, he could drive a 10-penny nail with one swoop of a hammer and cut through a branch with one chop.

“One Chop Mo” they called him in Boy Scouts.

He could ski, ice skate, windsurf, climb a ladder, carry a backpack over miles of the Appalachian Trail, drive a firetruck, fight a fire, and even deliver a baby.

He could build a house, build a fine piece of furniture, build a First Aid building, and build a community-free library.

And he could ride his bicycle.

But not anymore.

 

 

The conversation illustrated above became more common as his disease progressed. But it wasn’t always like that and before reaching the point of incoherent sentences or confusion, as much as I could, I asked questions and wrote things down.

Though some of those conversations reached long into the night and were sometimes blurred and marred by Manhattans and red wine, not to mention the progression of his Parkinson’s, I tried to do the best I could to document his comments.  The Manhattan’s were always good grease for the wheel on his end, but on my end red wine didn’t always allow me to capture those memories as well as I would have liked.

But we had fun.

 

My dad talked a lot about “going home” as his mind began to change.

He always wanted to “go home.”

“Home” to him, in his later Parkinson’s years, was in Oceanport, N.J.

Though he lived in Woolford, on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, and hadn’t lived in Oceanport in thirty years, in his memory, he lived back in the town he was raised in and where he raised his family.

His life was going full circle.

And in his defense, in the house that he built in Oceanport; he did go upstairs to eat.  The kitchen was on the middle floor, or more exactly the third level of the four-level split he built.  If he was in the basement where his workshop lived, or in the “rec” room where his bar was located, he went up the stairs to reach the kitchen and eat.

So in his previous house, the “home” he remembered best as being his home, he went upstairs to eat.

Except for the few years as a child when he lived in the Scandinavian neighborhood of Brooklyn’s Bay Ridge section, my father was born and raised in Oceanport.

My grandfather moved the family to Brooklyn in the 1930s to find work and for three years, my dad lived and attended New York’s public school system in the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th grades.

It’s been a while since we have had the ability to have those conversations when I could learn more about his life.  But interestingly, this past Monday, on his birthday, out of the blue, he shared another story I had not heard before.  You have to understand this was a big deal because most of his speech now is unintelligible.  On Monday, while we celebrated his birthday in the facility where he now lives, he shared the story of another birthday party he had in Brooklyn in 1939 when he turned ten years old.  He said he had just started to play guitar and they played “kissing games.”  He also mentioned that baseball was big back then.

I don’t know where all this came from but I got pretty excited and of course, took notes on my phone.

I have never heard him say anything about playing the guitar, but I definitely believe he played “kissing games.”  I did try to push him a little with some follow-up questions about the Brooklyn Dodgers but at that point, it was over.  The clarity had ceased.

I think he had a great birthday and for me it was awesome.

 

On April 29th in 2016 I wrote:

“I don’t know much about Parkinson’s Disease at this point, but I suppose I will begin to learn. 

I guess only time will tell.

In the meantime, I will learn as my dad goes through this, at least as much as I can.”

 

It’s now April of 2022.

I am still learning.

Though I probably still don’t know as much about Parkinson’s in the clinical sense as I should,  I do know how it has affected my dad and impacted my mother.

 

My dad once told me “At one time I was the strongest kid in Oceanport.”

I believe he probably was.

That strength is gone now.

And the sense of balance he was once so proud of, gone too.

It’s hard to believe it has only been six years that we have been on this journey.

Yet he still has those days when he amazes me.

So I guess I will keep on learning.

As long as he keeps sharing.

 

Postscript:

I shared his birthday photo on social media and he got many responses and comments.  I read as many of those comments as I could to him while I was with him on Monday and will follow up with the rest the next time I see him.  Thanks to all for helping to make his birthday special.

My dad enjoying his birthday ice cream cone. He hadn’t had an ice cream cone in about 10 months.
“C’mon Everyone We Gotta Get Together Now”

“C’mon Everyone We Gotta Get Together Now”

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“Oh yeah, love’s the only thing that matters anyhow.”

Those lyrics are from the song Sweet Cherry Wine by Tommy James and the Shondells released in 1969.

I have been singing it over and over again lately, and with the help of my “Alexa,” listening as well.

 

I haven’t written anything to post on “Musings” in over three months.  I haven’t felt like it.  I have been in a funk since Christmas.  I don’t know why exactly.  Maybe it’s seasonal depression; maybe it’s the #PutinPriceHike on our gas costs; maybe it’s the massive losses in our retirement accounts at a time when I would like to retire; maybe it’s the Valentine’s Day card I bought for Kim that cost me eight bucks (8 bucks!); maybe it’s the threat of World War III and nuclear war looming over the futures of my grandsons; maybe it’s the weight gain I can’t blame on anybody but myself ushering in a new stage of my old age.

 

In 1969 I remember Sweet Cherry Wine as being a cool song that I liked.  At that point in my life, I wasn’t paying too much attention to lyrics in songs so I didn’t really get the message.

Having grown up on lyrics like “Makes my heart go run-run ditty”  or  “Down dooby doo down down, Comma, comma, down dooby doo down down,” what was the point of listening to lyrics.

Anyway, I just thought it was a song about drinking wine.

We had a lot of division in the country in the 60’s and 70’s.  In fact in Tommy James’ book “Me, the Mob, and the Music” he writes “Before the 1968 election, there was very little left-right, conservative-liberal dichotomy.  That election, that year, was when we lost our national unity and became a red and blue country.  Divided we fall.”

We had Vietnam, we had Watergate, and not long after we had our first oil crisis.

My daughter Hayley reminded me this past week about a photograph I had taken when I was in high school that got published on the front page of a local newspaper called The Advisor on February 3, 1974.  The photo was taken during the oil embargo of 1973 and 1974 and she wanted to use it as part of her lesson for one of her classes.

The oil embargo of 1973 had some similarities in origin to at least a part of our current oil and gas situation (the Putin part) in that during the Arab-Israeli War of 1973 the Arab nations imposed an embargo on the United States in retaliation for providing arms to Israel thus banning petroleum exports to the US and other nations supporting Israel.  Domestic oil production had declined and we had become dependent on importing foreign oil.

We had long lines at the gas stations and prices jumped.  It was common for gas stations to run out of gas.  I happened to have worked part-time at the Shell station in my hometown of Oceanport where the photo was taken and therefore I had a pretty easy time getting gas.  I had taken the photo as part of an assignment for my high school photography class.

“Divided we fall.”

That may be true.  I think September 11, 2001, would tamp that division down a little but it is raging back.

We have climate change, social media, fake news, Build Back Better, Make America Great Again, socialism versus capitalism, and on and on.

Heck, even the Senate’s attempt to cure my seasonal depression is pitting family member against family member.

 

Though often thought to be related to psychedelia and drugs, Sweet Cherry Wine was more a song protesting the Vietnam War and according to Tommy James in an interview in 2010 the song “was about the blood of Jesus.“

 

“…yesterday my friends were marching out to war
…listen, now, we ain’t a-marching anymore”

“No we ain’t gonna fight
Only God has the right
To decide who’s to live and die”

 

I have always said that writing is great therapy.

I guess I should start practicing what I preach.

Maybe practice what I preach in more ways than just writing.

 

“To save us He gave us sweet cherry wine”

 

This is my blood, drink it, in remembrance of Me.

 

Pray for peace.

The Christmas Letter 2021

The Christmas Letter 2021

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It’s coming on Christmas
They’re cutting down trees
They’re putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on

From “River” a song by Joni Mitchell

 

I heard this song recently.

It’s a beautiful song.

But it’s kind of sad.

I guess we have all had times in our lives when we wished we had a river we could skate away on.

As I write this on an early December evening, I was reminded by a social media post that on this day one year ago, just a few weeks before Christmas, a friend of mine from my hometown of Oceanport, New Jersey had succumbed to complications of the Covid 19 virus.

His daughter posted a photo a few days ago also on social media, of this year’s Christmas decorations on their house with the comment “We didn’t even have a Christmas tree last year….but we decided to make up for it this year.”

Yeah, buddy.

I remember Christmases like that. The Christmas of 2002 when we had to have Christmas somewhere, anywhere but not at our home.  Too many memories for that, so we ended up in a house in Deep Creek, Maryland.  And the Christmas of 2018 when we didn’t put up a Christmas tree either for the first time in my life because we just weren’t feeling it.

But then in 2019, with the kids coming up from Florida we tried to regroup and be festive. And we had a nice Christmas.

Then just a few months later, the virus shut us down.

Christmas 2020 was spent spread out with Kim’s mom on Christmas Eve, my parents on Christmas Day, and the local kids a couple of days after Christmas.

Holiday distancing to allow for social distancing.

I am sure for Christmas 2020 there were probably many who wished they “had a river to skate away on. “

But this year, though not everything has returned to the way it was back in 2019, we are trying once again.

And like my friend’s daughter Michelle and her mom Linda and their family, again with the Florida kids coming up to Virginia for Christmas, we decided to try to make up for it this year too.

Kim and I were already a little ahead of the game preparing for this Christmas in that we had never taken our Christmas tree down from last year.

Yeah, I know that sounds weird, but it kind of fit in with all the other plants, even though it was artificial.

We decided we would enjoy it all year long.

So we decorated the tree for the Kentucky Derby, then the Preakness, and the Belmont. Then in July for the Haskell. Those Haskell hats remained on the tree until I finally took them down the weekend before Thanksgiving.

In fact, over the weekend in October when Savannah and Leon got married, Christian happened to find the one lone ornament from the Christmas before, that we overlooked taking down.

Appropriately so, it was an angel.

So, on the Sunday before Thanksgiving, with the angel continuing to watch over us, all those hats were replaced with Christmas ornaments.  And the decorating continued in the weeks that followed, inside and outside the house.

Joni, in her song “River,” goes on to explain she lives in a part of the world where everything is always green:

But it don’t snow here
It stays pretty green

Though the desire to escape is real, the hope of having a frozen river to skate away on, is just that, just a hope. A sad one maybe, we can’t always skate away from the unexpected.

Because the truth is:

It’s coming on Christmas
They’re cutting down trees
They’re putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace

Christmas is coming.

And the Christmas season is a time of hope, a time of renewal, a time of anticipation of what is to come as we prepare to celebrate the birth of Jesus on Christmas Day.  As well as to anticipate what that will mean for us in the coming New Year.

A time of joy and a time of peace.

And maybe… that hope, and that joy, and that peace is our “river.”

So put your skates on.

 

Postscript:

Kim and I would like to wish all our friends and family a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!  And a special Christmas blessing to all our new friends at the Laurel View Village in Davidsville, Pennsylvania, and Signature HealthCARE at Mallard Bay in Cambridge, Maryland.

It’s a Thursday evening and as I sit here writing wearing my vintage Troy Polamalu Bumblebee Pittsburgh Steelers jersey, I will soon need to put down my pen to prepare to watch the Steelers play the Vikings on Thursday Night Football, in hopes that by the time I rest my head on my pillow tonight I will not be wishing there will be a river, or maybe three rivers that I and all other Steelers fans could skate away on.

Lastly, I will leave you with another thought from another post I saw on social media today from our friends at Christ Church in Easton, Maryland that I thought was fitting:

Life requires many responsibilities of us each day, and so many of them don’t go according to how we had planned or expected. Joseph was required to go with Mary, his wife, back to his hometown of Bethlehem. We can wonder about his thoughts as he was navigating this tedious trek home. But what we know of is the miracle that took place there, after they arrive!

Heavenly Father, help us to keep our eyes on you as we respond to the many responsibilities that we face each day so that we don’t miss the blessings that you pour out. Amen.

 

Amen.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from all of us.

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

 

Post Postscript (added for this post December 21, 2021)

Shortly after finishing this letter, my aunt, Joan Christiansen passed away.  I have referred to my Aunt Joan a couple of times before in these musings in You Are My Sunshine and Hello In There.  She was special.  We are all familiar with the proverb “it takes a village to raise a family.”  But more often, it takes family to raise a family.  When my sister, my brothers, and I and my cousins were kids, aunts and uncles were more like deputized parents.  They stepped up as they needed to cover one another and keep us all safe.  We shared our Christmases and Easters and other holidays too.  We shed some tears and lots of laughs.  We have many memories and on December 11 we had a little more of that sunshine taken away.

We sang “You Are My Sunshine” at her gravesite.

Prayers go out to my cousins and their kids and their kids too.

Here is “You Are My Sunshine” featuring my Aunt Joan.

Enjoy

My aunt, Joan Christiansen

 

The Haskell tree in July

Passing On Your Left

Passing On Your Left

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It’s Belmont Stakes Day.

Kim and I got up early and walked five miles along the Sugarland Run Trail.

After lunch, we decided to keep moving and ride our bikes, so I loaded up the bikes and drove to downtown Herndon to jump on the W&OD bike trail.

Today, not feeling the cycling cool, I opted not to wear my bike shirt, just a sleeveless tee-shirt and I put my bike pants on under my shorts.

Besides being more practical since I could carry my wallet and phone, though not my goal, the bike pants under my shorts made my butt look bigger.

When you are me, that’s a plus.

 

I have never been to the Belmont. I have been to the Kentucky Derby, I have been to the Preakness, but never the Belmont.  Growing up in New Jersey, not that far from Nassau County on Long Island, I had plenty of opportunities.

I remember a bunch of us watching the Belmont race one year at my friend Ricky’s house back in the 70’s.  As we watched the winner being brought into the winner’s circle for the photos and the interviews, there on our TV screen was another good friend and classmate from Oceanport,  Chris Nagel smiling and wildly waving his tickets, winners I guessed, while pressed up against the winner’s circle fence and on national TV.

Since I am not normally that lucky when it comes to betting on these races, the 2008 Belmont Stakes is another memory.  A long shot named D’Tara won the race at odds of 38 to 1.  A horse named Dennis of Cork ran second.  Anak Nakal and Ready’s Echo ended up in a dead heat for third.  I had all four of those horses boxed in a trifecta (the first three horses) and the exacta (the first two horses).  As a result, I landed two trifectas, one with each third-place horse, and the exacta.

Kim got some new patio doors and a front door out of that one.

 

The problem with biking along the W&OD bike trail is there are beer stops.  Heading towards Reston the first stop was The Bike Lane, a bike shop that also brews their own beer.  They had a great Kolsch and we sat outside at a picnic table.  I asked the guy pouring my beer if Tommy, an awesome young man who attends my church still worked there.  “Tom Brown?” he asked, “yeah we call him ‘T Bone,’ he is off today for his sister’s graduation party, I’ll tell him someone was asking about him.”

Another four miles and one very large hill later we stopped at The Caboose, a brewery in Vienna, Virginia adjacent to the bike trail. There we had a Czech and a Citrus Pilsner.

Then it was eight miles and that one big hill back to Herndon, ending at the Green Lizard, our local bike shop, for one more draft beer.

Then home to watch the Belmont Stakes.

It was a good race, though I didn’t get as lucky as I did in 2008. The horse Rombauer who won the Preakness beat my pick, Known Agenda, for third place knocking my trifecta out.  But I did have the exacta.  Not bad since I just played my birthday numbers and threw in Hot Rod Charlie because he had a good story.

No Triple Crown winner this year, some unneeded drama, now we look forward to next year.

 

At one point on the way home on the bike trail, Kim and I had gotten separated a bit.

I was riding slow, now tired from the long day.

A bike rider came up behind me and gave the courtesy warning before passing me, “passing on your left.”

Only this guy said, “passing on your left, ma’am.”

I had to laugh.

 

It was a nice relaxing day.

Lots of exercise.

Lots of sun.

A few beers.

Lots of racing.

And the question,

Was it my hair?

Or my new butt maybe?

That earned me a…

“Passing on your left, ma’am?”

Guess I will never know.

 

Postscript:

Our feature image is a selfie taken at The Caboose Brewing Company and Tavern in Vienna, Virginia.

Memorial Day Unmasked

Memorial Day Unmasked

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In my hometown of Oceanport, New Jersey, there is a parade held on Memorial Day each year.  Over the years  I marched in that parade as a Cub Scout, as part of the Maple Place School band, as a Boy Scout, and as an Oceanport Hook & Ladder volunteer fireman.

In my younger years, my neighbor Warren Del Vecchio always played Taps on his trumpet from the hill overlooking the town memorial located on a small island of grass with a monument and a flagpole at the confluence of three streets in the area of town known as Wolf Hill. His trumpet would sound from the hill behind us immediately after the honor guard from Fort Monmouth finished shooting their rifles in the air in salute.  It always brought on chills.  To me as a young person, Warren’s playing of Taps earned him celebrity status and I always felt like I was important because I knew him personally, kind of like “yeah, I know that guy, he is my neighbor.”

Like most events during the pandemic, last year’s Memorial Day parade in Oceanport, as it was in hometowns all over our country, was canceled.

This year, however, due to vaccines and our beginning to return to some state of normalcy, the parade goes on, though sadly in my opinion, since I have moved away, the route no longer terminates at Wolf Hill, with the monument and the flag pole.

The President told us earlier in the year, if we were all good, we could spend the Fourth of July with our families without distancing and even without wearing masks.

We must have been really good because its only Memorial Day and the masks are coming off all over the place and groups are gathering once again.

I am still not sure how to handle the change in mask usage and it’s obvious when you enter a store where masks are not required and everyone is still wearing one, the rest of the world is too.  After a year of socially hiding, I have grown comfortable with being unsocial and putting on my hat, my sunglasses, and my mask and going to the grocery store hoping no one will recognize me.

And then there are the situations like the time I was at the self-checkout and the loaf of rye bread I just waited fifteen minutes to have sliced didn’t show up under the bakery search as a price option and I finally had to get the attendant to assist me, all the while the blood was receding from lips and face as they took on a nice grayish color and tightened up tautly.  Thankfully, all this was happening under the cover of my mask.  As far as the grocery attendant knew, I was smiling even though at that point I was only able to point and grunt at the rye bread and the touch screen.

And I can’t ignore the fact that I can’t remember the last time I had a cold or have been sick.

 

Then just when you think it’s safe to go out of the house, THEY’RE BACK!

Like an old 1950’s science fiction movie, they come crawling out of holes in the ground every seventeen years.  They fly across the sky clumsily like Flash Gordon’s spaceship from the 1930’s serials. And the rhythmic whirring sounds in the air all around might as well be signaling a flying saucer invading Earth from outer space.

They get in your hair, they cancel out your cell phone audio, they just plain creep you out.  Like some prehistoric creature whose ability to naturally evolve has been robbed, they seem out of place in our new world.

Hey Cicadas…it’s the 21st century, we have Africanized Honey Bees and` Murder Hornets now. We drive electric F-150’s, and watch shows like Pooch Perfect and The View  on TV’s that have flat screens!  We have evolved!

You guys need to get to the gym.

 

It is nice to see Memorial Day weekend signaling the unofficial beginning of summer and returning to its traditions.

Oceanport will have its parade.

My brother  Carl’s annual Memorial Day party will go on, as he would have wanted.  He will be there in spirit I am sure.

I am able to kiss my mother and father this weekend without guilt, and most importantly, without a mask.

And I will admit it is nice to have at least the option to be social again.

 

And of course, we can’t forget the real reason for the day that gives us the three day weekend and the  excuse to parade, eat hot dogs, drink beer, and go to the beach:

Those brave men and women who gave their lives defending our freedom.

May God bless each and every one of them and may their families feel proud and appreciated for their sacrifice, in grief and in memory.

Thank you.

 

My brother Carl, Memorial Day 2020. May he be resting in peace, because he deserves to be.

Postscript:

The feature photo is from the Oceanport Memorial Day Parade in May of 1969 when I was in the seventh grade and is courtesy of my friend Kathy MacDonald.  That tall fellow at the end of the saxophone line is me.  That is Kathy’s brother Bob next to me.  Also in that line is Veronica Bradley and David Halpstein (not sure that is correct last name, if you are reading this from Oceanport help me out).

Finding Grace

Finding Grace

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Would You Like A Lime With That Week Fifty Nine!

“The fear of death is gone…because what Christ did for me on the cross.   I’m saved by the grace of God…the person that faces Christ straight out and totally rejects Him will pay a fearful price…it’s separation from God and that in itself will be Hell…the person who rejects God in a sense is already in Hell in this world.”  (Billy Graham)

 

Already in Hell.

In this world.

 

Kim and I listened to an old Johnny Carson interview with Billy Graham from the early 70’s over the weekend.

Mr. Graham went on to say that at the time, 99% of Americans said that they believed in God.

That was 1973.

That’s changed quite a bit.

More recent surveys put that number for younger adults at less than 50% and for those 18 to 29 as low as 43%.

That’s a lot of people.

 

“Already in Hell in this world.”

 

I overheard my almost son-in-law Leon make a comment one day after hearing someone in his neighborhood click their car remote to lock their car doors.  In this case, he heard the car horn beep multiple times and said something like “Geez, do you have to do it eight times? Once is enough!”

 

Ah, Grasshopper, I thought to myself, you don’t understand.

Someday you will.

There is a reason that some of us need to hit that button more than once.

First of all, we can’t hear the beep.  Old folks push the button, then when we don’t hear anything, we push it again, and again all the time walking closer to the parked vehicle outside in the street until the comforting sound of the horn is confirmed.

 

Then, there is the fact that sometimes, we just don’t remember.

It’s kind of like taking a shower and not remembering if I washed that body part or not…

“Okay I’m done…wait, did I wash my feet yet?  I don’t remember! Ah, shoot I better wash them again just in case.”

It’s the same with locking my truck

I push the button and then moments later I think…

“Did I lock my truck doors?”

“I don’t remember…ah I will just push it again…and maybe I better walk towards it until I hear the horn just to be sure…”

 

Then there is also that inclination to believe that more is always better.

It comes from growing up and not having everything we think we should have had and the need to overcompensate  for that as adults.  We are determined to quell any doubt that what we set out to do, is accomplished. We have to get that last beep in.

“Ha!  I will make sure those darn doors are locked! I am going to push the button again! And maybe a couple more times to be sure! And maybe I should walk towards it until I hear the horn to be extra sure.”

 

 

This is kind of a weird week for me.

In one respect, a rite of passage in some sense, a graduation of sorts, into a new generation, an older generation.

Confirmed by the fact that I got my first Social Security check this week.

And my Medicare card is in the cabinet (though it’s not good until June).

 

But by contrast, I was also reminded that this week seven years ago I ran my first and only half marathon through the streets of my hometown of Oceanport, New Jersey, and neighboring Long Branch in the Long Branch Half Marathon on Team Move For Hunger.

What a difference seven years can make.

In 2014 I was fifty-seven about to turn fifty-eight.  This year I am sixty-four about to turn sixty-five.

And I have a Medicare card in the cabinet.

Half marathons I am afraid might now be just a thing of my past, serving only to make for nice Facebook memories.

I remember running over the Pleasure Bay Bridge, leaving Oceanport and entering Long Branch and catching up to this young lady who was running even slower than I was.  I remember thinking wow good for her to be out there doing this event, she didn’t have your typical runner’s body, in fact you could say she was a bit overweight and not someone you might expect to be out running a 5K, let alone a half marathon.

So we struck up a little conversation as we began the incline that was the Oceanport side of the bridge and I explained to her that this was my first half marathon and I expected her response to be the same.

But it wasn’t.

No, she said, “I try to run one of these a week. Yeah, last week I was in (someplace I don’t remember where she said) and the week before that I was in (someplace else).”

“Wow”, I said “Good for you!” and with that, I took advantage of the downhill Long Branch side of the bridge and increased my pace.

As I left her behind, I felt silly for my assumption and a little humbled as well.

I judged her.

And that was unfair and I was totally incorrect in my assumption.

 

 

Believe it or not, Kim and I still have our Christmas tree set up in the living room.

No, we didn’t forget to take it down.

I am not that far gone yet.

Apparently, I purchased such a cool-looking artificial tree that this year,  once we took the ornaments off, it kind of blended in with the rest of the forestry in my living room and became kind of fun to have.

And this week is also special to me because Saturday is the running of the Kentucky Derby, therefore this week is “Derby Week.”

So since I had the tree already up I decided to decorate it for the occasion.

I even made my meatballs already.

 

And finally, this week, after eleven years of non-production, The Little Chickens Winery fired up what will be the next vintage of Little Chickens Cabernet Sauvignon 2021.  Hopefully no snowstorms on bottling day this time.

 

 

So, for the most part, I am enjoying this week.

I am not running any half marathons but I am moving around as much as my aches and pains allow me to.  I will at least want to wait until my Medicare becomes active should I ever attempt to run another half marathon, I might need the hospitalization.

And as for you Grasshopper, my new soon-to-be son-in-law, patience.  You too will learn that with age comes wisdom…but also the need to hit the lock button multiple times.

And it is also true that with age and wisdom, more people come to God in their older years.  Maybe it is the desire to not fear death, maybe it is the desire to just accept the Grace of God and enjoy the happiness of inner peace…finally.

I hope that is true.

Because like my humbling experience of unfairly judging someone for the way that she looked, whether you are already in Hell in this world or not, nowadays, we still seem to do a lot of that.

Judging that is.

 

And so, I hope you watch the race on Saturday.

I hope you enjoy this nice weather.

I hope you relax with your beverage of choice and maybe eat a meatball.

I hope you get your vaccine and take your mask off while dining outside at a restaurant.

I hope you remember that you already washed your feet and lock your car only once.

 

But most of all, I hope you find grace.

 

 

Postscript:

The photo above is from April 27, 2014 before the start of the New Jersey Marathon and the Long Branch Half Marathon and includes the Move For Hunger Team including Coach Emily Cebulski in the center.

It’s hard to believe it has been 59 weeks since the pandemic officially kicked off.  Get your vaccine!

 

 

I’ll Have a Zoom Christmas, Without You

I’ll Have a Zoom Christmas, Without You

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The 2020 Christmas Letter

 

Have yourself a merry Covid Christmas
May your masks be bright…
From now on your smiles will be out of sight

Have yourself a merry Covid Christmas

Begin the Yuletide fray
Because now on your family will be miles away

 Just last year in our olden days
Happy golden days of yore
Faithful friends who were dear to us
Gather near to us no more

Come next year we all will be together
If the States allow
Hang my Christmas card it’s all I’ve got for now
So have yourself a merry Covid Christmas

How?

 

How?

You may be asking yourself that same question.

I actually considered skipping this letter again this year.

I had already written so much about this year in the life of my family I thought how much more sad news can you folks take?

How do you be “merry” in 2020?

 

I tried some of the usual things to generate “merry.”

I went out and bought a new Christmas tree.

“And don’t be cheap” was my only instruction.

So I got one with lights already on it and a remote control!

And though it wasn’t cheap, I did get a discount because it was the floor model.

Then I got a “smart plug” and now all I need to do to turn the Christmas tree lights on is say,

“Alexa…turn on the Christmas Tree.”

 

But none of that seemed to do it.

 

So then I thought I would go back and read the last fifteen years’ worth of Christmas letters including the 2018 non letter year blog post, hoping to find some inspiration and “merry” in those.  But I came away from that even more depressed and convinced that every year was a struggle with the hope that the New Year would bring something different, only to repeat the cycle the next year.

 

Then I listened a second time to an online Sermon from the first Sunday in Advent and that was a little more promising so I decided to “Google” Advent to learn more and I found this from a Western Kentucky University website:

While it is difficult to keep in mind in the midst of holiday celebrations, shopping, lights and decorations, and joyful carols, Advent is intended to be a season of fasting, much like Lent, and there are a variety of ways that this time of mourning works itself out in the season. Reflection on the violence and evil in the world causes us to cry out to God to make things right—to put death’s dark shadows to flight. Our exile in the present makes us look forward to our future Exodus. And our own sinfulness and need for grace lead us to pray for the Holy Spirit to renew his work in conforming us into the image of Christ.

Hmmm, I thought…

“Violence and evil?”

“Death’s dark shadow?”

“Our exile in the present?”

That was just what I didn’t need to be reminded of and certainly didn’t evoke any “merry.”

 

So I thought about music.  Music always makes me feel better. So I put on my Lowen and Navarro Christmas CD. That was good.  But then I found my favorite Christmas album of all time, That Christmas Feeling by Glen Campbell released in 1968.  My dad had this album when I was a kid.

Now I was getting warm.

 

Even though the Supreme Court ruled against prayer in public schools in 1962, when I was in “grammar school” growing up in New Jersey we were still allowed to perform a Christmas pageant each year acting out the story from the Bible of the birth of Jesus.  The pageant was narrated by two readers, typically a boy and girl.

In 1969 when I was in the eighth grade I stepped out of my comfort zone and volunteered to be one of the narrators.  To my disappointment however another guy had already asked to be the narrator.

My “shop” teacher was one of the teachers in charge of the pageant and he was my favorite teacher.   After some consideration it was decided that the contrast in our voices (mine was much lower) would work and so I was able to be one of the narrators and read the story of the birth of Jesus.  The story from Luke Chapter 2:

“And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed.”

And, in true “Life in the Wobbly Cart” fashion, I caught a bad cold that week and so the narration included me coughing and sniffing into the microphone as I read my part. It wasn’t pretty.

“And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.”

And even now as sit on my couch writing, I look out my window to see my second Christmas tree, the one I set up outside on my deck in another attempt to find “merry,” bent and broken, the star hanging limply upside down, most of the lights not working but there is one random bulb flickering incessantly; damaged from being blown over by the wind.  Another reminder of just how “normal” my life still is.

For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.

But then it occurred to me.

In this year of everyone’s world being turned upside down due to a virus; a year that started off with the loss of our pastor, Steve; a year that I lost my old friend Frank to the virus; a year when my brother Carl lost his battle with cancer and we lost Kim’s dad; heck we even lost our cat… I was still looking for “merry.”

And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered.

And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.

When all along, maybe I should have been looking for “Mary.”

“So they hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby, who was lying in the manger.”

And…Jesus.

 

“Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying,

“Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom his favor rests.”

 

And in recognizing a brighter meaning of Advent, one of expectation and what was and is to come, maybe I had found my “merry.”

I hope you do too.

 

Kim and I hope you and your families have a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

 

Kim and Curt

 

Postscript:

Our prayers go out to all those who continue to struggle in health or well-being due to Covid 19, as well as those battling other conditions; and also to those of you, who like us, lost family members and friends.

Kim and I would like to thank everyone for all the thoughts and prayers, and cards, and the general thoughtfulness provided to us and both our families this year.

Finally, from that Lowen and Navarro CD and the Meaning of Christmas:

So open your heart and let us give cheer, and try to remember the meaning of Christmas each day of the year.

PPS:

On December 9 after finishing and publishing this year’s letter I learned of the loss of another old friend, Joe Centanni, resulting from complications of the virus.  I have many happy memories of good times with a guy who, like my brother, would have given you the proverbial shirt.  Our prayers go out to Linda and the kids and the rest of the family.

Singing a Nickel Song

Singing a Nickel Song

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I am back from western Pennsylvania and I am home alone again.

My wife stayed to help her mom.

Sunday afternoon I was sitting alone on the couch in my basement watching the Steeler’s play the Titans when a bug literally flew up my nose.

“Seriously?” I said out loud as I snorted and shivered.

“A bug just flew up my nose?”

Ironically with everything that has not gone well this crazy year of 2020, the Steelers began this game 5 and 0 for the season.  Though they were winning early in the fourth quarter, they did their best to set up the typical Steelers nail biter finish by pretty much letting the Titans catch up.

But it’s just football in a year when everything that has happened or equally as important, isn’t happening makes it just trivial.

On the way up to Pennsylvania last week I took a break at my usual stopping place, a McDonalds in Clear Springs, Maryland.  Returning to my truck I found a nickel on the pavement.

I had to think but don’t remember the last time I saw a nickel.

 

When I was a kid growing up in Oceanport, New Jersey I lived on a dead-end street. Once my dad finished building our house on property he bought from my mother’s parents, there were seven houses on the street.  According to my mother, my great grandparents owned all the property on the street at one time.  What was not sold off was left to my grandmother. The street was called Willow Court because of the numerous willow trees that grew on the end closer to the river.   Access to my street was via my little town’s bustling business district that we referred to as “downtown” and off one of the main roads called Oceanport Avenue.  As you made the turn it did a dog leg right up to where it ended with an apple tree.

Oceanport had a variety of commercial establishments “downtown” and how you remembered them depended on what era you identified with.  Art’s liquor store was one, Art was the grandfather of my first friend John who lived in a house on the river behind the liquor store.   Our friendship was arranged between our moms since we would soon need each other to walk to school because we were starting kindergarten that year.  We remained friends a long time.

There were also three gas stations or service stations as they were known back then;  a drug store called Park’s Drug store, and a couple of luncheonettes.  Bob and Norma’s was on the river side, and also sold convenience items like cards and razor blades, and deodorant.

I once bought my grandfather some Old Spice deodorant from Bob and Norma’s for his birthday.  I am pretty sure that was his best gift ever.  My mother even worked there as a “soda jerk” when she was in high school.

Next to Bob and Norma’s was the Village Market run by a guy named Frank Callahan.  His son Kenny would join my friend John and I and become good friends from kindergarten.

Being just over the bridge from the Army base at Fort Monmouth, we had three barbershops and three bars that kept busy.  In the middle of all these businesses was a large, very old house which was owned and occupied by my great grandparents when they were alive.  When I was a kid however, it was then left to my grandmother and had four apartments which she rented out.  In my family we referred to it as “The Big House.”

I was very familiar with nickels growing up as a kid in the early 60’s because our kid currency mainly consisted of nickels and pennies.  We worked for those nickels and pennies by scouring the properties around those businesses for deposit bottles.  You could get two cents for a small size bottle like an eight ounce Coke bottle or a nickel for a larger twenty eight ounce bottle.  With those three bars, the liquor store, the three service stations with soda machines, those luncheonettes, and the market, we had the deposit bottle business locked up in that neighborhood.

Throw in a whole lot of GI’s in town with the Vietnam conflict ramping up, and the Monmouth Park Racetrack less than a mile up the road when horse racing was in its heyday in the 60’s and yup, the bottle deposit business could be lucrative.

And this was before there were litter laws.

Bottles were everywhere.

 

As a result, an enterprising six or seven year old could do pretty well.

We would just go find our days’ work of bottles, take them over to Callahan’s market, plop them on the counter, and wait for our payout.

Then we would take our earnings and head down the street to Park’s Drug store to do our part in helping the local economy.  Mr. Park the pharmacist was kind of grouchy and scary but the guy that worked for him, Rios was always happy.  We could get our Bazooka Bubble gum for a penny, or maybe some baseball cards and gum, or Beatles cards and gum, or on a good bottle day maybe even an ice cream sandwich.

As I got just a little bit older the bigger money could be made raking leaves.  I could actually get a quarter or two out of my grandmother for raking leaves.

I hated raking leaves for my grandmother.

But work was work.

You had to take it when you could get it.

And in the winter, my brother Carl and I would team up and shovel snow.

We would walk the neighborhoods and knock on doors and shovel snowy sidewalks.  That was really the big time because a sidewalk in the snow could be worth a buck or two.  We split it 50/50, but most times we just ended up in the luncheonette eating our profits.

 

Life was very different.

A nickel like I found and tossed into the console of my truck maybe never to be seen again, had some value then.

On Sundays we went to church and Sunday School in the morning but because businesses were closed due to Blue Laws we couldn’t do much else on Sunday afternoons.

We had Sunday football on TV but it was in black and white, and baseball was still the big attraction back then so not too many paid attention.

And since blue laws meant the bottle deposit business was shut down too, maybe I raked my grandmother’s leaves, or helped my dad the basement as he built something (I hated that even more).

Now we don’t go to church on Sunday mornings because of COVID, but we can go shopping till we turn blue.

Go figure.

Well that’s my two cents worth or five cents worth, but luckily you don’t have to take it when you can get it.

 

As expected with 14 seconds left the Titans just needed to make a 46 yard field goal to tie the game and send it in to overtime.

Then the snap… the hold…Gostkowski’s kick was up…

And it passed just right of the uprights.

He missed, and the Steelers went to 6 and 0.

Maybe a bug flew up his nose?

 

The moral of the story?

 

Hard work pays off?

We need to return to a life that was simpler?

or

It’s best to be alone when a bug flies up your nose.

 

Post Script:

Make sure you get out and vote!