"Sweet Georgia Brown"

 

 

            I am not a sports fan by any stretch of the imagination, even though I play at being interested in the local Philly sports clubs for the sake of my son who loves them all.  I do listen, I learn and I cheer, but other than that my enthusiasm for sports is very limited at best.  However, there is one team that I completely enjoy; The Harlem Globetrotters.  My son, the aforementioned sports fanatic, gave me and my husband tickets to see them at the Wells Fargo Center recently.  The team entered the court like they have for the many years that they have been in existence; to the tune of “Sweet Georgia Brown.”  The game was also played much like it had been for so many years, yet somehow it has not grown stale.  They were fun and funny and one was female.  That in and of itself is important; you’ve come a long way baby, now you are playing with the big boys and holding your own to boot.  She was wonderful and the icing on the cake was that she had once played, and incidentally graduated from my Alma Mater, Temple University.  However, the advances of women and Temple grads are far from my mind. 

            My dad was also not a big sports fan though in his later years he would discuss the Philly’s with Chris, and he would sit and watch the game on a Sunday afternoon or Monday evening.  Mostly, though, he was scouring the stands for a glimpse of his sports fan grandson cheering for Howie’s Homies, or raising the red for the Phils althogether.  There were some Sundays when I was growing up that Dad and I would watch basketball, the Globetrotters to be exact.  It was in the years that Meadowlark Lemon was the captain of the team, and this lanky African American man made magic with a basketball.  From their trademark dance with the ball around the opposing team to the twirling and dribbling and shooting the Trotters were a fascinating bunch of athletes and magicians melded into one.  We laughed, and commented at how much fun they were to watch.

            It was with this fun in mind that Dad decided to take us to see them.  I believe that we saw the Globetrotters in the arena in Philadelphia sometime in the early part of the 1960’s.  The place was jammed with people spanning age and diversity but all united in anticipation for a good show.  As the arena began to hush down from the cacophony of talk, laughs, and hoots, the whistling tune of “Sweet Georgia Brown” resonated from some hidden sound system and the tall men dressed in red white and blue entered the house.   As they moved on to the court and dribbled balls in a circular motion a circus like announcer began his spiel.  “ANNND now introduuuuucing the HAAAAAARRRLLLLEEEEEMMMM Globetrotterrrrrrrrrrrssssssssssssssssss.”  The show had begun.  The opposing team, in those days, the Nationals, were also introduced, but not with such fanfare or flair as the Globetrotters.  Each man was named and each did his specialty with the basketball, then the game began. 

            The game was played with precision but it was also a complete show of ability and grace.  There were times when a teammate would appear on top of the basket, or dribble a ball while sliding on his side under another player.  The magic moved quickly with breaks to bring unsuspecting audience members onto the court to “play” a bit of ball with the Trotters.  Everyone chosen agreed with good humor and enough humility to allow the showmen their tricks.  Dad and I seemed to enjoy it the most as we cheered and laughed and he pointed out the different antics on the court.  It was a wonderful day, and the beginning of many more Sunday afternoons sitting on the couch and reminiscing as the team played on the small screen.   It was also the reason why, many years later I took my own three small children to see the infamous Globetrotters. 

            As I sat watching the new team perform, I couldn’t help but remember those days with Dad.  Big Easy, the present captain, was agile and fun with his deep hahahah laugh and the lady player exciting, but there in the back of my mind I was a little girl again watching a sports game with my dad.  Dad has been gone almost three years now and Meadowlark Lemon is in his eighties, my sons are grown and on their own, yet somehow watching the Haaaaaarrrrrrrrleeeeeemmmmmmmmmmmm  Globetrotters has made time stand still and simply put, made me want to whistle “Sweet Georgia Brown,” with the biggest smile and the tiniest tear. 

 

 

Butch's Auction

 

In today’s world, little girls are sometimes shot, or kidnapped or whatever.  It is important then for the parent to be constantly vigilant concerning them.  It was really not always that way.  There was a time when such atrocities, though maybe committed from time to time, as the boy in the box can attest, were not the thing of headlines and constant news.  There was a time when it was okay for little girls to manipulate their way through a large store without fear or suspicion.  In those days exploration of an environment was safer for a child, but still the security and warmth of family mattered. 

Growing up in a safe, suburban community was the ideal of the last century, mid-century to be exact.  In the 1950’s and ‘60’s a child of a certain age could walk to the corner store, walk to her friend’s home or even move around a mart without worry or concern.  This was such the case with me.  Every Friday night, my parents would observe their weekly ritual by going to Butch’s Auction/mart to buy the needed food for a growing family.  While I was not quite of an age to be left home alone for that extended time, I was allowed to stroll through the store, meeting up with a parent from time to time and then going off again.  Of course, I had to tell them where I would be, but that was not a problem because they would have guessed anyway. 

Butch’s was the quintessential farmer’s market of the day.  It stretched out for what seemed the length of several blocks with dirty floors and rows of booths or stands where people hawked produce, meats, junk and a variety of other necessary and unnecessary items for sale.  There was a very distinct odor to the place; it had the mixed aromas of cooking grease, fresh vegetables, old tires, and sweets.  It was certainly a cacophony of scents that teased the taste buds and roamed off into the air once again.  The sounds of Butch’s also mingled like an out of tune chorus consisting of altos, sopranos, tenors and bases and other varying voices without the benefit of a maestro to untangle the melee of resonances reverberating throughout the mart.  There was a book stand, where my mother always gravitated, the meat stand where my dad placed his order to be picked up before leaving and at the end of both aisles one and two the infamous toy area where my sister and I generally meandered.  I knew where each interesting booth was situated, and I knew where my parents would be as well.  Often I chose to avoid those areas, but other times I would chose to visit them for a brief minute of begging and nagging for a new Barbie Doll. 

Sometimes I would amble along with my older sister, sometimes I marched on alone strictly to my own tune, but I would always head for one of two places.  First, most assuredly was the toy section where I would seek out the aforementioned Barbie Doll that I would eventually earn the money for and buy.  Next, would be the ice cream stand at the end of aisle one, where I would use the dime I had been given for either a soft serve chocolate cone or an orange ice.  In some cases, I could calculate when Dad would arrive there and con my way into a hot dog and orange aid.  It was heaven. 

Towards the end of the evening, I always knew where Dad would be, either at the meat counter or in the auction hall.  Many times after scoping out the desired doll, while licking the wonderful treat, I would head to the largest room at the very end of the mart to see what my father was up to.  Usually, his eyeballs with more stuff than he needed or wanted but it was always fun nonetheless.   Dad often purchased tools which he would use, or junk which he would not use.  He loved the game though, and the song of the auctioneer was music to his ears, “Goingoncegoingtwicegoingthree…Bang it belongs to the gentleman in the back.”   I believe that he purchased his beloved Anniversary clock at one such auction, but I am not sure if it was Butch’s or not.  Most likely though.  That was his crowning glory, he loved clocks, but I digress. 

It was fun to sit with Dad while he listened to the auction and watched the people buying and selling the things of Americana; the items cast off by one and coveted by another. The benches were hard and the auction was always crowded.  Once I spied him, I would squeeze in past the other ardent auction lovers excusing myself as I stepped on one toe after the other, to the seat next to him.  The people, mostly portly men and women and a few buttoned up children, would move and sway to the undistinguishable syllables from the front and at times raise their hands into the air.  The boundaries of the room were jammed with old brown furniture, piles of yellowish boxes and plastic whatnots from floor to ceiling.  The room was always hot and sticky no matter the weather outside and the odor of cigarette or cigar smoke and old dinner wafted from the rafters and back down to the hordes of folk transfixed by the auctioneer.  

Dad would explain to me what the gavel bearing man was saying and point out different items in the gallery.  He would show me the items that he was interested in and often exclaimed that he only needed one, not the twelve dozen offered.  So he would hold his bid for another item, perhaps one that would bring him joy.  When I would exclaim that there was something of interest to me, he would look over the treasure and decide if it were of any value or not.  Most often what I liked was not valuable or really any good.  I listened to him because I understood that he knew if this was a thing to be considered or if it would disintegrate into uselessness before the wrapper was taken away.  There weren’t many things that I wanted from that auction or many that I actually got but there was one perfect thing; sitting, nestled close to my dad and enjoying a Friday evening. 

 

 

Dots

Sometimes we can’t always connect the dotted lines, but then there are other times when it is easy. Years ago, my husband was asked to run for township commissioner. He had good solid, middle of the road, viewpoints and was a good citizen. So he agreed to run. As in any political race, there are others who do not agree, which is what makes a democracy fun, but not always. At one earlier time, my husband asked a man in the neighborhood to please clean up after his dog when the dog was in the park. Now this park was directly across the street from our home and our young sons frequently played in it. That is what the park was designed for, children to play. The sign that welcomed people also stipulated that there were to be no dogs in this area. There is also an ordinance in our township that clearly tells dog owners that their pets must be leashed when outside. Not all people agree with politics and some feel that they are superior to the law. At least they believe that the ordinances are not for them or their pets, after all it is a difficult and messy job to pick up after the dog. It is even more of a difficult and messy job to clean off shoes from children who played in the “dog free” park and tracked the odoriferous material throughout the house. This was the case with this man and my husband. My husband did not take kindly to the mess and the man did not take kindly to the request to leash and clean up after his dog. The two men did not like each other, so when my husband started his run for the political position, the man made it clear that not only would he vote for someone else, he would vote for the person who likes tracking in doggydoo. In a small community like the one in which we live, everyone knows everyone else and we all know whose children are whose. This man knew what our boys all looked like and they likewise knew him. They did not care much for him and I imagine that he did not care much for them either, or any of the other kids in the area. This was made clear, but not in a way that would cause any suspicion. Then one day it changed. My eldest son was walking home from school and this man saw him and yelled some unintelligible something out of his truck window at him. It did not seem to be too bad, something on the line of I’m not voting for your father. Then my son, knowing that the man was not the nicest person in the area panicked and ran towards an area that was away from the road so he could not be followed. In doing so, he lifted his hand over his shoulder and moved his backpack which looked like he was offering the man the middle finger. Then it got worse, the man became angry and called the teenager names and threatened him. My husband and I were alerted and we in turn made a call to the local police department. Now, we really did not think that the man would act on anything as his persona was more mouth than muscle, but we never took chances with our children. The man was spoken to by the officer who explained that children in his district would never be threatened like that and that he could take it as a warning of the strongest kind. So far so good. The man never made a squeak to any children again. Now more dots… Under the circumstances I decided to pick my son up from the high school after school for a while until things calmed down, or at least the poltickin’ was over. So, child got a ride, man kept to himself, dog was put on a leash and all seemed well. Until we heard. My son always took a specific route home, as did several other kids, the next day after the altercation my son rode home with me, but another boy walked the regular path. At the same corner where the man denounced my son another man appeared. This one not so mouthy, quiet and deliberate. He saw a young boy walking and pulled his van close to him. He started to grab the teen and pull him towards the open, gaping mouth of the car. It was luck that a neighbor who knew the child saw the action and ran to the rescue. Upon seeing the adult, the new man jumped into the car and sped off. The next day, another boy was accosted. This teen was quick and immediately knocked on a nearby door which was presently opened to him. The police were called again. Unbelievably, another boy, that same day was “offered a ride” by this seemingly disturbed character. “I have things you want to see,” he implored to the high schooler. Again, thankfully, a thwarted attempt. The high school was put on alert and announcements went out. Even the man with whom my husband quarreled was questioned, but his truck or looks did not match up in the slightest. Besides since everyone knows everyone else, he was never suspect. Eventually, the man, the stranger, was apprehended and when questioned he remarked that he wanted boys for sex. Instead he got a term in a mental institution from which he came. The neighborhood quieted down once again. Children once again ventured a walk from home, but parents still made sure that they arrived within a reasonable time. It came very quickly to my attention that if the man with whom my husband had words had not frightened my son, and subsequently myself, then I would not have gone to retrieve my son from school. He had a safe ride home, and I wonder had he been on the street that day, when the first boy was accosted would it have been him? I am sure that it would have been, and I am not so sure that someone would have been there to rescue him so astutely. Sometimes the dots connect in odd, special ways. So, imagine that, I thank the rude man for saving my son from something much worse than foul language and doggy do. My husband lost the political race by not so many votes, the man lost his dog to old age and young boys and girls walk home from school. Neighbors still watch out for them and people nod and say hello as they walk their leashed dogs.

Keller's Hill

The house was the oldest in the neighborhood. It would seem that the front faced our house since it was directly across the street. That was not the case even though everyone viewed it that way. The front was actually on the other side facing the neighbor’s backyard. The house was older than any of the roads and in time a few pieces of the property were sold off to others thus making the actual back of the house the new front. It was not the house, as grand as it was, that interested the children in the neighborhood; it was the long, sloping hill directly below the home that caught our attention. Where my house faced, the property was dotted with many trees, including a massive, ancient weeping cherry, and directly beside the house was another massive azalea that almost kissed the roof of the looming three-story dwelling. Directly behind the azalea was what we knew as “Keller’s Hill”.

George and Ann Keller and their two children owned the home and the large lot on which it sat. By the time I arrived, the two children, a boy and a girl, were older than most of the kids who flocked there each and every snowstorm to enjoy the marvelous ride that the hill offered. The older of the Keller children, a boy, had graduated college with an engineering degree and moved southward and the girl was in college, soon to land a job in the mayor’s office. By the time I arrived on the scene, neither was around during the day, even in the snowy wonderland of their property. The neighborhood kids were there, in droves, each and every time it snowed.

The owners did not mind the flux of sledders using their hill for sport; it was a simpler time when people allowed children to cut across their property or to use their hill for sledding and were comfortable knowing that the parents would not sue them should a mishap occur nor hold them responsible. In those days, the parents took responsibility for their own children.

There are many stories that emanated from Keller’s Hill, almost as many as there were kids using it. Several, though, have remained in my memory for all these years, resonating with whelps of laughter, whelps of pain, and whelps from a simpler time when “going out to play” was the mantra of the times. My most vivid memory of Keller’s Hill was on a glorious January day when the snows had recently fallen in such a manner that sledding was imperative. The snow was just right for a slick, quick, exhilarating ride. The sun shone brightly and the hill was dotted with no less than twenty kids, all with their own Fearless Flyer sleds, none named Rosebud, but that feeling was certainly in the crisp air.

We took turns careening down the hill; then the laborious task of walking back up, looking forward to the next ride. We were careful of each other, guiding our sleds to avoid collisions with others, even at times rolling off to avoid an accident. It was Louie’s turn and he, a typical adolescent boy, decided to take the ride bravely backwards. He mounted his sled with his back to the front, much like the mansion behind him, and faced the rest of us standing on the dock awaiting a clear path to our next trip. He kicked off and, as each of us had experienced on the slick hill, accelerated to an almost blinding pitch. He waved, happily, as he sped down the slope, and standing in the bright afternoon sun, we watched. It soon became evident that a disaster was about to occur. The trees dotted the upper area of the house, but there was one on the slope, one which all kids knew to avoid and thus would steer their vehicle away. Louie did not see the tree coming, he only saw the children with gloved hands frantically waving. His look of glee told us that he could not hear our screams of “stop” and “watch out”; he was only thinking of the thrill and speed that he could feel as he glided down, towards certain pain, if not more dire consequences. The crack came instantaneously with his howl of excruciating agony as he collided with the tree. We ran to him, he seemed lifeless, still yet somehow his cries emanated from his surely broken body.

As unlucky as it would seem, Louie had luck with him that day. As he cried out, a compassionate stranger was driving towards the train station on his way to work. He heard the cry as well as the agonized pleas of the rest of us and stopped and ran towards the site of the crash. He knew what to do; I seem to remember that he said he was a doctor as he instructed the boys to remove the gliders from the bottom of a large sled, and told the girls to not move the frightened boy. He quickly reviewed the damage and gently moved Louie on to the makeshift litter, with the help of the bigger lads, and carefully took him to his car, while instructing Louie’s brothers to notify his mother that he was hospital-bound. Louie recovered but he was not in school for quite some time. Keller’s Hill was still a fun place to gather on a snowy day, however, none of us ever ventured to take the slope without face forward.

On another occasion, my brother’s friend, George, a tall lanky young man decided to take me for a ride. At that time I believed that riding with a larger person would give the sled a decidedly quicker pace. I also thought that it would afford me a chance to take the entire hill without bailing before the end point of a small, cold spring that separated the hill from the road. I was mistaken on each point. As I happily hopped on in front of George he told me that we would have a terrific ride. I agreed. I was wrong. I believed that with George’s long legs at the helm that we could swerve and turn in such a manner that I could never dream. I was wrong. As the sled took off from the dock, we did move quickly, watching the returning children go by as swiftly as if in a speedboat. By the time that George mentioned that he had no idea of how to guide the sled, I wished that I was in a boat. He also asked me if I knew how to stop. No, I had no idea, I had always bailed out, but with this giant of a boy, there was no bailing. We came to a screeching halt as we careened into the cold, sloppy, wet creek. With clothes dripping wet, and hands turning to ice, we started the arduous walk up the hill. It was fun, even though our landing was a disaster. I headed towards my warm house with George close behind. We laughed all the way into the living room where we were questioned and both offered dry clothes. I never got on a sled with George again, in fact, I never even ventured into a car with him, thinking that perhaps he still hadn’t learned how to steer or stop.

There was still another occasion that stands brightly in my mind, chasing the shadows of childhood into adulthood. It was New Year’s Eve and our family invited some of the neighbors into our home to welcome the coming year. The young people consisting of Linda Keller and my brother, who were both of an age to cheer the New Year as an adult, my sister and myself decided to attack Keller’s Hill in the still hours just after Baby New Year was born. My silver, round sled was to be the chariot of the night as we headed across the street to the revered hill. Linda was bright and savvy, she had no intention to sled down the darkened slope, but she could entice my “idiot” brother to tackle it. As we toasted the night she challenged him to take the hill on my shiny, metallic, fast, unsteerable, sled, standing up. This was a feat that couldn’t be done in the bright of the afternoon, stone-cold sober by the flying Wallendas. Of course my brother was game. He stood and took off, he fell, and Linda baited him again. The scene repeated numerous times. Linda howled with laughter, the intrepid rider betted again and again that it could be done. He hadn’t even noticed that the girls never put a toe on the sled; we just watched and learned that men could be easily baited into foolish endeavors simply by telling them that it can’t be done.

As the years passed, new children came to the hill in the daytime, and the older ones took to it at night. I had one last ride as I entered adulthood and then it was quiet. Eventually, the Kellers moved away, George passed away, no longer tending to his beloved property, Ann moved closer to her daughter until she too eventually joined her husband. The hill did not remain; the lots were sold off to newcomers and one neighborhood “kid”. The old cherry tree was taken as was the giant azalea. The home still remains with new people, just as kind as the old, but a pool now graces the area between the lots at the true front of the house. The spring at the end of the hill has dried up, but the memories of Keller’s Hill still flow in the minds of the minions of neighborhood kids who danced across its icy passage.

What is Your Name?

It is the first Christmas Eve that we will celebrate without out our patriarch and father sitting at the head of the table. The emotions are still raw and it will bring with it sadness. In all honesty though, we were blessed with him for many years. I had fifty-eight Christmas’ with him, my mother seventy. He had a long, fruitful life, passing away at ninty-two. Not all are so blessed.
It is Christmas Eve and for the last fifty years a little child has wandered into my mind. This child and her family never got to share many bright, Christmas mornings with toys and joy. They learned of sadness early on and I would think that the Christmas season for them would bring heartbreak and tears.
It was a mild, yet still chilly afternoon when the school bell rang to release the children to the waiting buses, nearby streets, or cars parked with parents at the helm. It was the day that school let out for the holiday. Children yelled with delight and danced into the waiting afternoon full of excitement and anticipation. I knew that my parents would pick me up in the large, shiny blue car, and therefore I could dawdle with my friends for a few more minutes before going out into the parking lot. The nuns kept us in tow so the busy buses could leave carrying the children to their homes a glitter with lights and decorations in expectations of Santa Claus and the baby Jesus. I was one of the last children to leave the school on that day and the sister walked me to my car. Behind her was a younger girl in a light tan sweater wrapped over her school uniform. She had long dark blond hair and looked lost and frightened. As we approached my parents’ car, my father rolled down his window to speak with the nun.
“Would you mind taking this child home? She missed her bus and it is too far a walk for her alone,” sister queried.
My father nodded in agreement and the waif scuttled into the back seat beside me.
She was younger than me and seemed to be a very shy girl. She had, though, a sweetness that permeated the car and offered a gentle sense of calmness that was elusive to children of that age, especially around Christmas. I asked her name and she replied, “Helen.” Then I inquired about her desires for the gifts she wished to appear magically under her tree in the coming days. She shrugged and said that she did not know. She seemed to be a content person with the simple joy of life and hope. Dad had a good idea of where she lived from speaking with sister, but he asked Helen to point out her home as we rambled down her street. She pointed to an unassuming house with a string of colored lights placed happily on a tree on the front yard. It was a house of a struggling family, one where only few gifts would be offered.
“Is someone home,” my mother asked.
“Yes, my older sister,” she quietly answered.
She seemed almost an angel as she slid from the car and with a heavenly smile said, “thank you.”
We watched as she went into the home and left when my parents were satisfied that she was safely inside with another there to watch her.
On Christmas Eve our family, at that time, went out to a fancy dinner and then home to happily await the arrival of toys and presents under the gaily decorated tree the next morning. Then after seeing what the “elf” had brought for us, we hurriedly dressed in our nice clothes and headed off to the children’s Christmas Mass at 9:00. This year was no different, almost.
As school children, we were herded into special pews reserved just for us. On this bright Christmas morning, the nuns, as they always did, awaited in the aisles as we entered and kneeled for our prayers. On this Christmas though there seemed to be a pallor draped around the adults. The nuns bowed their heads, not in worship, but in sadness. The altar boys rang the bell and everyone stood for the entrance procession and the start of Christmas Mass. The priest entered and bowed then immediately walked to the podium, instead of the center to begin the service. He looked over the crowded church and glanced at the votive lights in memory of those who have passed on.
“Today is Christmas,” he started. “Today I ask for each and every one to keep in their prayers a family of our children who perished in a fire early this morning.”
The church was hushed, no child made a sound, no adult whispered. Then there was a small, soft, sob.
We learned on that Christmas that some are called to God, even on Christmas Eve, even children. In the deep of the night the parents and one child worshipped at Midnight Mass. The wonderfully decorated, tinsel strewn tree, with glittering lights that awaited with some few gifts for the children’s delight, ignited. The flames licked the sky rising forever towards the heavens, taking with them little, angelic, waiflike Helen and four of her siblings.
I heard in the following years that the parents moved away and eventually had more children. Brothers and sisters that Helen would never know. They rose from the ashes and still retained a faith that was everlasting. Perhaps it is because they know that their little girl is still remembered even after fifty years by some stranger, some other little girl who once asked their child, “What is your name” on a chilly December day so long ago.

Christmas Newsletter (Oh No, pleeeeeze no) 2010

December 2010
Dear Family and Friends,
It is that time once again to deck the halls. This year, instead, we are decking the water heater, the washer and dryer and hoping that nothing else breaks...but it will. The heater is on its last legs and my holiday wish is that after we get a new one that the old would use those legs and walk out of the house. It won’t, it will take grunting and shoving and cursing to get it out the door, much like the water heater, which by the way also had legs. Those legs weren’t made for walking, they were made for scratching, which is what they would have done to the floors had it not been for several hardy boys, who complained as they lifted because they were sore from a rousing game of football. Then off to the gym to lift weights. 

This year was a very sad one for us. Dad, aka Pop, decided that he had enough of not walking or eating his beloved steak and mushrooms, (or smelly pork kidneys) or fixing our houses and moved on to the great machine shop in the sky. It is very hard because we all miss him terribly. We not only miss his sage wisdom, “Don’t you have any common sense?” or his way with words, “Should I go down frontwards or backwards?” but we just miss him because he was who he was. He had his own language, as Gram puts it, “it’s all English, but it doesn’t make any sense.” He had his own way of doing things, “if I put it in this way, then no one will ever be able to figure it out, so I will put it in and let them worry.” We also miss his hands that fixed everything and then more, but they wouldn’t let us keep them. Life will never be the same for us, but now Kathy can have some time with him, and he can cringe when she says, “Dad’ll” (as in Dad’ll fix this and that) and I am sure Stanley and the rest of the crew are enjoying themselves with him as well. We all miss you Pop.

My mother is a tough old bird and is hanging in there although she has her sad days as do we all. She still enjoys sitting and reading, mostly true crime which she calls “blood n’ guts.” That always turns a head or two when she asks the book store clerk for the blood ‘n guts aisle. I plan on teaching her how to order her books on the internet, that way it will not make anyone shutter to see a “sweet” little almost 90 year old lady studying how to kill and not get caught. But on second thought, it may alert homeland security to her and one can only imagine the agents surrounding her house to rout her out. She does have a pretty good cover though.

This was a good year for Chris, even though he has not quite finished college; he was offered quite a plum job at Comcast Sportsnet. It is not really a plum job, it is that of a receptionist, but it is a job in his field and that makes it a plum job. He loves working in South Philly and he loves the sports that seem to play on a constant loop on the TV in front of his desk. Sometimes, I would imagine that they have to scrape him off the wall and tell him it is time to leave. He simply loves it. He also works for the Phillies part time and again he is in his glory, even if the Phillies aren’t. Maybe this year! We love his job too. IT IS A JOB and we get free cable and if I whine enough he secures tickets for me to go to concerts for FREE and they feed me as well. Heaven, I tell you. The best was the Paul McCartney concert which would have put me on a cloud, except I was eating too much and might have plummeted back to the stadium. Tom Petty was no slouch too. I also enjoyed the Trans-Siberian Orchestra once they got through the Christmas stuff.

Steve has moved along this year, in fact he literally moved on, to West Chester where he got his first apartment and moved in February, in the
snow. He is directly across from the courthouse and can hang out the window and see the activity going on below. He can also yell at the passing cars if they swing too close to his car, but he doesn’t. That is left for Mom to do, I can yell like a sailor when he opens the window. Oh well, he makes sure it is bolted tight when I come to visit. He is doing well and enjoys living on his own, except that the laundry mat, oops, I mean laundry pat is too far away, in Fort Washington, and he just leaves it and it magically is clean and folded when he comes back. He is also becoming quite a wonderful cook. At least, that is what I hear from those for whom he cooks. Looking forward to a dinner invite though, in the cool weather, with the window closed.

Matt is working his way through college as well as my nerves, but that is what 20 year olds do, and he may even some day graduate. Not for a while though. He works out quite a bit and has a bod like a Greek god, but when I ask him to lift something, he is too tired or too sore or too something and goes back to sleep. He is thinking of studying forensic psychology. I find that fascinating, that he is planning on studying, but he may easily change his mind since he is still unsure of what, other than playing videogames, he wants to do with his life. He still finds time for his friends and when they all convene here; they look like a coalition from the United Nations, plus they are mostly multi-lingual.

Speaking of foreign languages, Bill and I are taking Española. The first class found Bill arguing with the teacher about his name. He did not want to be called Gereramo, he wanted Bill. She claimed that there is no such name in Spanish. So they settled for BEEEELL. I guess that is ok, me llamo Patreeceea. Easy enough. So Beeeell can pronounce the words nicely while I mispronounce each and every one, very carefully. However, I am learning, yeah, I am learning that Beeeelllll has a much better aptitude for language than I, and for that matter so does Steve. He went through my lessons and without any background in Spanish whatsoever, corrected me, he, too has an ear and eye for language.

Jack is struggling with yet another malady. I feed him by hand four + times a day and he eats for me. It is difficult because he is getting old and so am I. It seems though that he is still in control of the household and hopefully has a few more lives in him. After all, he has me eating out of his hand, no, no it is the other way around, but you get my drift here.

Our vacation consisted of one day at the beach, without the guys and one day in NYC at a game with the guys, well a couple of them. After the game, we decided to amble around Times Square, for no reason other than to hurt our feet and to learn that the guys wanted to eat some more. We are generally unaware of what surrounds us. This was certainly true on that day. As we entered the subway station, we heard a siren. Hmmm, we thought, what is that, then the thought moved away as quick as the train. We had slowly and obliviously strolled past a bomb laden car, glanced over at it and kept shuffling on. Ah, that shows the trust of the American citizen, at least the dumbest of them, er us.
So we are winding our way towards another holiday, all in one piece, and hoping for a joyous year to all to come. If not joyous, then comfortable.

Happy Holiday to all, and to all a goodnight, at least for me, I’m tired.

Love,
Beeeellll, Patreeceea, Steve, Chris and Adonis aka Matt.

If You Want a Circus

If You Want a Circus….

            It is the delight of most children to go to the big top and see the clowns, elephants and lion tamers all at once in a three ring circus. There is another way though, instead of pushing through the madding crowd, rubbing against sticky, pink cotton candy, and enduring the whelps and hollers of a minion of excited children, simply request some peace and quiet to pursue any endeavor.  It is my duty to be the caregiver in the family, and this includes but is not limited to the pets.  I feed my cat, only one left, by hand.  That means that I stick some food on my finger and insert both finger and food into his mouth and he usually eats it or spits it out to be put in again.  Most of the time he is not adverse to my feeding him, in fact, often,  if I miss a beat, he just sits there and looks at me like I am not doing my duty, which basically, I am not. Other times, he is sick of the food and clamps his jaw shut much like a childproof container for anyone other than a child.   Now, to do this maneuver, I have to have the kitchen quiet, and calm.  If the cat gets distracted, he will close his jaw with or without my finger incased in said mouth.  I ask the group to be quiet when I am feeding him.  That is like asking the wind not to blow in a hurricane.  Thus, the circus with the lion tamer.

            Last night I thought that it was quiet and I had time to get the little rascal fed.  Bill, my husband, was sprawled out on the couch watching something quiet on the TV, Chris was in the office on line with his internet class, and Matt was at the gym working out.  Aha, this is the best time to feed the feline.  So I grabbed the alley rabbit and scurried him to the kitchen and the waiting food.  Two bites later, Bill decided he needed a snack and came into the kitchen and rattled bags and fooled around in the fridge.  The TV blared up with some advertisement about some loud product, trumpets, I think, (yes, even though it is denied by the television executives, the volume goes up with the ads in case someone snuck off into the kitchen).   Matt rang the bell and banged on the door finally to enter to the tune of a rap piece that he had picked up somewhere at 100 decibels.  Of course he was hungry too and came into the kitchen to retrieve a TastyKake where I was now struggling to remove my finger from the cat’s mouth.   The wrapper on the cake rattled and roared and refused to release the sweet treat, and a battle ensued between the ravenous young man and the cowardly cake, the likes of which have not been seen or heard since the Battle of the Bulge.  Once the cake was liberated, Bill and Matt had a heated debate over the tastiness of the icing.   Another bite from the aforementioned cat. 

            Then another bite along with a thumping throng down the steps as Chris decided that the lecture could wait while he got a snack.  With a decided thud, clatter, and bellow Chris thundered into the arena.  Another bite.  He sang as loud as his lungs would allow as he rumbled through the fridge to find something, which was not to his liking, and he mumbled like a Mach 2 motorcycle careening out of control through the kitchen.  The circus with elephants.

            The next morning with finger in band aid, I decided that I had a good time to feed the cat; it was quiet and we were alone.  I got out the food, put it gingerly in his dish and grabbed the sleeping feline from my bed and hustled him off to the kitchen for his meal.  With the first dollop of food, including the band aid, the phone rang and like Pavlov’s dog, I grabbed cat with food on finger and answered the phone, my mother, with nothing much to say.  I asked her if it was important and she said no, then as I absentmindedly rubbed the food all over my face, I explained that I needed to feed the cat and would she mind if I called her back. (That is of course if I can get the food out of my eye enough to see the phone numbers).  She said that would be fine, I dropped the phone on the table unable to hang up.  BEEP BEEP, IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO MAKE A CALL…….  Then another dollop of food into cat. 

            Not to be foiled, the township workers and migrant landscapers decided that this would be the optimal time to mow the neighboring lawns.  So with mowers, whips, and hedge trimmers’ blaring and screaming into the air they began their work.  The mailman rang the bell numerous times to the tune of Tchaikovsky’s War of 1812 Overture, BOOM BOOM, to announce a package for Chris, and the phone continued its recorded harangue, beep, beep.   More food, more finger wrenching.  The cat squirmed, but I was determined to feed him the needed amount of slippery, peanut buttery, smelly food that he needs. The circus with clowns.

 Finished…..it is quiet.

            So if you ever want a circus, just announce that you need quiet and concentration to perform a task easily, or at least so your finger doesn’t get bitten off.  You will have a three ring circus at your fingertips…(That is unless your fingertips reside somewhere in the cat’s gut like mine). Or just visit me and join in the fun when I am feeding the cat.