This blog entry will be updated at the earliest point in time, relating an experience that was extremely prohibitive of performing most of the basic physical exercises of daily life.
I reserve this posting for the sole purpose of expressing my experiences of the past few months so that they can be included as what might be called a recap of 2010.
January 2, 2011, UPDATE: Okay, so I didn't update this entry as previously posted. So, I'll make it brief:
I had an accident on a dirt bike in mid-August while visiting in Michigan.
Just a couple broken ribs, both hands fractured, one finger broken (why did it have to be the index finger on my writing, typing hand?).
Weeks upon weeks of recovery. Stayed in Michigan til early November, where it was easier to recuperate than heading back to Florida where I would have had less access to assistance than with my family.
In the meantime, my laptop crashed with a message that said I had to reinstall Windows. Since it would come at a cost, and since I've been forced to pay cash rather than use credit, no action has been taken. So, I'm without my laptop to make blog entries. I use a friend's computer but for little else than checking emails and make online banking transactions. I can't blog effectively without Google searching for facts and informations which means I'd be taking advantage of (and inconviencing) my friend.
In effect, 2010 ended being one of the worst years in my life. (I actually had less of an overall 'bad' year when I had prostate surgery in 2002 due to cancer.)
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Blogs on pause
Due to events of this past last summer/early fall,blog entries have been suspended. At some point in the (hopefully) near future I'll relate all the particulars but at this particular time I have no immediate access to a computer - after recovering from physical impairments that kept me in restrictive bindings for an extended period of time, and not having access to my computer, when I attempted to use my laptop after being dormant for nearly trhee months , it informed me that Windows has a programming problem that can only be resolved by re-installing Windows Vista.
Current financial conditions inhibit the spending of money but for the essentials - electric, phone/DSL, water, home/auto insurance, property taxes, medical bills,outstanding credit card balances - so... quite impatiently I await some small 'windfall' that will allow me to once again excercise discretionary spending. I will no long allow myself to be suckered into buy today and pay for it later. Cash/debit card transactions are the new norm.
Right now I'm using a friend's computer. No one likes to allow someone else to use their personal computer, including myself, because they might go to sites otherwise not visited of questionable content or install an add-ons that take up memory space. Therefore, on-line banking and the checking of email are my sole accesses on a friend's computer.
The current circumstances really suck. Full blown depression has up til now been avoided... kinda sad and melancholy about being able to write about life experiences and opinions.
My mind is bottle-necked with so many thoughts on a slew of topics. With a deep sigh, I'm resigned to the current circumstances as that's just the way it is.
Current financial conditions inhibit the spending of money but for the essentials - electric, phone/DSL, water, home/auto insurance, property taxes, medical bills,outstanding credit card balances - so... quite impatiently I await some small 'windfall' that will allow me to once again excercise discretionary spending. I will no long allow myself to be suckered into buy today and pay for it later. Cash/debit card transactions are the new norm.
Right now I'm using a friend's computer. No one likes to allow someone else to use their personal computer, including myself, because they might go to sites otherwise not visited of questionable content or install an add-ons that take up memory space. Therefore, on-line banking and the checking of email are my sole accesses on a friend's computer.
The current circumstances really suck. Full blown depression has up til now been avoided... kinda sad and melancholy about being able to write about life experiences and opinions.
My mind is bottle-necked with so many thoughts on a slew of topics. With a deep sigh, I'm resigned to the current circumstances as that's just the way it is.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Loretta and Entitlement Programs
In a random discussion on various topics related to her life, my 90-something year old step-aunt Loretta reiterated for the umpteenth time how her mother had braved the then-unacceptable prospect of seeking a divorce from an abusive husband who, during the days of prohibition, used the bathtub for the home-brewing of beer.
During the divorce, and then afterward, the man stalked mother and daughter for a period of time until the day came when he was no longer a threat to their lives. He kind of just disappeared from the face of the earth, presumably ‘bumped off’ by members of what were most likely men associated with the mafia the mafia.
Loretta’s mom tried her best to make ends meet, working long days in a sweat shop making woolen clothing. She came home with stands of wool plastered on every part of her sweat-dripping exposed skin. Nights were spent with both mother and daughter sewing labels on the finished products. In her off-hours, Loretta’s mom would wash, dry and fold clothing for families in the neighborhood.
A second husband entered the life of Loretta’s mom. From the start, he and the child did not like each other – not one bit. He constantly belittled the seven year old child, repeatedly using words such as ‘brat’ and ‘worthless’, denying her mom from spending any amount of his selfishly-earned money on the little girl. Loretta was sent to a Catholic school where, again, not only she but other children were faced with degrees of denigration by those who were entrusted to provide a sense of security and nourish them in their formative years. Loretta spent her childhood shedding tears through years of worry and despair.
As an adult, Loretta married an educated man, an engineer of some degree. Unfortunately, he was a sickly man and passed away at an early age. They had no children. She didn’t remarry. Loretta has never hinted that she was involved with women’s rights movements but, out of necessity, she was resourceful and prepared herself for a secure future in later years.
She remained in Upstate New York in the Syracuse area, securing a job with General Electric. Having no one else to rely, with determination she earned respect as a laborer and eventually promoted to a management position.
Loretta was a dedicated, workaholic. She was determined to never again ‘go without’. She not only placed investments in her employer, GE, but placed some of her earnings in other investment vehicles. She seldom took vacations, the only one of which she has ever discussed was a trip to Florida with some girlfriends; she’s never related any particular fondness of the vacation.
Jump now to the late 1986 when my Aunt Nona passed away from a massive heart attack at age 68. She and my Uncle Phil had married during WWII. He lied about his age, not only to his wife to but also the military. He served in the US Navy, after which he made a career of welding for small, private companies. He spent weeks upon weeks away from home traveling to out of town building sites, faithfully supporting his wife and two sons. He made the most of family time on the weekends but rest was a must priority.
His retirement funds were limited but would still provide opportunities to travel a bit to visit his two sons – one in the Chicago area, where Nona grew up, the other in California where I also lived. I was devastated by Nona’s loss. I grew up in Michigan, a farmer’s son. Neither of our families was ‘well-to-do’ so our times together were very, very few. With her death, their vacation visits never materialized. I missed out on getting to know her with the intimacy that can only be shared in earnest with a beloved relative. I still feel robbed, but that’s life, just as the emotions that come with our earthly existence.
Uncle Phil met Loretta within months after Nona’s death. They married within a year, a shock to the two sons. The first meeting of sons and step mother was at the wedding. The contrast in the two women’s personalities was a shock of immense proportions. Nona was soft spoken. Loretta was/is a chatter box. She can carry on multiple conversations at the same time, offering input to discussions being held across a room! She is also rather loud, a result of caring for her near-deaf mom in her waning years.
There’s no doubt that Phil and Loretta met through fate. Their loves is apparent and, mainly through her investments, have lived a very comfortable life over the past 22 years – just this past week they celebrated their anniversary. For many years they maintained a home in both New York and Florida. Due to health conditions that come from the human condition of aging they made Zephyr Hills their permanent residence a number of years ago. Nowadays, the severity of their aches and pains (he with degenerative arthritis and she with severe back ailments) they sit as comfortable as possible in their cozy condominium in a retirement community.
Nowadays, the mostly they eat out (Golden Corral is a favorite) or have frozen prepared dinners at home. She can no longer fixes those delicious pot roast dinners with the many side-dishes, or make those most scrumpdillyicious lemon cakes I have lavished her with praise over the past two decades. But, she’s as upbeat and entertaining as always, giving the most loving of care to that that sometimes grumpy husband of hers. (I pause for a moment to wipe away tears that will flow unabated when they….)
Ten minutes later… composure returns.
During our most recent discussion, Loretta matter-of-factly brought up the fact that without Social Security and Medicare they would not have been able to make Florida their home. As a wise and realistic woman, she knows there are no worries that these entitlement programs will remain sustainable through the rest of their lives. And, just maybe, through the lives of us baby boomers.
If only I had been as wise as Loretta with how she took complete control of her life and her future, I would be a less secure man about to entire my sixtieth birthday.
During the divorce, and then afterward, the man stalked mother and daughter for a period of time until the day came when he was no longer a threat to their lives. He kind of just disappeared from the face of the earth, presumably ‘bumped off’ by members of what were most likely men associated with the mafia the mafia.
Loretta’s mom tried her best to make ends meet, working long days in a sweat shop making woolen clothing. She came home with stands of wool plastered on every part of her sweat-dripping exposed skin. Nights were spent with both mother and daughter sewing labels on the finished products. In her off-hours, Loretta’s mom would wash, dry and fold clothing for families in the neighborhood.
A second husband entered the life of Loretta’s mom. From the start, he and the child did not like each other – not one bit. He constantly belittled the seven year old child, repeatedly using words such as ‘brat’ and ‘worthless’, denying her mom from spending any amount of his selfishly-earned money on the little girl. Loretta was sent to a Catholic school where, again, not only she but other children were faced with degrees of denigration by those who were entrusted to provide a sense of security and nourish them in their formative years. Loretta spent her childhood shedding tears through years of worry and despair.
As an adult, Loretta married an educated man, an engineer of some degree. Unfortunately, he was a sickly man and passed away at an early age. They had no children. She didn’t remarry. Loretta has never hinted that she was involved with women’s rights movements but, out of necessity, she was resourceful and prepared herself for a secure future in later years.
She remained in Upstate New York in the Syracuse area, securing a job with General Electric. Having no one else to rely, with determination she earned respect as a laborer and eventually promoted to a management position.
Loretta was a dedicated, workaholic. She was determined to never again ‘go without’. She not only placed investments in her employer, GE, but placed some of her earnings in other investment vehicles. She seldom took vacations, the only one of which she has ever discussed was a trip to Florida with some girlfriends; she’s never related any particular fondness of the vacation.
Jump now to the late 1986 when my Aunt Nona passed away from a massive heart attack at age 68. She and my Uncle Phil had married during WWII. He lied about his age, not only to his wife to but also the military. He served in the US Navy, after which he made a career of welding for small, private companies. He spent weeks upon weeks away from home traveling to out of town building sites, faithfully supporting his wife and two sons. He made the most of family time on the weekends but rest was a must priority.
His retirement funds were limited but would still provide opportunities to travel a bit to visit his two sons – one in the Chicago area, where Nona grew up, the other in California where I also lived. I was devastated by Nona’s loss. I grew up in Michigan, a farmer’s son. Neither of our families was ‘well-to-do’ so our times together were very, very few. With her death, their vacation visits never materialized. I missed out on getting to know her with the intimacy that can only be shared in earnest with a beloved relative. I still feel robbed, but that’s life, just as the emotions that come with our earthly existence.
Uncle Phil met Loretta within months after Nona’s death. They married within a year, a shock to the two sons. The first meeting of sons and step mother was at the wedding. The contrast in the two women’s personalities was a shock of immense proportions. Nona was soft spoken. Loretta was/is a chatter box. She can carry on multiple conversations at the same time, offering input to discussions being held across a room! She is also rather loud, a result of caring for her near-deaf mom in her waning years.
There’s no doubt that Phil and Loretta met through fate. Their loves is apparent and, mainly through her investments, have lived a very comfortable life over the past 22 years – just this past week they celebrated their anniversary. For many years they maintained a home in both New York and Florida. Due to health conditions that come from the human condition of aging they made Zephyr Hills their permanent residence a number of years ago. Nowadays, the severity of their aches and pains (he with degenerative arthritis and she with severe back ailments) they sit as comfortable as possible in their cozy condominium in a retirement community.
Nowadays, the mostly they eat out (Golden Corral is a favorite) or have frozen prepared dinners at home. She can no longer fixes those delicious pot roast dinners with the many side-dishes, or make those most scrumpdillyicious lemon cakes I have lavished her with praise over the past two decades. But, she’s as upbeat and entertaining as always, giving the most loving of care to that that sometimes grumpy husband of hers. (I pause for a moment to wipe away tears that will flow unabated when they….)
Ten minutes later… composure returns.
During our most recent discussion, Loretta matter-of-factly brought up the fact that without Social Security and Medicare they would not have been able to make Florida their home. As a wise and realistic woman, she knows there are no worries that these entitlement programs will remain sustainable through the rest of their lives. And, just maybe, through the lives of us baby boomers.
If only I had been as wise as Loretta with how she took complete control of her life and her future, I would be a less secure man about to entire my sixtieth birthday.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
I Needed A Compliment!
Ha! Ha! I got what I wanted. At no cost to me! And it came with no consideration from the editor of Hernando Today.
When the subscription renewal notice came due from The Tampa Tribune I set it aside while I pondered when I’d have the funds available to submit payment without adding to my credit card debt. Heck, on top of that concern, there’s always those lurking expenses that hang over my head at every turn of the new year like dark clouds of dismal misfortune – property taxes, home insurance and auto insurance, amounts that come due at times that are always inconvenient to my financial situation. Therefore, credit card balance increases give me no recourse but to cut spending… discretionary spending that might otherwise contribute to spurring economic recovery. Admittedly, I don’t like spending money but for necessities.
I had little choice but to place the renewal notice at the back of a stack of other bills that were either due upon receipt or within a two week period. Having provided months of columns of The Rae Way chock full of (too many?) words for what were two ‘contributions’ per week to the editorial pages of Hernando Today and, after dwelling for days as to whether it would be appropriate to do so, I shot off an email to the editor of Hernando Today titled “I need a compliment!” and sheepishly suggested that perhaps the newspaper could help me out with a complimentary subscription. The account number was provided.
Perhaps my mistake was sending the email to Tim Howsare, apparently a subordinate to top dog editor Chris Wessel. I typically sent my columns to both, plus Karen Raimondi, whatever position she holds in the organization. Tim shot off a quick acknowledgement to the request, explaining the decision had to be made by Mr. Wessel. A bit of confusion on my part ensued because Tim’s reply made me realize I had failed to send the request to both men.
The resulting no reply/no acknowledgement to my request meant there was ‘no way’ I would be given what must have been interpreted as an arrogant requisition. Once the deadline for payment for renewal had passed and the Tampa Tribune continued to be delivered, I contacted the newspaper’s circulation department to verify the expiration date and advised the representative I was discontinuing the subscription. I gave the rep a quick rundown on the gratis columns I had provided for Hernando Today and how I had been denied a response to my request of assistance to continue my readership of the Tribune. I expressed no animosity. I followed the general rule of expressing ‘just the facts’ with the attitude ‘that’s the way it is', i.e., whatever...
The representative gave me an offer to discount the regular yearly subscription rate from $118 to $58 but still I declined the attempt to salvage my readership. My decision was just one more hit against the paper’s circulation figures, a major selling point to prospective advertisers. I subsequently discontinued submitting column entries to Hernando Today a week after the subscription was terminated. The final The Rae Way column appeared in the August 1st edition. Good, bad, evil, virtuous – in the words of George Harrison, All Things Must Pass, the most excellent of all after-the-Beatles albums.
Still, I continued to read the Tribune but restricted it to a month of Sunday editions. Actually, it was only three Sunday editions for which I paid a premium price at my local convenience store.
Lo and behold! Just this past week I found myself securing a FREE 7-day non-subscription to the Tampa Tribune. Hot damn! Do I feel like a lucky man! And I didn’t even have to ask; circumstances of their own accord put the daily printed edition of the Tribune once again before my eyes with the resultant additional blackening of my little fingers added to the print from the other newspapers to which I subscribe. (I limit smudge marks around the house with frequent hand-washing.)
There’s no apparent explanation why my request was denied or why there was no response to my request of Hernando Today to provide to me a paid-for subscription to the Tribune. Perhaps contributing reasons were frequent references in my columns to what I had read in The New York Times, The Economist, The Wall Street Journal, plus other periodicals. Free on-line news sources provided filler comments. Perhaps assumptions were made that, since I subscribe to these publications, and surely must pay for the delivery of each, that I have the means to pay-up for The Tampa Tribune as well.
How does the saying go? Something to the effect that only asses make assumptions? Regardless, the means by which I can ‘afford’ to subscribe to numerous newspapers and a couple of magazines is through ‘contributions’ from friends and family members. They know me very well and my habitual fascination with newspapers; it goes back to the days of my youth when the Sunday edition of the Detroit Free Press consumed much of those mornings. I would get upset when sections of the paper were left in disarray by other family members.
Therefore, folks who know me are accustomed to accommodate my request that, rather than give me a birthday or Christmas present, cash in hand allows me to continue my various subscriptions. I can’t even guess the number of near-to-nothing introductory offers for magazines (examples: Time, Bloomberg/Business Week, The New Yorker, Discover) that were never intended to be maintained after the trial period.
Newspapers are my cherished source of current events, the variety of which to some may seem redundant but each newspaper provides an array of different reporting techniques and unique takes on all the news I care to read. The content of multiple sources of editorial pages from these purveyors of news provide me diversified and sundry points of view.
The variety of newspapers has a great, positive effect on my interpretation and understanding of what’s going in the country and the impact of world involvement will have on our national destiny. Unfortunately, what I read quite often leads me to doubt the prospects of protracted American influence in world affairs in the coming decades. Positive takes on economic indicators are most often nullified with facts and figures that reflect the reality of the alarming confrontations to our economy recovery – scary prospects that will forever mold our society into a fashion unlike that of today.
For me, to a large part the importance of local area newspapers has diminished in recent months. The Tampa Tribune lacks the degree of investigative reporting that The St. Petersburg Times provides to its readers – it wasn’t always so. But, Hernando Today by far outshines the pages of Hernando Times. Whereby Hernando Times might have two, sometimes three, pages of news with an occasional commentary from the editorial staff and a few Letters to the Editor, Hernando Today typically has a half dozen pages of news and opinions, although those opinions are quite often repetitive and tilted one-sided in their views – conservative is the descriptive word.
The one saving factor of Hernando Times is the prowess, and importance, of Dan DeWitt’s columns. Many times I’m at a loss at relating to his musings of family, personal experiences and the history of Hernando County. Still, when Dan writes about his nature outings with his son, there’s a bit of envy on my part. Unfortunately, I don’t have social connections who share my love of going places away from congestive communities. But… Dan has quite the ability and a rather impressive technique to write a column that slam-dunks local political figures and their lack of responsible insightful governance; neither do local business figures escape his in-your-face vitriols.
So, I don’t pay for The Tampa Tribune but I’m once again reading its daily printings. Neither do I pay for The St. Petersburg Times but it too finds its way to my home with my neighbor placing the paper against my garage door at the end of each day. Although not quite in the same timely manner, and understandably so, the Sunday edition of The Tennessean is sent by postal service from a friend who lives where I will eventually relocate – Nashville.
When the subscription renewal notice came due from The Tampa Tribune I set it aside while I pondered when I’d have the funds available to submit payment without adding to my credit card debt. Heck, on top of that concern, there’s always those lurking expenses that hang over my head at every turn of the new year like dark clouds of dismal misfortune – property taxes, home insurance and auto insurance, amounts that come due at times that are always inconvenient to my financial situation. Therefore, credit card balance increases give me no recourse but to cut spending… discretionary spending that might otherwise contribute to spurring economic recovery. Admittedly, I don’t like spending money but for necessities.
I had little choice but to place the renewal notice at the back of a stack of other bills that were either due upon receipt or within a two week period. Having provided months of columns of The Rae Way chock full of (too many?) words for what were two ‘contributions’ per week to the editorial pages of Hernando Today and, after dwelling for days as to whether it would be appropriate to do so, I shot off an email to the editor of Hernando Today titled “I need a compliment!” and sheepishly suggested that perhaps the newspaper could help me out with a complimentary subscription. The account number was provided.
Perhaps my mistake was sending the email to Tim Howsare, apparently a subordinate to top dog editor Chris Wessel. I typically sent my columns to both, plus Karen Raimondi, whatever position she holds in the organization. Tim shot off a quick acknowledgement to the request, explaining the decision had to be made by Mr. Wessel. A bit of confusion on my part ensued because Tim’s reply made me realize I had failed to send the request to both men.
The resulting no reply/no acknowledgement to my request meant there was ‘no way’ I would be given what must have been interpreted as an arrogant requisition. Once the deadline for payment for renewal had passed and the Tampa Tribune continued to be delivered, I contacted the newspaper’s circulation department to verify the expiration date and advised the representative I was discontinuing the subscription. I gave the rep a quick rundown on the gratis columns I had provided for Hernando Today and how I had been denied a response to my request of assistance to continue my readership of the Tribune. I expressed no animosity. I followed the general rule of expressing ‘just the facts’ with the attitude ‘that’s the way it is', i.e., whatever...
The representative gave me an offer to discount the regular yearly subscription rate from $118 to $58 but still I declined the attempt to salvage my readership. My decision was just one more hit against the paper’s circulation figures, a major selling point to prospective advertisers. I subsequently discontinued submitting column entries to Hernando Today a week after the subscription was terminated. The final The Rae Way column appeared in the August 1st edition. Good, bad, evil, virtuous – in the words of George Harrison, All Things Must Pass, the most excellent of all after-the-Beatles albums.
Still, I continued to read the Tribune but restricted it to a month of Sunday editions. Actually, it was only three Sunday editions for which I paid a premium price at my local convenience store.
Lo and behold! Just this past week I found myself securing a FREE 7-day non-subscription to the Tampa Tribune. Hot damn! Do I feel like a lucky man! And I didn’t even have to ask; circumstances of their own accord put the daily printed edition of the Tribune once again before my eyes with the resultant additional blackening of my little fingers added to the print from the other newspapers to which I subscribe. (I limit smudge marks around the house with frequent hand-washing.)
There’s no apparent explanation why my request was denied or why there was no response to my request of Hernando Today to provide to me a paid-for subscription to the Tribune. Perhaps contributing reasons were frequent references in my columns to what I had read in The New York Times, The Economist, The Wall Street Journal, plus other periodicals. Free on-line news sources provided filler comments. Perhaps assumptions were made that, since I subscribe to these publications, and surely must pay for the delivery of each, that I have the means to pay-up for The Tampa Tribune as well.
How does the saying go? Something to the effect that only asses make assumptions? Regardless, the means by which I can ‘afford’ to subscribe to numerous newspapers and a couple of magazines is through ‘contributions’ from friends and family members. They know me very well and my habitual fascination with newspapers; it goes back to the days of my youth when the Sunday edition of the Detroit Free Press consumed much of those mornings. I would get upset when sections of the paper were left in disarray by other family members.
Therefore, folks who know me are accustomed to accommodate my request that, rather than give me a birthday or Christmas present, cash in hand allows me to continue my various subscriptions. I can’t even guess the number of near-to-nothing introductory offers for magazines (examples: Time, Bloomberg/Business Week, The New Yorker, Discover) that were never intended to be maintained after the trial period.
Newspapers are my cherished source of current events, the variety of which to some may seem redundant but each newspaper provides an array of different reporting techniques and unique takes on all the news I care to read. The content of multiple sources of editorial pages from these purveyors of news provide me diversified and sundry points of view.
The variety of newspapers has a great, positive effect on my interpretation and understanding of what’s going in the country and the impact of world involvement will have on our national destiny. Unfortunately, what I read quite often leads me to doubt the prospects of protracted American influence in world affairs in the coming decades. Positive takes on economic indicators are most often nullified with facts and figures that reflect the reality of the alarming confrontations to our economy recovery – scary prospects that will forever mold our society into a fashion unlike that of today.
For me, to a large part the importance of local area newspapers has diminished in recent months. The Tampa Tribune lacks the degree of investigative reporting that The St. Petersburg Times provides to its readers – it wasn’t always so. But, Hernando Today by far outshines the pages of Hernando Times. Whereby Hernando Times might have two, sometimes three, pages of news with an occasional commentary from the editorial staff and a few Letters to the Editor, Hernando Today typically has a half dozen pages of news and opinions, although those opinions are quite often repetitive and tilted one-sided in their views – conservative is the descriptive word.
The one saving factor of Hernando Times is the prowess, and importance, of Dan DeWitt’s columns. Many times I’m at a loss at relating to his musings of family, personal experiences and the history of Hernando County. Still, when Dan writes about his nature outings with his son, there’s a bit of envy on my part. Unfortunately, I don’t have social connections who share my love of going places away from congestive communities. But… Dan has quite the ability and a rather impressive technique to write a column that slam-dunks local political figures and their lack of responsible insightful governance; neither do local business figures escape his in-your-face vitriols.
So, I don’t pay for The Tampa Tribune but I’m once again reading its daily printings. Neither do I pay for The St. Petersburg Times but it too finds its way to my home with my neighbor placing the paper against my garage door at the end of each day. Although not quite in the same timely manner, and understandably so, the Sunday edition of The Tennessean is sent by postal service from a friend who lives where I will eventually relocate – Nashville.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Finger Pruning
I have a set routine that, upon completion of a column, of donning a worn out pair of shorts and a dirt-caked, nearly treadless pair of old sneakers for a few hours of yard work. It’s my time of leisure when I dwell on what level of accomplishment I feel about my finished product and to mull over what topic I might choose to write about for the next installment.
First comes the tag-along behind the self-propelled John Deere lawnmower purchased three years ago at a 12-month 0% interest rate. Paid off within the designated period, it paid for itself in less than a year and saved me hundreds of dollars since then as compared to the expense of having a lawn service do the job.
Next, I weed-whack along the edges of the driveway and the adjoining sidewalk leading up the front door step. Quick and simple, I move on to the back yard, a much smaller area but filled with a variety of bushes and flowering greenery, a pleasant view from the back porch.
Such were the beginnings of my activities last week after completing the column ‘Step-momma freight train brash but good-hearted’. It was also on this day that I finally decided to uproot a number of plants left dead from the hard freezes of this past winter, taking careful notice of the slightest bit of green that indicated they might still survive with a bit of special attention, like spot-watering.
Finalizing the day’s work, I began clipping and trimming barren branches on other surviving foliage, such as a little shaping of the East Palatka holly tree just now showing all kinds of new, green leaves after two years of struggling to reach its potential. Well, I’m right-handed but for some reason, which I’ve come assume was the position of the branch the angle of approach, I did a left-hand snip that resulted in a very audible “Ouch!”
More out of shock than actual pain, I had snipped my right forefinger and a bit of blood spurted to the ground. Lapping up a few tasty drops and rinsing it off with the garden hose but still dripping, it seemed no big deal. I was pretty much done for the day so I gathered the garden tools and took a quick shower with tinges of pink splattering through the webbing of the slip-proof bath mat. There was also a visible piece of skin that flapped a bit when I attempted to bend the finger.
By this time, the hurt was upon me, worsened because the cut was right there, on the underside of the second joint of the finger. So, on went an oversized Band-aid with a bit of Neosporin and a piece of gauze to absorb the excess flow.
So here I was with my forefinger temporarily fixed in a straight-out, stationary position. Of course, friends made comments like, “It’s not nice to point your finger at someone.” And, “What are you going to do, pick your nose?” And my retort, “See my finger, see my thumb, they’re shaped like a gun – your life is done!” Haha!
The unintentionally self-inflicted laceration was of course temporary, healed enough within a few days so I could get back to writing, during which time Sheriff Richard Nugent and his band of undercover agents brought to an end the workings of a network of felonious drug dealers. Way to go, guys! for the success of ‘Operation Oxy-Blues’. Hernando County’s top cop justly called this peddling of pain killers of “epidemic” proportions.
Also during those few days of restricted finger mobility, I came upon a (another) couple of people who had just become entrepreneurs of legitimately prescribed oxycodones – validated by means of MRIs consistent with the need of pain medications – with the sole intention of profiteering at the expense of habitual users and possibly at the cost of their lives.
As for myself, the ‘boo-boo’ wouldn’t have warranted an oxy script, but an MRI done this past year, when I had such pains in my lower back I feared my kidneys were failing, showed I have osteoporosis, not from taking hormones as my doctor had questioned, but as a long-term medical side effect from the radical prostatectomy performed eight years ago.
I could, if I should so desire, seek the assistance of a pain management doctor to supplement my monthly income with a fool’s monthly profit of a thousand dollar or more. But my aches are so few that to this day I wouldn’t know I have a back problem if not for the doctor’s diagnosis. And my conscience is clear, unlike that of others.
(There, this blog entry is complete. So out to the yard I go, the Cutco finger-snipping ‘ratchet pruner’ safely placed in the tool box.)
First comes the tag-along behind the self-propelled John Deere lawnmower purchased three years ago at a 12-month 0% interest rate. Paid off within the designated period, it paid for itself in less than a year and saved me hundreds of dollars since then as compared to the expense of having a lawn service do the job.
Next, I weed-whack along the edges of the driveway and the adjoining sidewalk leading up the front door step. Quick and simple, I move on to the back yard, a much smaller area but filled with a variety of bushes and flowering greenery, a pleasant view from the back porch.
Such were the beginnings of my activities last week after completing the column ‘Step-momma freight train brash but good-hearted’. It was also on this day that I finally decided to uproot a number of plants left dead from the hard freezes of this past winter, taking careful notice of the slightest bit of green that indicated they might still survive with a bit of special attention, like spot-watering.
Finalizing the day’s work, I began clipping and trimming barren branches on other surviving foliage, such as a little shaping of the East Palatka holly tree just now showing all kinds of new, green leaves after two years of struggling to reach its potential. Well, I’m right-handed but for some reason, which I’ve come assume was the position of the branch the angle of approach, I did a left-hand snip that resulted in a very audible “Ouch!”
More out of shock than actual pain, I had snipped my right forefinger and a bit of blood spurted to the ground. Lapping up a few tasty drops and rinsing it off with the garden hose but still dripping, it seemed no big deal. I was pretty much done for the day so I gathered the garden tools and took a quick shower with tinges of pink splattering through the webbing of the slip-proof bath mat. There was also a visible piece of skin that flapped a bit when I attempted to bend the finger.
By this time, the hurt was upon me, worsened because the cut was right there, on the underside of the second joint of the finger. So, on went an oversized Band-aid with a bit of Neosporin and a piece of gauze to absorb the excess flow.
So here I was with my forefinger temporarily fixed in a straight-out, stationary position. Of course, friends made comments like, “It’s not nice to point your finger at someone.” And, “What are you going to do, pick your nose?” And my retort, “See my finger, see my thumb, they’re shaped like a gun – your life is done!” Haha!
The unintentionally self-inflicted laceration was of course temporary, healed enough within a few days so I could get back to writing, during which time Sheriff Richard Nugent and his band of undercover agents brought to an end the workings of a network of felonious drug dealers. Way to go, guys! for the success of ‘Operation Oxy-Blues’. Hernando County’s top cop justly called this peddling of pain killers of “epidemic” proportions.
Also during those few days of restricted finger mobility, I came upon a (another) couple of people who had just become entrepreneurs of legitimately prescribed oxycodones – validated by means of MRIs consistent with the need of pain medications – with the sole intention of profiteering at the expense of habitual users and possibly at the cost of their lives.
As for myself, the ‘boo-boo’ wouldn’t have warranted an oxy script, but an MRI done this past year, when I had such pains in my lower back I feared my kidneys were failing, showed I have osteoporosis, not from taking hormones as my doctor had questioned, but as a long-term medical side effect from the radical prostatectomy performed eight years ago.
I could, if I should so desire, seek the assistance of a pain management doctor to supplement my monthly income with a fool’s monthly profit of a thousand dollar or more. But my aches are so few that to this day I wouldn’t know I have a back problem if not for the doctor’s diagnosis. And my conscience is clear, unlike that of others.
(There, this blog entry is complete. So out to the yard I go, the Cutco finger-snipping ‘ratchet pruner’ safely placed in the tool box.)
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Summer Me
To paraphrase a line from William Shakespeare’s Richard the Third, Act 1, scene 1, “[Then was] the winter of our discontent.”
Gone are weeks upon weeks of unseasonably cold days and freezing nighttime temperatures, testing the wills of people with the mindset that the Sunshine State should always and forever provide weather conditions conducive to wearing shorts, T-shirts, tank tops and sandals as they bask in the sun beneath the shade of beach umbrellas on sandy beaches or lounging on open air pool decks with coolers filled with such thirst quenchers as bottled water and cans of beer.
Whew! We sure missed out on a lot this past winter! The proof of the matter came with a report from the National Weather Service that the average temperatures in the Tampa Bay area were about seven degrees below normal, the coldest winter since 1914 when data were first kept.
Surely, these past months have led to many a conversation that reinforced some people’s beliefs that the global warming scenario is more a contrived script of fiction than it is a fact of scientific research. Never mind international government assessments to the contrary – a statement released last fall from the G-20 Summit read, “We underscore anew our resolve to take strong action to address the threat of dangerous climate change.”
The few reprieves from global warming chitter-chatter were worrisome exchanges on health care reform, the unwavering disdain between Republicans and Democrats, and the squabble mongering from Tea Party enthusiasts. The unknowns of the health care bill are so numerous that the debate will go on and on for years, as will the daily droll about the weather.
And yet, some of us truly appreciated the brisk, fresh air that provided a respite from using no-drip 12-hour pump pray mists for temporary relief from constant bouts of inflammation of the nasal passages. Too soon, airborne pollen put an end to those free-breathing days; colorful patches of yellow still lay in contrast to the gray-painted floor on my back porch.
People who may have suffered most of all are those stricken with hypothyroidism. Layers upon layers of clothes, including sweatshirts and insulated coats, still left some in bone-rattling shivers. Even prescribed medications were unable to overcome the symptoms of the disease. Since I couldn’t imagine the discomfort, empathy was replaced with sympathy by turning up the thermostat a few degrees.
Fortunately, spring is now securely upon us with daytime temps hovering around eight degrees and, finally, the opportunity to get a little burned while soaking up the warmth of the sun. Caution: melanoma can be safely treated in its early stages – otherwise the cancer can be a life-threatening disease. But, oh, isn’t it so worth it to wear upon the face and body a deep, dark tan?
Within weeks, sunshine supermen will be mowing, trimming, landscaping and sweating under the blazing hot sun through twelve-hour days of sunlight. Soon, a growing number of pickup trucks will be on the roads hauling lawn equipment and loads of debris on trailer-beds. As they add to traffic congestion, and annoy the heck out of aggressive drivers and scare the pants off timid slowpokes, get over yourself and be grateful that hundreds of your fellow citizens will spend a few months making money that hasn’t been there since last fall.
In this economic climate, the added flow of currency will lead to an increase in consumer spending, thus bringing income to local businesses that will need to replace inventory and perhaps add to their payrolls. Anyway, that’s the way capitalism is supposed to work as a means to get us out of our economic doldrums. Most of us have a relative, friend or neighbor who will benefit from what will hopefully be a work-filled rainy season.
We’re also just a few weeks away from hurricane season. It’s an unknown equation but meteorologists foresee increased activity, quite different from the past few years. If El Nino weakens this year as predicted, Florida may see its first named hurricane hit landfall since Wilma crossed over the southern part of the state in October 2005.
That said, a heavy rainfall might also shake and shimmy your home and bodies as layers of limestone crumble beneath the sandy surface and create the dreaded sinkhole.
Never mind the falderal. It's all iffy stuff anyway. Duke ended March Madness winning the 2010 NCAA Tournament Championship. Tiger Woods is back in the swinger’s circuit in the Masters. The Red Sox won the MLB season opener. There you have it – baseball, the quintessential sign of summer. Water parks, barbeques and vacation trips are just a flip of the calendar away.
Winter has passed. Spring is here. But to quote Henry James, “Summer afternoon, Summer afternoon… the two most beautiful words in the English language.”
Gone are weeks upon weeks of unseasonably cold days and freezing nighttime temperatures, testing the wills of people with the mindset that the Sunshine State should always and forever provide weather conditions conducive to wearing shorts, T-shirts, tank tops and sandals as they bask in the sun beneath the shade of beach umbrellas on sandy beaches or lounging on open air pool decks with coolers filled with such thirst quenchers as bottled water and cans of beer.
Whew! We sure missed out on a lot this past winter! The proof of the matter came with a report from the National Weather Service that the average temperatures in the Tampa Bay area were about seven degrees below normal, the coldest winter since 1914 when data were first kept.
Surely, these past months have led to many a conversation that reinforced some people’s beliefs that the global warming scenario is more a contrived script of fiction than it is a fact of scientific research. Never mind international government assessments to the contrary – a statement released last fall from the G-20 Summit read, “We underscore anew our resolve to take strong action to address the threat of dangerous climate change.”
The few reprieves from global warming chitter-chatter were worrisome exchanges on health care reform, the unwavering disdain between Republicans and Democrats, and the squabble mongering from Tea Party enthusiasts. The unknowns of the health care bill are so numerous that the debate will go on and on for years, as will the daily droll about the weather.
And yet, some of us truly appreciated the brisk, fresh air that provided a respite from using no-drip 12-hour pump pray mists for temporary relief from constant bouts of inflammation of the nasal passages. Too soon, airborne pollen put an end to those free-breathing days; colorful patches of yellow still lay in contrast to the gray-painted floor on my back porch.
People who may have suffered most of all are those stricken with hypothyroidism. Layers upon layers of clothes, including sweatshirts and insulated coats, still left some in bone-rattling shivers. Even prescribed medications were unable to overcome the symptoms of the disease. Since I couldn’t imagine the discomfort, empathy was replaced with sympathy by turning up the thermostat a few degrees.
Fortunately, spring is now securely upon us with daytime temps hovering around eight degrees and, finally, the opportunity to get a little burned while soaking up the warmth of the sun. Caution: melanoma can be safely treated in its early stages – otherwise the cancer can be a life-threatening disease. But, oh, isn’t it so worth it to wear upon the face and body a deep, dark tan?
Within weeks, sunshine supermen will be mowing, trimming, landscaping and sweating under the blazing hot sun through twelve-hour days of sunlight. Soon, a growing number of pickup trucks will be on the roads hauling lawn equipment and loads of debris on trailer-beds. As they add to traffic congestion, and annoy the heck out of aggressive drivers and scare the pants off timid slowpokes, get over yourself and be grateful that hundreds of your fellow citizens will spend a few months making money that hasn’t been there since last fall.
In this economic climate, the added flow of currency will lead to an increase in consumer spending, thus bringing income to local businesses that will need to replace inventory and perhaps add to their payrolls. Anyway, that’s the way capitalism is supposed to work as a means to get us out of our economic doldrums. Most of us have a relative, friend or neighbor who will benefit from what will hopefully be a work-filled rainy season.
We’re also just a few weeks away from hurricane season. It’s an unknown equation but meteorologists foresee increased activity, quite different from the past few years. If El Nino weakens this year as predicted, Florida may see its first named hurricane hit landfall since Wilma crossed over the southern part of the state in October 2005.
That said, a heavy rainfall might also shake and shimmy your home and bodies as layers of limestone crumble beneath the sandy surface and create the dreaded sinkhole.
Never mind the falderal. It's all iffy stuff anyway. Duke ended March Madness winning the 2010 NCAA Tournament Championship. Tiger Woods is back in the swinger’s circuit in the Masters. The Red Sox won the MLB season opener. There you have it – baseball, the quintessential sign of summer. Water parks, barbeques and vacation trips are just a flip of the calendar away.
Winter has passed. Spring is here. But to quote Henry James, “Summer afternoon, Summer afternoon… the two most beautiful words in the English language.”
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
The Hurricane Job Market
Here we are just a few weeks away from the first of June and if you care to put any degree of validity to the experts, for a full six months, through November 30, our concerns and fears will be heightened with predictions that the 2010 Atlantic hurricane season will be active and very possibly severe.
AccuWeather meteorologist Joe Bastardi forecasts 16-18 tropical storms, 15 of which will hit the Atlantic coastline or the Gulf of Mexico. Of seven landfalls, five will be hurricanes and two or three will be major threats to the U.S.
As Bastardi had predicted, the 2009 hurricane season brought 11 tropical depressions and only nine developed into tropical storms, the lowest number since 1997.
Dr. William Gray of Colorado State University, who has made seasonal hurricane predictions since 1984, foresees a 64% chance of landfall along the Atlantic coastline, and a 40% likelihood that Florida will be affected. Respectively, historical averages are 52%, 31% and 30%.
The forecast release this past December concludes there will be 11-16 named tropical storms, 6-8 hurricanes and 3-5 major hurricanes, all of which are considerably higher than statistical data would indicate. Updates will be issued April 8, June 2 and August 4.
During a discussion with a new acquaintance, Linda and I touched upon the affects that a major hurricane would have on the Florida economy. I made reference to the $4.5 billion in assets in the Florida Hurricane Catastrophe Fund, which, by its own analysis, will be seriously short of covering potential claims that could exceed $28 billion in a severe season. Since she’s not a homeowner, I discounted the importance of mentioning to Linda the additional ‘assessments’ that would be placed on insurance policies. She had other thoughts on her mind.
To go back a couple of steps, the conversation actually began with Linda relating events in her life that began shortly after graduating from high school, where she had been an academically excellent student, an accomplished athlete and socially popular.
Linda had intentions to attend the University of Florida but an unplanned pregnancy left her an unwed mother and kept her from joining her friends on the path to higher education. She vacated her home when she realized the live-in boyfriend/father was smoking crack. This was the first of three homes her well-to-do father would buy for her over the next ten years.
As Linda explained other circumstances in her life, I had to agree with her self-appraisal that she’s a smart person who doesn’t make smart decisions. Her second relationship began with a hopeful marriage but her bipolar condition contributed to her filing for divorce from a husband who had become a successful businessman. She had full custody of the two boys and a third son who was fathered by a second husband – another bad choice with drugs again the cause for divorce.
Nearly 30 years old now, her three boys are 4, 9 and 11 years old. She no longer has custody of any. The oldest lives with Lisa’s mother. The middle child lives with the successful ex-husband. The youngest one is in a foster home in Wisconsin.
After first being under-employed then eventually unemployed for the past three years, Linda and her current husband, Jacob, moved to Wisconsin with a guaranteed job making minimum wage. They regretted the move – she was jailed for beating the crap out of Jacob when he blocked her ability to access all banking and credit card accounts as a result of a heated exchange of words that were incited by her sister-in-law, whose call to 911 placed Linda in police custody. Jacob surrendered the baby to foster care because he wasn’t able to hold on to the job.
Things worsened when they moved back to Florida. Still with no job, Jacob was forced sell his prescribed painkillers just to make ends meet. Still not enough for the two of them to get by on, he’s now faced with three to five years in prison for drug trafficking with a fraudulent prescription. Linda now works in an out-of-the-way strip club. Just to accumulate enough cash to post bail, I assure you.
Chances are none of these events would have taken place if construction work hadn’t bottomed out as a result of the recession. Jacob had been earning nearly $20/hour as a roofer. Even though Jacob hadn’t fathered any of the boys, the family of five had been very happy. They called him “daddy”.
Thinking of the situations Lisa and Jacob endured, I suggested that even a mild hurricane season could put thousands, of construction laborers back to work. The 15.1% unemployment rate in Hernando County would decrease, if only temporarily.
Linda agreed. Neither of us liked the idea but…
[Note: The events are factual. The names are fictional.]
AccuWeather meteorologist Joe Bastardi forecasts 16-18 tropical storms, 15 of which will hit the Atlantic coastline or the Gulf of Mexico. Of seven landfalls, five will be hurricanes and two or three will be major threats to the U.S.
As Bastardi had predicted, the 2009 hurricane season brought 11 tropical depressions and only nine developed into tropical storms, the lowest number since 1997.
Dr. William Gray of Colorado State University, who has made seasonal hurricane predictions since 1984, foresees a 64% chance of landfall along the Atlantic coastline, and a 40% likelihood that Florida will be affected. Respectively, historical averages are 52%, 31% and 30%.
The forecast release this past December concludes there will be 11-16 named tropical storms, 6-8 hurricanes and 3-5 major hurricanes, all of which are considerably higher than statistical data would indicate. Updates will be issued April 8, June 2 and August 4.
During a discussion with a new acquaintance, Linda and I touched upon the affects that a major hurricane would have on the Florida economy. I made reference to the $4.5 billion in assets in the Florida Hurricane Catastrophe Fund, which, by its own analysis, will be seriously short of covering potential claims that could exceed $28 billion in a severe season. Since she’s not a homeowner, I discounted the importance of mentioning to Linda the additional ‘assessments’ that would be placed on insurance policies. She had other thoughts on her mind.
To go back a couple of steps, the conversation actually began with Linda relating events in her life that began shortly after graduating from high school, where she had been an academically excellent student, an accomplished athlete and socially popular.
Linda had intentions to attend the University of Florida but an unplanned pregnancy left her an unwed mother and kept her from joining her friends on the path to higher education. She vacated her home when she realized the live-in boyfriend/father was smoking crack. This was the first of three homes her well-to-do father would buy for her over the next ten years.
As Linda explained other circumstances in her life, I had to agree with her self-appraisal that she’s a smart person who doesn’t make smart decisions. Her second relationship began with a hopeful marriage but her bipolar condition contributed to her filing for divorce from a husband who had become a successful businessman. She had full custody of the two boys and a third son who was fathered by a second husband – another bad choice with drugs again the cause for divorce.
Nearly 30 years old now, her three boys are 4, 9 and 11 years old. She no longer has custody of any. The oldest lives with Lisa’s mother. The middle child lives with the successful ex-husband. The youngest one is in a foster home in Wisconsin.
After first being under-employed then eventually unemployed for the past three years, Linda and her current husband, Jacob, moved to Wisconsin with a guaranteed job making minimum wage. They regretted the move – she was jailed for beating the crap out of Jacob when he blocked her ability to access all banking and credit card accounts as a result of a heated exchange of words that were incited by her sister-in-law, whose call to 911 placed Linda in police custody. Jacob surrendered the baby to foster care because he wasn’t able to hold on to the job.
Things worsened when they moved back to Florida. Still with no job, Jacob was forced sell his prescribed painkillers just to make ends meet. Still not enough for the two of them to get by on, he’s now faced with three to five years in prison for drug trafficking with a fraudulent prescription. Linda now works in an out-of-the-way strip club. Just to accumulate enough cash to post bail, I assure you.
Chances are none of these events would have taken place if construction work hadn’t bottomed out as a result of the recession. Jacob had been earning nearly $20/hour as a roofer. Even though Jacob hadn’t fathered any of the boys, the family of five had been very happy. They called him “daddy”.
Thinking of the situations Lisa and Jacob endured, I suggested that even a mild hurricane season could put thousands, of construction laborers back to work. The 15.1% unemployment rate in Hernando County would decrease, if only temporarily.
Linda agreed. Neither of us liked the idea but…
[Note: The events are factual. The names are fictional.]
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
"Have A Happy Year!"
"Happy New Year!”
What might be the definitive definition of this proclamation? A day that marks the passage of one year and the beginning of the next with a simple directive from one person to another that the coming year brings good fortune and prosperity, health and happiness, peace and good will?
Although the greeting may be more heartfelt toward close friends, relatives and co-workers, extending good will to frequented businesses and an occasional store clerk are all a part of the tradition.
Personally, extending a bit of gratitude to the gentleman whose dedication delivers the newspaper every morning is a tradition in itself, albeit the token appreciation may have to wait until mid January. (Holiday expenses, property taxes and home insurance renewal fees are steadfast greeters at year end.)
Of course, there are those who give bah-humbug tidings of a 'sappy' or 'crappy' New Year and would just as soon the folklore had never been begotten. So, when did the idea of celebrating the coming of the new year begin?
Around 2000 BC, when the calendar consisted of ten months from March to December, ancient Babylon began celebrating the New Year on the first full moon after the vernal equinox, the first day of spring. And lasted eleven days!
Egyptians, Phoenicians and Persians began the New Year with the fall equinox; Greeks on the winter solstice.
Around 153 BC, Roman emperor Numa Pompilius added January and February as the eleventh and twelfth months of the year while maintaining March 1 as the beginning of the new year. It wasn’t until 135 BC that January 1 was declared the beginning of the new year to coincide with the seasons of the solar cycle.
In 46 BC, Julius Caesar established the Julian Calendar and proclaimed the first day of January as New Year’s Day. Caesar felt that Janus, the Roman god of doors and gates and had two faces, one looking forward and one back, was an appropriate symbol of new beginnings.
Caesar celebrated the first January 1 New Year in 45 BC by ordering the massacre of revolutionary Jewish forces in the Galilee. In later years, Roman pagans observed the New Year by engaging in drunken orgies – a ritual they believed constituted a personal re-enactment of the chaotic universe until the gods brought order to the cosmos. In modern times the ‘happy’ part of the New Year continues to bring in the seasonal ‘cheer’ of inebriation.
During the Middle Ages, after the Roman Empire was dissolved, Christians proclaimed the New Year began on December 25 to celebrate the birth of Christ. Other religions reverted back to March 1, or March 25 during the Feast of the Annunciation or Easter.
It wasn’t until 1522 that Venice was the first to establish what would become the universal standard of January 1 as the beginning of the new year. The rest of Italy adopted the new tradition at various times since then, but it wasn’t until 1752 that the British Empire became the last country to follow suit. Spanish, Portugal and French territories had made the change nearly two hundred years earlier.
In Christianity, New Year’s Day, the eighth day of Christmas, is represented by the Eight Beatitudes (Eight Maids a-Milking) with the blessing of the poor in spirit, the meek, they who mourn, they that hunger and thirst after justice, the merciful, the clean of heart, the peacemakers and they that suffer persecution for justice’s sake.
The eighth day is also referenced by the Feast of the Circumcision of Our Lord, when the child born in Bethlehem was given his name, Jesus, our Savior.
Of course, religion has very little to do with modern day New Year celebrations. Instead, our expectations are radio, television and newspaper commentaries reviewing milestones of the year gone by of natural disasters, social and political events and memorials to notable people who had passed away.
We are also given a congregation of opinions addressing the challenges facing society during the coming year. Absolutions and hopeful solutions are bountiful. Of immediate importance are public service narratives that announce new laws that will become effective during the coming year.
Of personal commitment, people tend to make New Year’s resolutions to quit smoking, lose weight, exercise more, eat healthier foods, redress a variety of excesses, thus improving the quality of life – out with the old, in with the new as they say.
But, is that all there is? Just a few hours or, at most, a few days of reflecting on the past and speculating on the future? Alas, once the day is over, the newness of the year fades away all too soon.
Therefore, may I extend to you my wishes that you Have A Happy Year!
What might be the definitive definition of this proclamation? A day that marks the passage of one year and the beginning of the next with a simple directive from one person to another that the coming year brings good fortune and prosperity, health and happiness, peace and good will?
Although the greeting may be more heartfelt toward close friends, relatives and co-workers, extending good will to frequented businesses and an occasional store clerk are all a part of the tradition.
Personally, extending a bit of gratitude to the gentleman whose dedication delivers the newspaper every morning is a tradition in itself, albeit the token appreciation may have to wait until mid January. (Holiday expenses, property taxes and home insurance renewal fees are steadfast greeters at year end.)
Of course, there are those who give bah-humbug tidings of a 'sappy' or 'crappy' New Year and would just as soon the folklore had never been begotten. So, when did the idea of celebrating the coming of the new year begin?
Around 2000 BC, when the calendar consisted of ten months from March to December, ancient Babylon began celebrating the New Year on the first full moon after the vernal equinox, the first day of spring. And lasted eleven days!
Egyptians, Phoenicians and Persians began the New Year with the fall equinox; Greeks on the winter solstice.
Around 153 BC, Roman emperor Numa Pompilius added January and February as the eleventh and twelfth months of the year while maintaining March 1 as the beginning of the new year. It wasn’t until 135 BC that January 1 was declared the beginning of the new year to coincide with the seasons of the solar cycle.
In 46 BC, Julius Caesar established the Julian Calendar and proclaimed the first day of January as New Year’s Day. Caesar felt that Janus, the Roman god of doors and gates and had two faces, one looking forward and one back, was an appropriate symbol of new beginnings.
Caesar celebrated the first January 1 New Year in 45 BC by ordering the massacre of revolutionary Jewish forces in the Galilee. In later years, Roman pagans observed the New Year by engaging in drunken orgies – a ritual they believed constituted a personal re-enactment of the chaotic universe until the gods brought order to the cosmos. In modern times the ‘happy’ part of the New Year continues to bring in the seasonal ‘cheer’ of inebriation.
During the Middle Ages, after the Roman Empire was dissolved, Christians proclaimed the New Year began on December 25 to celebrate the birth of Christ. Other religions reverted back to March 1, or March 25 during the Feast of the Annunciation or Easter.
It wasn’t until 1522 that Venice was the first to establish what would become the universal standard of January 1 as the beginning of the new year. The rest of Italy adopted the new tradition at various times since then, but it wasn’t until 1752 that the British Empire became the last country to follow suit. Spanish, Portugal and French territories had made the change nearly two hundred years earlier.
In Christianity, New Year’s Day, the eighth day of Christmas, is represented by the Eight Beatitudes (Eight Maids a-Milking) with the blessing of the poor in spirit, the meek, they who mourn, they that hunger and thirst after justice, the merciful, the clean of heart, the peacemakers and they that suffer persecution for justice’s sake.
The eighth day is also referenced by the Feast of the Circumcision of Our Lord, when the child born in Bethlehem was given his name, Jesus, our Savior.
Of course, religion has very little to do with modern day New Year celebrations. Instead, our expectations are radio, television and newspaper commentaries reviewing milestones of the year gone by of natural disasters, social and political events and memorials to notable people who had passed away.
We are also given a congregation of opinions addressing the challenges facing society during the coming year. Absolutions and hopeful solutions are bountiful. Of immediate importance are public service narratives that announce new laws that will become effective during the coming year.
Of personal commitment, people tend to make New Year’s resolutions to quit smoking, lose weight, exercise more, eat healthier foods, redress a variety of excesses, thus improving the quality of life – out with the old, in with the new as they say.
But, is that all there is? Just a few hours or, at most, a few days of reflecting on the past and speculating on the future? Alas, once the day is over, the newness of the year fades away all too soon.
Therefore, may I extend to you my wishes that you Have A Happy Year!
Friday, January 1, 2010
Going, Going, Gong
Looks like my column The Rae Way in the Hernando Times has been given the boot. The two blogs on Christmas, recently posted here on My Space, were not printed.
Those S.O.B.s! How many, and how often, do you see/read something positive in news commentaries? Especially holiday-specific topics.
It appears that when Editor Chris Wessell is on vacation my columns are totally discounted.
Well, the time I spend obtaining data from Google, the Wall Street Journal , The New York Times, The St. Petersburg Times and the Tampa Tribune, not to mention various magazines, are time consuming and wasteful if not printed. I'll continue to write and post entries on the four blogspot.com blogs I have neglected to maintain because they were submitted for print. Never mind the fact that no one reads them, it's still an exercise at developing my writing [skills?].
Discontinuing the column is disheartening but that's the way it goes when you have no formal education in journalism.
I am not worthy of the honor to express my opinions.
Sincerely, my Best Wishes to Hernando Today and its Op-Ed pages. The diversity is like no other local newspapers I have read during my lifetime.
I just hope that whoever replaces my space in the newspaper gets paid for it.
It appears it may be Reverend James L. Snyder, a pastor of the Family of God Fellowship in Ocala, Florida. That's all we need in the South - another conservative awash with religious messages. But that's what ya get in a Bible-thumping state.
The reverend and his church should reap a fortune from his column through the church website. I suppose the reverend's revenue for the church will be a major benefit.
Thankfully, the paper still prints Ted Rall's 'Liberal Point of View' column.
I'm a happy and typically positive person. I'm not easily disheartened. Having a personal, intimate, faithful relationship with plenty of love making is about all I need to be fully happy. At this point, it will have to wait until I'm settled in Nashville, Tennessee.
Please, join me in a hopeful and sincere HAPPY NEW YEAR for All!!
Those S.O.B.s! How many, and how often, do you see/read something positive in news commentaries? Especially holiday-specific topics.
It appears that when Editor Chris Wessell is on vacation my columns are totally discounted.
Well, the time I spend obtaining data from Google, the Wall Street Journal , The New York Times, The St. Petersburg Times and the Tampa Tribune, not to mention various magazines, are time consuming and wasteful if not printed. I'll continue to write and post entries on the four blogspot.com blogs I have neglected to maintain because they were submitted for print. Never mind the fact that no one reads them, it's still an exercise at developing my writing [skills?].
Discontinuing the column is disheartening but that's the way it goes when you have no formal education in journalism.
I am not worthy of the honor to express my opinions.
Sincerely, my Best Wishes to Hernando Today and its Op-Ed pages. The diversity is like no other local newspapers I have read during my lifetime.
I just hope that whoever replaces my space in the newspaper gets paid for it.
It appears it may be Reverend James L. Snyder, a pastor of the Family of God Fellowship in Ocala, Florida. That's all we need in the South - another conservative awash with religious messages. But that's what ya get in a Bible-thumping state.
The reverend and his church should reap a fortune from his column through the church website. I suppose the reverend's revenue for the church will be a major benefit.
Thankfully, the paper still prints Ted Rall's 'Liberal Point of View' column.
I'm a happy and typically positive person. I'm not easily disheartened. Having a personal, intimate, faithful relationship with plenty of love making is about all I need to be fully happy. At this point, it will have to wait until I'm settled in Nashville, Tennessee.
Please, join me in a hopeful and sincere HAPPY NEW YEAR for All!!
Friday, December 25, 2009
O Christmas Tree!
O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree! Much pleasure thou can’st to me.”
Among all the traditions of the holiday season, the single most enjoyable is the decorating of the Christmas tree. It’s much more than just a motif for the giving and receiving of gifts. It’s a remembrance of Christmases past, good will toward all and the blessings of the year gone by.
The putting up of a Christmas tree is a personal involvement in the spirit of the season. From the moment the tree finds its place in the home to the crowning of the tree, there’s a sense of achievement that will be shared with friends and family, neighbors and new acquaintances.
Whether freshly cut or a manmade reproduction, the occasion to place ornaments on the bows of the tree might be accompanied with the singing Christmas carols. Perhaps it’s a rehearsal for a night of caroling in the neighborhood. Regardless of singing off key or forgetting the lyrics, the occasion to spread cheer and joy is the central theme. ‘Tis the season to be jolly! Fa la la la la, la la la la!
It’s the Christmas tree that sparks the excitement of the holiday season. It’s no wonder that for many the time to decorate comes shortly after Thanksgiving.
The placement of ornaments with special meaning, such as those that are homemade or given as a gift, are deserving of prominence among other baubles. The participation of kids and their excitement become remembrances in the years to come.
As a child, we would head off to a Christmas tree farm where we kids went from tree to tree on a quest to pick out the perfect tree while mom and dad chatted with friends. We would negotiate what was the best of the best but Mom would make the final decision, considerate of our choices.
Dad would load the tree on the top of the car, head back home, guide us on which branches to trim, then place the tree in the water-filled base with a little sugar added to keep the tree fresh. Although there was a lot of guidance when we were young, as we grew older we were let loose to decorate the tree at will with the very slightest of instruction from Mom.
The worst part of the tradition was the tinsel. We would get whiny and tend to bicker when it came to making the final touches to the tree, the most contentious of which would be placing tinsel on the tree. Cries that it was “glopped” together in spots and “skimpy” in others would end up with Mom demanding that we quit the arguing. The best tactic was to wait until later, after the decorating was finished, then do a little rearranging to suit our individual fancies. Most everyone did it – it never went unnoticed.
Once the tree was all dressed up, that’s when the true realization that Christmas Day was only a few weeks away, the excitement of what presents will be placed under the tree were foremost in our thoughts. But we also looked forward to spending Christmas Day dinner with relatives. The anticipation of the variety of made-from-scratch rolls, including the most delicious cinnamon rolls ever baked, was an excitement in itself. Aunt Ethelyn had been a homec teacher.
As a family, we seldom had the opportunity to visit other people’s homes. With five kids it just made sense to have the get-togethers at our house – there was plenty of room, a big yard where we could play in the snow, go to our rooms to check out each other’s toys and occupy part of the day wandering through the barns.
Even as a youth, I loved to gaze upon the lights and decorations that graced the branches of Christmas trees. Each and every tree was a creation in itself, as unique as the snowflakes that blanketed the ground. Since hosts are very conversant of the history and meaning of their special decorations, the intimacy warms my heart and makes me grin and smile for moments unending.
To this day, I remain disconcerted that there is no ornament made that justifies the importance of adorning the top of the Christmas tree. As I was preparing my thoughts for this column, I realized there will never be light as bright as the Star of Bethlehem, the sight of which heralded the birth of Jesus Christ, the Light of the World.
Nonetheless, my Christmas tree will remain lit for many days to come as I proclaim, “O Christmas Tree. O Christmas Tree. Much pleasure thou can’st to me.”
Among all the traditions of the holiday season, the single most enjoyable is the decorating of the Christmas tree. It’s much more than just a motif for the giving and receiving of gifts. It’s a remembrance of Christmases past, good will toward all and the blessings of the year gone by.
The putting up of a Christmas tree is a personal involvement in the spirit of the season. From the moment the tree finds its place in the home to the crowning of the tree, there’s a sense of achievement that will be shared with friends and family, neighbors and new acquaintances.
Whether freshly cut or a manmade reproduction, the occasion to place ornaments on the bows of the tree might be accompanied with the singing Christmas carols. Perhaps it’s a rehearsal for a night of caroling in the neighborhood. Regardless of singing off key or forgetting the lyrics, the occasion to spread cheer and joy is the central theme. ‘Tis the season to be jolly! Fa la la la la, la la la la!
It’s the Christmas tree that sparks the excitement of the holiday season. It’s no wonder that for many the time to decorate comes shortly after Thanksgiving.
The placement of ornaments with special meaning, such as those that are homemade or given as a gift, are deserving of prominence among other baubles. The participation of kids and their excitement become remembrances in the years to come.
As a child, we would head off to a Christmas tree farm where we kids went from tree to tree on a quest to pick out the perfect tree while mom and dad chatted with friends. We would negotiate what was the best of the best but Mom would make the final decision, considerate of our choices.
Dad would load the tree on the top of the car, head back home, guide us on which branches to trim, then place the tree in the water-filled base with a little sugar added to keep the tree fresh. Although there was a lot of guidance when we were young, as we grew older we were let loose to decorate the tree at will with the very slightest of instruction from Mom.
The worst part of the tradition was the tinsel. We would get whiny and tend to bicker when it came to making the final touches to the tree, the most contentious of which would be placing tinsel on the tree. Cries that it was “glopped” together in spots and “skimpy” in others would end up with Mom demanding that we quit the arguing. The best tactic was to wait until later, after the decorating was finished, then do a little rearranging to suit our individual fancies. Most everyone did it – it never went unnoticed.
Once the tree was all dressed up, that’s when the true realization that Christmas Day was only a few weeks away, the excitement of what presents will be placed under the tree were foremost in our thoughts. But we also looked forward to spending Christmas Day dinner with relatives. The anticipation of the variety of made-from-scratch rolls, including the most delicious cinnamon rolls ever baked, was an excitement in itself. Aunt Ethelyn had been a homec teacher.
As a family, we seldom had the opportunity to visit other people’s homes. With five kids it just made sense to have the get-togethers at our house – there was plenty of room, a big yard where we could play in the snow, go to our rooms to check out each other’s toys and occupy part of the day wandering through the barns.
Even as a youth, I loved to gaze upon the lights and decorations that graced the branches of Christmas trees. Each and every tree was a creation in itself, as unique as the snowflakes that blanketed the ground. Since hosts are very conversant of the history and meaning of their special decorations, the intimacy warms my heart and makes me grin and smile for moments unending.
To this day, I remain disconcerted that there is no ornament made that justifies the importance of adorning the top of the Christmas tree. As I was preparing my thoughts for this column, I realized there will never be light as bright as the Star of Bethlehem, the sight of which heralded the birth of Jesus Christ, the Light of the World.
Nonetheless, my Christmas tree will remain lit for many days to come as I proclaim, “O Christmas Tree. O Christmas Tree. Much pleasure thou can’st to me.”
Christmas
In celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ, many Christmas traditions are symbolic of the life and teachings of Our Savior, the Son of God. The giving of presents represents the bearing of gifts by the Three Wise Men. Of course, Jolly Old St. Nicholas is the biggest gift-giver of all.
Green symbolizes the potential for eternal life through Jesus’ sacrifices, as with the evergreen Christmas tree. Red is for the blood that Jesus spilled to redeem us for our sins.
Holly branches represent the Crown of Thorns that Christ wore on the cross; the red berries, the blood he shed. The circular shape of the Christmas wreath symbolizes everlasting life. An angel is significant as a divine guidance of love, peace and protection.
Chiming bells allows the Good Shepherd to find lost sheep and guide them back to His flock. The flame from a candle, Christmas lights and the star on the top of the tree remind us of the guiding light of the Star of Bethlehem and that Jesus is “the Light of the world.”
The symbolisms of the candy cane were conceived by candy maker, John Sonneman, in the 19th century. The peppermint flavor is similar to that of ‘hyssop’, an herb that was referenced in the Bible as a healing agent. The hardness stands for the solid base of the Church. The white stripes represent the Virgin Birth and the purity of Jesus; red stripes symbolize the blood of Christ that was shed at the Crucifixion.
Also, the cane is in the shape of a shepherd’s staff; turned upside down it become the letter “J” to represent the name of Jesus.
Even icicles have a special meaning. As the Christ child took shelter under a pine tree, when the tree realized who was lying beneath its bows, tears of happiness fell from its branches and froze into icicles. Bows and ribbons represent that we are tied together through the Brotherhood of Man.
Of Christmas songs, the Twelve Days of Christmas are references to passages in the Bible and the many gifts that the Lord has bestowed on mankind.
On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, a partridge in a pear tree – referring to Jesus.
Second day… 2 turtle doves - The Old and New Testaments
Third day… 3 French Hens - Faith, Hope and Charity
Fourth day… 4 Colly Birds - The Four Gospels: Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. (Written in the 18th century, ‘colly birds’ referred to blackbirds, a common and plentiful food. “Calling birds” is said to be a misinterpretation.)
Fifth day… 5 Golden Rings – The first Five Books of the Old Testament, the Pentateuch man’s fall from grace
Sixth day… 6 Geese a-laying - the six days of Creation
Seventh day… 7 Swans a-swimming - the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit: prophesy, ministry, teaching, exhortation, contribution, leadership and mercy
Eighth day… 8 Maids a-milking - the Eight Beatitudes: Blessed are… the poor in spirit, they who mourn, the meek, they who hunger and thirst for righteousness, the merciful, the pure of heart, the peacemakers and they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness.
Ninth day… 9 Ladies Dancing - the nine Fruits of the Holy Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.
Tenth day… 10 Lords a-leaping - the Ten Commandments
Eleventh day… 11 Pipers Piping - the eleven faithful apostles: Bartholomew, James the Elder, Andrew, Peter, Jude, Thomas, James the Younger, Major, Philip, Matthew, and Simon the Zealot
Twelfth day… 12 Drummers Drumming - the twelve points of doctrine in the Apostle's Creed
Of course, all of us kids know that Santa Claus, aka Jolly Old St. Nicholas, travels through the night on Christmas Eve to deliver presents out of the generosity of his heart and his caring for the less fortunate.
The greatest gift of all is God’s promise of eternal life through the grace of the King of Kings. Rejoice in the birth of Jesus Christ, Our Savior, and have a Merry Christmas.
Green symbolizes the potential for eternal life through Jesus’ sacrifices, as with the evergreen Christmas tree. Red is for the blood that Jesus spilled to redeem us for our sins.
Holly branches represent the Crown of Thorns that Christ wore on the cross; the red berries, the blood he shed. The circular shape of the Christmas wreath symbolizes everlasting life. An angel is significant as a divine guidance of love, peace and protection.
Chiming bells allows the Good Shepherd to find lost sheep and guide them back to His flock. The flame from a candle, Christmas lights and the star on the top of the tree remind us of the guiding light of the Star of Bethlehem and that Jesus is “the Light of the world.”
The symbolisms of the candy cane were conceived by candy maker, John Sonneman, in the 19th century. The peppermint flavor is similar to that of ‘hyssop’, an herb that was referenced in the Bible as a healing agent. The hardness stands for the solid base of the Church. The white stripes represent the Virgin Birth and the purity of Jesus; red stripes symbolize the blood of Christ that was shed at the Crucifixion.
Also, the cane is in the shape of a shepherd’s staff; turned upside down it become the letter “J” to represent the name of Jesus.
Even icicles have a special meaning. As the Christ child took shelter under a pine tree, when the tree realized who was lying beneath its bows, tears of happiness fell from its branches and froze into icicles. Bows and ribbons represent that we are tied together through the Brotherhood of Man.
Of Christmas songs, the Twelve Days of Christmas are references to passages in the Bible and the many gifts that the Lord has bestowed on mankind.
On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, a partridge in a pear tree – referring to Jesus.
Second day… 2 turtle doves - The Old and New Testaments
Third day… 3 French Hens - Faith, Hope and Charity
Fourth day… 4 Colly Birds - The Four Gospels: Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. (Written in the 18th century, ‘colly birds’ referred to blackbirds, a common and plentiful food. “Calling birds” is said to be a misinterpretation.)
Fifth day… 5 Golden Rings – The first Five Books of the Old Testament, the Pentateuch man’s fall from grace
Sixth day… 6 Geese a-laying - the six days of Creation
Seventh day… 7 Swans a-swimming - the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit: prophesy, ministry, teaching, exhortation, contribution, leadership and mercy
Eighth day… 8 Maids a-milking - the Eight Beatitudes: Blessed are… the poor in spirit, they who mourn, the meek, they who hunger and thirst for righteousness, the merciful, the pure of heart, the peacemakers and they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness.
Ninth day… 9 Ladies Dancing - the nine Fruits of the Holy Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.
Tenth day… 10 Lords a-leaping - the Ten Commandments
Eleventh day… 11 Pipers Piping - the eleven faithful apostles: Bartholomew, James the Elder, Andrew, Peter, Jude, Thomas, James the Younger, Major, Philip, Matthew, and Simon the Zealot
Twelfth day… 12 Drummers Drumming - the twelve points of doctrine in the Apostle's Creed
Of course, all of us kids know that Santa Claus, aka Jolly Old St. Nicholas, travels through the night on Christmas Eve to deliver presents out of the generosity of his heart and his caring for the less fortunate.
The greatest gift of all is God’s promise of eternal life through the grace of the King of Kings. Rejoice in the birth of Jesus Christ, Our Savior, and have a Merry Christmas.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
Motown Forever
Money, that’s what I want! Barry Gordy sure earned his fair share of it over a music career that marks 50 years of the Motown Sound this year. “Money” was the first hit released on one of the myriad record labels that eventually dominated the Pop and R&B Billboard charts in the 60’s and ‘70’s. Berry wrote the song with friend and associate Janie Bradford.
Even in 1959 Gordy wasn’t new to the music industry, as he had written the ’57 hit “Lonely Teardrops” by “Mr. Excitement” Jackie Wilson who appeared on the Brunswick label. Wilson’s cousin became a Motown heavy-weight in his own right. Ever heard the name Levi Stubbs of the Four Tops?
Originally released in 1959 on the Anna label, named for his sister, “Money” was reissued on Tamla Records, a name that originated from the ‘57 #1 hit “Tammy” by Debbie Reynolds, that soon afterward signed up such top-liners as Smokey Robinson & the Miracles, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder and The Marvelettes. From there Gordy set up a string of successful record labels with other artists that also became household names.
In the fall of 1965, when I checked the Sunday newspaper (The Detroit Free Press) for the weekly Billboard Top Ten songs, I kept seeing this Motown group on the charts that I'd never heard of with songs I wasn't familiar. Well, unbeknownst to me at the time, it was the same group that had topped the charts in the early 60's with "Shop Around" and "Mickey's Monkey" and "You've Really Got A Hold On Me". The Miracles had become Smokey Robinson & The Miracles! From then on I never lost out on any of their successes.
It seemed overnight that "The 12 Year Old Genius" Little Stevie Wonder was tranformed into a hit after hit music machine. His first song "Fingertips, Pt 2" went #1 in 1963. After "Castles in the Sand" was released in early 1964, he became Stevie Wonder and the heights of his successes were phenominal. When he released "You Are The Sunshine of My Life" in 1973 and became his third #1 song, I thought it was one of those old standard songs. Come to find out, he had penned the tune himself, afterwhich it truly became a standard and performed by dozens of artists. It was sandwiched between the release of "Superstition" (#1) and "Higher Ground" (#4). Wow! The guy oozed talent from the very beginning of his career. Totally awesome!
Motown Records itself was established in 1960 with The Supremes and The Four Tops and later with The Jackson 5, The Commodores and David Ruffin who went solo from The Temptations. Diana Ross. The label was dubbed ‘The Sound of Young America’.
With or without the Supremes, Diana Ross holds the Number 1 spot on my list of divas. Although nominated for 12 Grammy Awards, but never won.
No way Lisa Minelli should have won the 1972 Oscar for Best Actress for her performance in Cabaret. The 1972 Oscar for Best Actress should have gone to Diana for her exquisite and breathtaking performance that chronicled the life of Billie Holiday in Lady Sings the Blues. But Diana had no chance of winning. For one thing it, was her film debut.
Instead, Liza Minnelli won Best Actress for her performance in Cabaret for multiple reasons. Liza was to become the only child of two previous Oscar winners (Judy Garland and Viicente Minelli) to win an Oscar. Liza, a Hollywood insider, had the clout. No doubt she was, and still is, an extremely talented entertainer but the dimensions of Diana Ross' acting and singing were unequaled.
By 1964, Soul Records (Jr. Walker & the All-Stars, Gladys Knight & The Pips, Jimmy Ruffin) and V.I.P. Records (The Spinners, The Elgins, The Velvettes) joined the foray of Gordy’s successes.
And don’t forget the all the Motor City groups that sang in rhythm and danced with perfectly choreographed moves, thanks to a guy named Charles “Cholly” Atkins.
Barry Gordy seldom signed on white artists but the one I remember is The Ones that appeared on the Motown label with the song “You Won’t See My Love”. Of course, the group was flavored with soul but it never made the Billboard Hot 100.
I wouldn’t have heard the song if weren’t for spending time searching for stations on a transistor radio not much larger, but much heavier, than a pack of cigarettes that dangled from the handle bar of my bike. I’d forever be opening the back to tweak the two screws that adjusted the antennae for better reception across the broadcast spectrum.
It seemed like a mine of gold records when I happened on CKLW, an AM station just across the Detroit River in Windsor, Ontario. It played Motown all day, every day.
One of the last successful labels of the Motown Record Corporation was Rare Earth, established in 1969 and named on behalf of the rock group Rare Earth whose first songs were Top Ten covers of The Temptations’ songs “Get Ready” and “(I Know) I’m Losing You”.
Talking about cover songs within the Motown circle of artists, I loved Gladys Knight & the Pips original hit “I Heard It Through The Grapevine” but Marvin Gaye’s version released a year later, in ‘68, is still among my most favorite songs of all time. The string of hits he had with Tammy Terrell (“Your Precious Love”, “Ain’t Nothing Like the Real Thing”, “You’re All I Need To Get By”) are of some the best duet songs ever.
When “The Prince of Motown” came out with “What’s Goin’ On” (1971) and “Let’s Get It On” (1973) it brought a whole new dimension to the world of music. Marvin Gaye brought about a social awareness through music more influential than the protest songs a half decade earlier. The Temptations started the trend in 1970 with “Psychedelic Shack” (remember the flashes of lights and colors on the Ed Sullivan Show?) and “Ball of Confusion” but Marvin took the gender of songs to a new level.
Motown cover songs? The numbers are unbelievable. Marvin Gaye sang “How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You) in ’65, Jr. Walker & the All-Stars in ’66 then, in ’75, ‘Sweet Baby James’ Taylor gave the tune a mellow tone.
Linda Ronstadt and Johnny Rivers each had their versions of “Tracks of My Tears”. Ronstadt did another Smokey Robinson song “Ooh Baby” and Johnny Rivers, “The Tracks of My Tears”. The Beatles, the Rolling Stones, did “Money, That’s What I Want” but the group that charted highest was the Kingsmen.
Every Motown singer performed his/her/their own versions of every other Motown hit.
Perhaps the most enjoyable cover song was of the Marvelette’s #1 song “Please, Mr. Postman” as performed with the sweet-as-honey voice of Karen Carpenter when she did a bouncy rendition in 1974 and made it the Carpenters’ third #1 hit.
The Motown Sound isn't nostalgic. The Motown Sound is forever.
Even in 1959 Gordy wasn’t new to the music industry, as he had written the ’57 hit “Lonely Teardrops” by “Mr. Excitement” Jackie Wilson who appeared on the Brunswick label. Wilson’s cousin became a Motown heavy-weight in his own right. Ever heard the name Levi Stubbs of the Four Tops?
Originally released in 1959 on the Anna label, named for his sister, “Money” was reissued on Tamla Records, a name that originated from the ‘57 #1 hit “Tammy” by Debbie Reynolds, that soon afterward signed up such top-liners as Smokey Robinson & the Miracles, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder and The Marvelettes. From there Gordy set up a string of successful record labels with other artists that also became household names.
In the fall of 1965, when I checked the Sunday newspaper (The Detroit Free Press) for the weekly Billboard Top Ten songs, I kept seeing this Motown group on the charts that I'd never heard of with songs I wasn't familiar. Well, unbeknownst to me at the time, it was the same group that had topped the charts in the early 60's with "Shop Around" and "Mickey's Monkey" and "You've Really Got A Hold On Me". The Miracles had become Smokey Robinson & The Miracles! From then on I never lost out on any of their successes.
It seemed overnight that "The 12 Year Old Genius" Little Stevie Wonder was tranformed into a hit after hit music machine. His first song "Fingertips, Pt 2" went #1 in 1963. After "Castles in the Sand" was released in early 1964, he became Stevie Wonder and the heights of his successes were phenominal. When he released "You Are The Sunshine of My Life" in 1973 and became his third #1 song, I thought it was one of those old standard songs. Come to find out, he had penned the tune himself, afterwhich it truly became a standard and performed by dozens of artists. It was sandwiched between the release of "Superstition" (#1) and "Higher Ground" (#4). Wow! The guy oozed talent from the very beginning of his career. Totally awesome!
Motown Records itself was established in 1960 with The Supremes and The Four Tops and later with The Jackson 5, The Commodores and David Ruffin who went solo from The Temptations. Diana Ross. The label was dubbed ‘The Sound of Young America’.
With or without the Supremes, Diana Ross holds the Number 1 spot on my list of divas. Although nominated for 12 Grammy Awards, but never won.
No way Lisa Minelli should have won the 1972 Oscar for Best Actress for her performance in Cabaret. The 1972 Oscar for Best Actress should have gone to Diana for her exquisite and breathtaking performance that chronicled the life of Billie Holiday in Lady Sings the Blues. But Diana had no chance of winning. For one thing it, was her film debut.
Instead, Liza Minnelli won Best Actress for her performance in Cabaret for multiple reasons. Liza was to become the only child of two previous Oscar winners (Judy Garland and Viicente Minelli) to win an Oscar. Liza, a Hollywood insider, had the clout. No doubt she was, and still is, an extremely talented entertainer but the dimensions of Diana Ross' acting and singing were unequaled.
In 1962, Gordy Records competed against Gordy’s other labels and touted ‘It’s What’s In The Grooves That Counts’ with the likes of The Temptations, Martha & The Vandellas” and Edwin Starr.
By 1964, Soul Records (Jr. Walker & the All-Stars, Gladys Knight & The Pips, Jimmy Ruffin) and V.I.P. Records (The Spinners, The Elgins, The Velvettes) joined the foray of Gordy’s successes.
And don’t forget the all the Motor City groups that sang in rhythm and danced with perfectly choreographed moves, thanks to a guy named Charles “Cholly” Atkins.
Barry Gordy seldom signed on white artists but the one I remember is The Ones that appeared on the Motown label with the song “You Won’t See My Love”. Of course, the group was flavored with soul but it never made the Billboard Hot 100.
I wouldn’t have heard the song if weren’t for spending time searching for stations on a transistor radio not much larger, but much heavier, than a pack of cigarettes that dangled from the handle bar of my bike. I’d forever be opening the back to tweak the two screws that adjusted the antennae for better reception across the broadcast spectrum.
It seemed like a mine of gold records when I happened on CKLW, an AM station just across the Detroit River in Windsor, Ontario. It played Motown all day, every day.
One of the last successful labels of the Motown Record Corporation was Rare Earth, established in 1969 and named on behalf of the rock group Rare Earth whose first songs were Top Ten covers of The Temptations’ songs “Get Ready” and “(I Know) I’m Losing You”.
Talking about cover songs within the Motown circle of artists, I loved Gladys Knight & the Pips original hit “I Heard It Through The Grapevine” but Marvin Gaye’s version released a year later, in ‘68, is still among my most favorite songs of all time. The string of hits he had with Tammy Terrell (“Your Precious Love”, “Ain’t Nothing Like the Real Thing”, “You’re All I Need To Get By”) are of some the best duet songs ever.
When “The Prince of Motown” came out with “What’s Goin’ On” (1971) and “Let’s Get It On” (1973) it brought a whole new dimension to the world of music. Marvin Gaye brought about a social awareness through music more influential than the protest songs a half decade earlier. The Temptations started the trend in 1970 with “Psychedelic Shack” (remember the flashes of lights and colors on the Ed Sullivan Show?) and “Ball of Confusion” but Marvin took the gender of songs to a new level.
Motown cover songs? The numbers are unbelievable. Marvin Gaye sang “How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You) in ’65, Jr. Walker & the All-Stars in ’66 then, in ’75, ‘Sweet Baby James’ Taylor gave the tune a mellow tone.
Linda Ronstadt and Johnny Rivers each had their versions of “Tracks of My Tears”. Ronstadt did another Smokey Robinson song “Ooh Baby” and Johnny Rivers, “The Tracks of My Tears”. The Beatles, the Rolling Stones, did “Money, That’s What I Want” but the group that charted highest was the Kingsmen.
Every Motown singer performed his/her/their own versions of every other Motown hit.
Perhaps the most enjoyable cover song was of the Marvelette’s #1 song “Please, Mr. Postman” as performed with the sweet-as-honey voice of Karen Carpenter when she did a bouncy rendition in 1974 and made it the Carpenters’ third #1 hit.
The Motown Sound isn't nostalgic. The Motown Sound is forever.
Monday, September 7, 2009
A Little Awkie, A Little Big Man
What’s a “Little Awkie”? What about “Little Big Man”? Actually, they’re “who” questions. Both were nicknames given to me at one time or another. In both instances it took me years to figure out what the heck they meant.
Although they might sound like Indian names, they are not.
Dubbed Little Awkie by dad, it seemed quaint when I was a kid. Fortunately, it was only used in the presence of the immediate family. But I had never questioned or really thought about its importance until later in life.
The affectionate nicknames dad gave my two younger sisters were apparent. Susie was “Susie Q”. The baby of the family, Sally, was “Brat” because she was “always there” in your face chatter-talking. By the age of five, the four of us other kids had so often told her to “Shut up!” that she developed an ulcer. Imagine that! A family full of brats.
Other of my siblings had their own nicknames, all of which came from dad. “Brat” became the affectionate name for the baby in the family, Sally. The name fit perfectly. Born seven years after the next youngest family member, her presence became an annoyance to the rest of us four kids.
Sally was "always there”, chatter-talking, always wanting attention . She usually got her way because there wasn’t much anyone could do about it. It became so bad that at some point we started telling her to “shut up”, and yet she was the most loved member of the family and got plenty of attention without her intruding on our privacy for what seemed every moment of our days.
Although we reminisce about it now as a fond (?) memory and joke (?!?!) about it, Sally developed an ulcer, and I say this with guilt, at the age of five years old. Imagine that! A family of brats! Needless to say, we effectively became respectful to the needs of the Brat as dictated by mom - we had to "grin and bear it". An amount of annoyance was still there; we just didn’t yell at her anymore.
Although Susie, the closest in age to myself, was called “Susie Q”. Since Dale Hawkins had made the song of the same name in 1957, when Susie was five years old, it wasn’t entirely unique. There was also an affectionate expression that whenever Susie fell asleep with a child’s exhaustion after a long day of activities was a takeoff of another 1957 song by the Everly Brothers, “Wake up little Susie, it’s time to go to bed.” Then she’d be swept up in dad's arms and carried off to bed with hardly a stir of awareness to what was happening.
I don’t remember my older sister, Nancy, of having a nickname but as she became a young adult and brought one of her boyfriends, Roger, to family gatherings dad would refer to him as the “big dummy”. The name fit so perfectly but never used in his presence. I don’t remember dad ever calling the man by his Christian name.
Since he had a good tinge of red hair, my older and only brother, Russell, was simply called Rusty when he was little and Russ as he approached adulthood except for mom who never gave up using his given name.
It wasn’t until after dad passed away that I pondered the significance of being Little Awkie. As I thought back to when I was but a little runt, I had a tendency to be “awkward”!
The single incident I vividly remember was when, ignoring mom’s oft-said directive, “Don’t run in the house!”, I whacked my head on the wooden base of what seemed a monster of a living room chair. Now barely noticeable, a one-inch scar on my forehead is a reminder of that summer afternoon when I bawled. Even then I hadn’t learned my lesson as I went running to mom for comfort. She tended to the gash as she scolded, “I told you not to…..”
There’s another scar at the base of my chin from falling off my bike and scraping a few layers of skin onto the sidewalk. Doctor Pauley said I’d never be able to use a straight razor. Many years later, I proved him wrong when I tempted fate. I didn’t bleed to death.
What does “Little Big Man” portend? When living in Orlando, Paul, my next-door neighbor’s son, gave a friendly wave from his dad’s driveway when he name-called me those words.
Having spoken to Paul on various occasions, although he had a full head of dreadlocks, which might imply social profiling on my part, he spoke as a more intelligent communicator and a better educated professional than myself. So the labeling confused me, thinking “little” was somehow derogatory. A few years later, when I was lifting this and hefting that while landscaping the front and back yards of my home here in Spring Hill, it dawned on me how I was always doing some pretty strenuous yard work.
On one occasion Lenny, Paul’s dad, saw me struggling to uproot a monstrous, sickly, ugly ligustrum bush. Lenny came over welding a machete to help, leaving me to finish the job on my own. I accomplished the task without being a Little Awkie about it. So, although small in stature, I constantly tackle jobs that others might consider too big to handle, saving themselves time but at a cost. Well, I’d rather do it myself! Another mystery solved.
Although neither Little Awkie or Little Big Man are Indian names, there’s still a bit of American Indian in my views on life and death.
Some twenty years ago I had wisely set up a living will with instructions that in the event of being in a coma, or some other life threatening condition where I’m left unconscious, rather than pulling the plug, don’t plug in the contraptions to begin with. No going “totally tubular” for me.
Indian names or not, I’ve long envisioned myself following the American Indian tradition whereby, as I grow weak in body but still sound of mind, I should walk with nature through the wilderness along a path of Mother Earth toward oneness with the universe to rejoin the Great Spirit, or My Maker, the center of all being.
Okay, I admit the scenario might only be a fanciful myth scripted by writers for the big screen. But, to me, the idea has a certain attraction.
No last minute decisions, no end-of-life consultation, no pointless hospital charges that would take away from leaving my beneficiaries whatever life-side possessions I may have accumulated. In other words, no going “totally tubular” for me. Becoming a natural part of the food chain seems right.
I should have no regrets. There should be few tears from anyone, save in the event of an untimely, accidental death. Just remember the good times. As mom used to philosophize, “When it’s your time to go, it’s your time to go”. My dear mother was kept alive on life support until I arrived to take part in the pulling-of-the-plug ceremony. Pointless. She was already gone.
Although they might sound like Indian names, they are not.
Dubbed Little Awkie by dad, it seemed quaint when I was a kid. Fortunately, it was only used in the presence of the immediate family. But I had never questioned or really thought about its importance until later in life.
The affectionate nicknames dad gave my two younger sisters were apparent. Susie was “Susie Q”. The baby of the family, Sally, was “Brat” because she was “always there” in your face chatter-talking. By the age of five, the four of us other kids had so often told her to “Shut up!” that she developed an ulcer. Imagine that! A family full of brats.
Other of my siblings had their own nicknames, all of which came from dad. “Brat” became the affectionate name for the baby in the family, Sally. The name fit perfectly. Born seven years after the next youngest family member, her presence became an annoyance to the rest of us four kids.
Sally was "always there”, chatter-talking, always wanting attention . She usually got her way because there wasn’t much anyone could do about it. It became so bad that at some point we started telling her to “shut up”, and yet she was the most loved member of the family and got plenty of attention without her intruding on our privacy for what seemed every moment of our days.
Although we reminisce about it now as a fond (?) memory and joke (?!?!) about it, Sally developed an ulcer, and I say this with guilt, at the age of five years old. Imagine that! A family of brats! Needless to say, we effectively became respectful to the needs of the Brat as dictated by mom - we had to "grin and bear it". An amount of annoyance was still there; we just didn’t yell at her anymore.
Although Susie, the closest in age to myself, was called “Susie Q”. Since Dale Hawkins had made the song of the same name in 1957, when Susie was five years old, it wasn’t entirely unique. There was also an affectionate expression that whenever Susie fell asleep with a child’s exhaustion after a long day of activities was a takeoff of another 1957 song by the Everly Brothers, “Wake up little Susie, it’s time to go to bed.” Then she’d be swept up in dad's arms and carried off to bed with hardly a stir of awareness to what was happening.
I don’t remember my older sister, Nancy, of having a nickname but as she became a young adult and brought one of her boyfriends, Roger, to family gatherings dad would refer to him as the “big dummy”. The name fit so perfectly but never used in his presence. I don’t remember dad ever calling the man by his Christian name.
Since he had a good tinge of red hair, my older and only brother, Russell, was simply called Rusty when he was little and Russ as he approached adulthood except for mom who never gave up using his given name.
It wasn’t until after dad passed away that I pondered the significance of being Little Awkie. As I thought back to when I was but a little runt, I had a tendency to be “awkward”!
The single incident I vividly remember was when, ignoring mom’s oft-said directive, “Don’t run in the house!”, I whacked my head on the wooden base of what seemed a monster of a living room chair. Now barely noticeable, a one-inch scar on my forehead is a reminder of that summer afternoon when I bawled. Even then I hadn’t learned my lesson as I went running to mom for comfort. She tended to the gash as she scolded, “I told you not to…..”
There’s another scar at the base of my chin from falling off my bike and scraping a few layers of skin onto the sidewalk. Doctor Pauley said I’d never be able to use a straight razor. Many years later, I proved him wrong when I tempted fate. I didn’t bleed to death.
What does “Little Big Man” portend? When living in Orlando, Paul, my next-door neighbor’s son, gave a friendly wave from his dad’s driveway when he name-called me those words.
Having spoken to Paul on various occasions, although he had a full head of dreadlocks, which might imply social profiling on my part, he spoke as a more intelligent communicator and a better educated professional than myself. So the labeling confused me, thinking “little” was somehow derogatory. A few years later, when I was lifting this and hefting that while landscaping the front and back yards of my home here in Spring Hill, it dawned on me how I was always doing some pretty strenuous yard work.
On one occasion Lenny, Paul’s dad, saw me struggling to uproot a monstrous, sickly, ugly ligustrum bush. Lenny came over welding a machete to help, leaving me to finish the job on my own. I accomplished the task without being a Little Awkie about it. So, although small in stature, I constantly tackle jobs that others might consider too big to handle, saving themselves time but at a cost. Well, I’d rather do it myself! Another mystery solved.
Although neither Little Awkie or Little Big Man are Indian names, there’s still a bit of American Indian in my views on life and death.
Some twenty years ago I had wisely set up a living will with instructions that in the event of being in a coma, or some other life threatening condition where I’m left unconscious, rather than pulling the plug, don’t plug in the contraptions to begin with. No going “totally tubular” for me.
Indian names or not, I’ve long envisioned myself following the American Indian tradition whereby, as I grow weak in body but still sound of mind, I should walk with nature through the wilderness along a path of Mother Earth toward oneness with the universe to rejoin the Great Spirit, or My Maker, the center of all being.
Okay, I admit the scenario might only be a fanciful myth scripted by writers for the big screen. But, to me, the idea has a certain attraction.
No last minute decisions, no end-of-life consultation, no pointless hospital charges that would take away from leaving my beneficiaries whatever life-side possessions I may have accumulated. In other words, no going “totally tubular” for me. Becoming a natural part of the food chain seems right.
I should have no regrets. There should be few tears from anyone, save in the event of an untimely, accidental death. Just remember the good times. As mom used to philosophize, “When it’s your time to go, it’s your time to go”. My dear mother was kept alive on life support until I arrived to take part in the pulling-of-the-plug ceremony. Pointless. She was already gone.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
A Wanted Man
Wanted: Whereabouts of a college student from Estonia who spent the summer in Spring Hill peddling for dollars to help pay tuition costs.
In the previous blog, ‘Pedestrians, Peddlers and Other People", I related an incident that occurred while driving in an adjoining neighborhood to where I live in Spring Hill.
On the way to Lowes to pick up various plants in an effort to beautify the blandness of the front yard, I came upon an emergency-flashing Jeep driven somewhat erratically, followed the rule of the road and came to a complete halt at a stop sign, concerned that a young man riding a bicycle going around the Jeep may be in danger of a pedestrian-motor vehicle collision.
The man came within about ten feet of the front bumper of my truck. Since he proceeded with a steady pedal, I assume he felt no present danger. Still, the look on his face could have been to judge my next action. Once he was securely beyond the intersection, while still eying the Jeep that had by then come to a complete stop on the side of the road and the coast was clear, I went on my way.
As explained in the previous blog, I came to believe our eye-to-eye contact was one of recognition – he of me, not me of him.
When the encounter happened between the Jeep, the bike rider and my truck, I had no thoughts of our previous meeting. But on the way down Mariner to the intersection of Elgin, my mind came to wonder if there wasn’t something about the rider that I should have noticed. Ah, the bag strapped from the right shoulder to a secure position under the left arm should have signaled a moment of acknowledgement.
We had casually conversed on July 1st or 2nd when he had visited my home offering educational assistance programs to parents whose children may need assistance in righting some shortcomings in learning so they would successfully graduate with a high school diploma.
What I remember of our brief exchange of words centered on his age: 20 years old. Since he had a pleasant demeanor and his accent was presumably of Slavic origin, I joked, “You talk funny – where ya from?” His answer was “Estonia.” As if to challenge my knowledge of world geography, he questioned if I knew where it was. Giving a nod of awareness, my mind searched for a definitive answer. I knew it had been a satellite country under the iron-fisted control of the now defunct Soviet Union, so I gave a simple, “Yes.” I’m sure he picked up on my uncertainty but he let the subject drop without further comment.
I asked his name to which I didn’t understand so I found myself asking, not once, but twice to repeat. Even then I still couldn’t get it – isn’t that the way of us Americans who are less than worldly and seem to have this attitude that they should learn our language and not question our economic and military dominance in the world?
Since I don’t know his name, let me call him “Will” as in the movie “Good Will Hunting”. Unlike the character portrayed by Matt Damon, I’m sure his path toward higher education will prove him a successful intellectual.
Will said he’d be spending the summer in Spring Hill to help his mom with tuition fees. Not only was I a losing proposition for his product, I advised him that my immediate neighbors would be of no better source for the sale of his product.
He suggested I give him a wave of recognition if our paths should cross over the remaining weeks that he’d be in the area. Wishing him good luck, he was on his way to whatever fate had in store. Out of sight, out of mind, I proceeded with my life with no further thought of him.
If I had recognized him, a conversation would have led to a whole slew of questions of sincere interest.
Have you been successful at reaching your goal? For what age group was your material directed? Your perception of Spring Hill and its people? What of the number of vacant homes, overgrown lawns and For Sale signs? Any confrontations? Made any friends? Any thoughts on Obama? What of Toomas Hendrick, President of Estonia, and his 20% approval rating? Where will you attend college? For sure, many more questions.
It would be helpful, too, to once again ask his name and get it right.
__________________
[I'm rather bent out of shape for not having been astitute enough to grasp ahold on a personal encounter that would have given me the opportunity to write about something other than all the droleful current events that every other buff writer has an opinion about.]
In the previous blog, ‘Pedestrians, Peddlers and Other People", I related an incident that occurred while driving in an adjoining neighborhood to where I live in Spring Hill.
On the way to Lowes to pick up various plants in an effort to beautify the blandness of the front yard, I came upon an emergency-flashing Jeep driven somewhat erratically, followed the rule of the road and came to a complete halt at a stop sign, concerned that a young man riding a bicycle going around the Jeep may be in danger of a pedestrian-motor vehicle collision.
The man came within about ten feet of the front bumper of my truck. Since he proceeded with a steady pedal, I assume he felt no present danger. Still, the look on his face could have been to judge my next action. Once he was securely beyond the intersection, while still eying the Jeep that had by then come to a complete stop on the side of the road and the coast was clear, I went on my way.
As explained in the previous blog, I came to believe our eye-to-eye contact was one of recognition – he of me, not me of him.
When the encounter happened between the Jeep, the bike rider and my truck, I had no thoughts of our previous meeting. But on the way down Mariner to the intersection of Elgin, my mind came to wonder if there wasn’t something about the rider that I should have noticed. Ah, the bag strapped from the right shoulder to a secure position under the left arm should have signaled a moment of acknowledgement.
We had casually conversed on July 1st or 2nd when he had visited my home offering educational assistance programs to parents whose children may need assistance in righting some shortcomings in learning so they would successfully graduate with a high school diploma.
What I remember of our brief exchange of words centered on his age: 20 years old. Since he had a pleasant demeanor and his accent was presumably of Slavic origin, I joked, “You talk funny – where ya from?” His answer was “Estonia.” As if to challenge my knowledge of world geography, he questioned if I knew where it was. Giving a nod of awareness, my mind searched for a definitive answer. I knew it had been a satellite country under the iron-fisted control of the now defunct Soviet Union, so I gave a simple, “Yes.” I’m sure he picked up on my uncertainty but he let the subject drop without further comment.
I asked his name to which I didn’t understand so I found myself asking, not once, but twice to repeat. Even then I still couldn’t get it – isn’t that the way of us Americans who are less than worldly and seem to have this attitude that they should learn our language and not question our economic and military dominance in the world?
Since I don’t know his name, let me call him “Will” as in the movie “Good Will Hunting”. Unlike the character portrayed by Matt Damon, I’m sure his path toward higher education will prove him a successful intellectual.
Will said he’d be spending the summer in Spring Hill to help his mom with tuition fees. Not only was I a losing proposition for his product, I advised him that my immediate neighbors would be of no better source for the sale of his product.
He suggested I give him a wave of recognition if our paths should cross over the remaining weeks that he’d be in the area. Wishing him good luck, he was on his way to whatever fate had in store. Out of sight, out of mind, I proceeded with my life with no further thought of him.
If I had recognized him, a conversation would have led to a whole slew of questions of sincere interest.
Have you been successful at reaching your goal? For what age group was your material directed? Your perception of Spring Hill and its people? What of the number of vacant homes, overgrown lawns and For Sale signs? Any confrontations? Made any friends? Any thoughts on Obama? What of Toomas Hendrick, President of Estonia, and his 20% approval rating? Where will you attend college? For sure, many more questions.
It would be helpful, too, to once again ask his name and get it right.
__________________
[I'm rather bent out of shape for not having been astitute enough to grasp ahold on a personal encounter that would have given me the opportunity to write about something other than all the droleful current events that every other buff writer has an opinion about.]
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Pedestirians, Pedalers and Other People
Since I don’t twitter, does that make me less of a twit? Not necessarily. Since I don’t use a cell phone while driving, does that make me less of a danger to others on the road? You can bet everyone’s life on it.
When people talk of traffic most often it’s about tailgaters, speeders and drivers whose sense of maintaining a constant speed is elusive, including those traveling too far below the posted limit.
Since my radio antennae is out of commission, cds are played on repeat or, as backup, the tape player is primed to waft some illegally copied tunes to provide a preferred variety of favorites. There’s over two hours of listening pleasure that keep me entertained as I sing out of harmony with talented artists.
To some, just listening to music while driving might be considered a distraction of sorts but, believe me, contemplating my next column would pose more of a hazard. I know my priorities behind the wheel.
A group of roadies that deserve extra caution from operators of a machine that poses a death threat to anyone meandering residential streets are pedestrians and bike riders.
Many residential areas are void of sidewalks so when I see an adult pushing a baby stroller, or walking with children tagging alongside and taking up a full lane of the road, it’s extremely disturbing. I don’t just slow down, I come to a complete stop until I feel assured a little tyke won’t jut out from the side of the road. There must be no regrets.
My next-door neighbor’s 16-year old son, Randy, with a future career in engineering, frequently skateboards with his friends with a makeshift ramp. In my opinion, they’re not very good but at least they keep a watchful eye out for traffic and immediately moves to the side. Not all kids are as respectful as some do a stare-dare out of insolence to the driver. An alternate route is safest.
The neighbor on the other side has three young children, the oldest of which is 7 years old, who also play in street. I was really impressed when little David demonstrated the creative maneuvers he can make with his skateboard that swivels in the middle, called The Wave. He’s pretty cool squatting down on it as he shows off, but I make sure to mention the precautions he must take to keep him and his siblings from getting hurt. Fortunately, I’ve seen him looking out for cars, always moving out of danger.
Recently, I remained motionless at a stop sign. The erratic behavior of a Jeep with emergency lights flashing was a concern, but the bike rider going around it was altogether too scary. The rider looked me straight in the eyes, for what was an assumed precaution to make sure I wouldn’t send him sprawling on the pavement.
Later, I realized the look was of recognition from when the young man had stopped at the house to sell enhanced educational services for kids. He probably thought me rude for not waving as he had requested since he’d be pedal-pushing his wares in Spring Hill the summer to assist mom with college tuition.
Imagine the determination of the young man to pump those pedals all day long, for what must have been days on end with the sun beating down on him in this land of heat and humidity?
Although a truly needed service, with high unemployment in Hernando County the rationale of sending someone to this deprived area fails my understanding. I doubt he achieved his goals. If only he had taken the initiative to offer a greeting of some nature, it may have led to an exchange of words between us that would have told me tales of his travels. For sure, he deserves no blame.
Alas, being from Estonia, a unique opportunity was missed for a conversation that would surely have provided myself, thus the reader, a unique perspective of a foreigner in this land of strange Americans. Hopefully, he had no ‘incidents’.
Still, an experienced bike rider such as he is no less subject to the failings of a driver. When I see anyone on a bike, of which there appear to be few, I fear for their safety. Untrusting of all drivers, I haven’t ridden a bike on a road in decades.
I’m also oblivious to recognize or even acknowledge a friend who later wonders why I didn’t wave as we traveled along the same street. Keeping my eyes on traffic doesn’t allow for socializing while driving.
Two happy-go-lucky amputees who traverse neighborhood streets brighten the road with a hearty wave and an exchange of smiles. Having had conversations with each while exercise-walking, their joy of having motorized mobility enhances their lives immeasurably. I worry for their safety, too.
Cautious me, when I turn off Mariner onto the street where I live, on more than one occasion there may have been a fender bender because the corner house is ‘right there’ and the poor souls who have lived there (it’s changed owners at least three times in the past three years) have no choice but brave backing out of the driveway
My scariest road encounter was when, after using the turn signal, I rounded the curb off Mariner onto the street where I live at 10 mph, an action that kept two young girls walking on the side of the road from being sent to an emergency room with broken bones, or worse. At fault or not, guilt would have been at my side. For life.
Vehicle-to-vehicle fender benders are less apt to cause serious injury. Vehicle-to-person encounters can be killers.
When people talk of traffic most often it’s about tailgaters, speeders and drivers whose sense of maintaining a constant speed is elusive, including those traveling too far below the posted limit.
Since my radio antennae is out of commission, cds are played on repeat or, as backup, the tape player is primed to waft some illegally copied tunes to provide a preferred variety of favorites. There’s over two hours of listening pleasure that keep me entertained as I sing out of harmony with talented artists.
To some, just listening to music while driving might be considered a distraction of sorts but, believe me, contemplating my next column would pose more of a hazard. I know my priorities behind the wheel.
A group of roadies that deserve extra caution from operators of a machine that poses a death threat to anyone meandering residential streets are pedestrians and bike riders.
Many residential areas are void of sidewalks so when I see an adult pushing a baby stroller, or walking with children tagging alongside and taking up a full lane of the road, it’s extremely disturbing. I don’t just slow down, I come to a complete stop until I feel assured a little tyke won’t jut out from the side of the road. There must be no regrets.
My next-door neighbor’s 16-year old son, Randy, with a future career in engineering, frequently skateboards with his friends with a makeshift ramp. In my opinion, they’re not very good but at least they keep a watchful eye out for traffic and immediately moves to the side. Not all kids are as respectful as some do a stare-dare out of insolence to the driver. An alternate route is safest.
The neighbor on the other side has three young children, the oldest of which is 7 years old, who also play in street. I was really impressed when little David demonstrated the creative maneuvers he can make with his skateboard that swivels in the middle, called The Wave. He’s pretty cool squatting down on it as he shows off, but I make sure to mention the precautions he must take to keep him and his siblings from getting hurt. Fortunately, I’ve seen him looking out for cars, always moving out of danger.
Recently, I remained motionless at a stop sign. The erratic behavior of a Jeep with emergency lights flashing was a concern, but the bike rider going around it was altogether too scary. The rider looked me straight in the eyes, for what was an assumed precaution to make sure I wouldn’t send him sprawling on the pavement.
Later, I realized the look was of recognition from when the young man had stopped at the house to sell enhanced educational services for kids. He probably thought me rude for not waving as he had requested since he’d be pedal-pushing his wares in Spring Hill the summer to assist mom with college tuition.
Imagine the determination of the young man to pump those pedals all day long, for what must have been days on end with the sun beating down on him in this land of heat and humidity?
Although a truly needed service, with high unemployment in Hernando County the rationale of sending someone to this deprived area fails my understanding. I doubt he achieved his goals. If only he had taken the initiative to offer a greeting of some nature, it may have led to an exchange of words between us that would have told me tales of his travels. For sure, he deserves no blame.
Alas, being from Estonia, a unique opportunity was missed for a conversation that would surely have provided myself, thus the reader, a unique perspective of a foreigner in this land of strange Americans. Hopefully, he had no ‘incidents’.
Still, an experienced bike rider such as he is no less subject to the failings of a driver. When I see anyone on a bike, of which there appear to be few, I fear for their safety. Untrusting of all drivers, I haven’t ridden a bike on a road in decades.
I’m also oblivious to recognize or even acknowledge a friend who later wonders why I didn’t wave as we traveled along the same street. Keeping my eyes on traffic doesn’t allow for socializing while driving.
Two happy-go-lucky amputees who traverse neighborhood streets brighten the road with a hearty wave and an exchange of smiles. Having had conversations with each while exercise-walking, their joy of having motorized mobility enhances their lives immeasurably. I worry for their safety, too.
Cautious me, when I turn off Mariner onto the street where I live, on more than one occasion there may have been a fender bender because the corner house is ‘right there’ and the poor souls who have lived there (it’s changed owners at least three times in the past three years) have no choice but brave backing out of the driveway
My scariest road encounter was when, after using the turn signal, I rounded the curb off Mariner onto the street where I live at 10 mph, an action that kept two young girls walking on the side of the road from being sent to an emergency room with broken bones, or worse. At fault or not, guilt would have been at my side. For life.
Vehicle-to-vehicle fender benders are less apt to cause serious injury. Vehicle-to-person encounters can be killers.
Paying Out Cash For My Clunker
A month ago, when entering the TIA short-term parking garage my truck stalled. It restarted okay but the temperature gauge was pinned. Two weeks later at a cost of over $5,000 it was back on the road.
Never having required anything other than regular maintenance, without hesitation I authorized my trusted mechanic to begin work immediately. After 14 years of being a reliable source of transportation, it remains the most trusted of the five vehicles I’ve owned over the past four decades.
The goal of a vehicle taking me over 100K miles through life has finally been met. The ’69 Gremlin didn’t make it. Neither did the ’76 Mustang, my favorite. Each had less than 90K miles. The interior of the Gremlin was simply worn out and didn’t have air. The Mustang had transmission and cooling system problems.
I really liked the dealer-used ’81 Mazda 626 but the manual shift was too annoying in the stop-n-go traffic in Los Angeles. Still, I would have kept it indefinitely but for an accident that totaled the car. The other driver went through a stop sign, barely hit the rear passenger side of my car and put me in a slow motion rollover that ended with the car upside down and sliding into two parked cars before coming to a halt.
I was out of work for a few months, an unpleasant healthcare fiasco.
I then bought a fully automatic ’86 Mazda 626, U-Hauled it cross-country to Florida on a flat-bed trailer in ’88 and kept it until ’95 when electrical problems at 98K miles led to the purchase of the Toyota 4Runner.
So, on July 1, AAA towing service delivered the truck to Brooksville to be rehabilitated by the masterful mechanics at ToyoDoc.
A Toyota Camry is the traveling car so the truck has never been outside Florida, primarily used to get to and from work and numerous jaunts to Daytona Beach when I lived in Orlando. A minor rear-end nudge pinned the bumper to the back tires. No other accidents.
As a homeowner, it’s been indispensable not only to myself but also to friends when needed. Only two other people have driven it, when I was a little tipsy. I’ve taken very good care of it. Some exterior scratches and dings, barely noticeable, and a few interior scrapes and digs, most of which I caused while hauling things. It’s a truck. The antenna remains broken. The speakers need replacing. Other minor concerns, all cosmetic. My faith in the quality of Toyota products assures me it’ll see me through another decade or more, if I should live that long. Que sera, sera.
Actually, my disinterest in new cars might appear insulting to others but I’m not a car person. It might look nice and pretty but how much per month?, for how many years? and at what increase in auto insurance? are thoughts not actually verbalized. People have different values.
I cringe when a new car owner starts talking about dealer problems. Or when they say there are so many fancy options that it would take a year to read the manual (respectful laughter, please, for the bland sense of humor), and the inevitable whining about parking lot door dings and bumper scratches. It happens and other car owners don’t care.
Then there’s the “Hop in, I’ll give you a ride.” “Wows!” and “That’s unbelievable!” are said out of obligation. Consumer driven technology is truly amazing – can’t live without it, right? Just get me from point A to point B with air or heat as needed. Most everything else is fluff and something else that can go wrong. Okay, I like electric windows and door locks.
The ‘cash for clunkers’ scheme was never an option for me. Before the July 24 kick-off, my truck had already been resurrected. It’s not a ‘junker’. It had a boo-boo that may have been avoided if it had been checked out when I first noticed an odd noise. I still saved thousands of dollars and years of car payments that wouldn’t fit into my budget anyway. When The Big One hits, it’ll safely transport my cats, a few emergency essentials and myself to Tennessee, if not for some other life-changing mission.
The 250,000 new cars sold under the plan are mainly foreign made, replacing American brands. They get an average increase of nearly 10 mpg, reducing nationwide gasoline use, thus greenhouse gas emissions, by a paltry .04 percent. Annual savings are about $600 at $2.70/gallon if driven the same number of miles. The debt to trade-in ratio isn’t an enticement.
The plan may temporarily keep a number of employees from becoming the latest victims of the recession but six months down the road the streamers and balloons will be gone as will many of the dealerships.
Never having required anything other than regular maintenance, without hesitation I authorized my trusted mechanic to begin work immediately. After 14 years of being a reliable source of transportation, it remains the most trusted of the five vehicles I’ve owned over the past four decades.
The goal of a vehicle taking me over 100K miles through life has finally been met. The ’69 Gremlin didn’t make it. Neither did the ’76 Mustang, my favorite. Each had less than 90K miles. The interior of the Gremlin was simply worn out and didn’t have air. The Mustang had transmission and cooling system problems.
I really liked the dealer-used ’81 Mazda 626 but the manual shift was too annoying in the stop-n-go traffic in Los Angeles. Still, I would have kept it indefinitely but for an accident that totaled the car. The other driver went through a stop sign, barely hit the rear passenger side of my car and put me in a slow motion rollover that ended with the car upside down and sliding into two parked cars before coming to a halt.
I was out of work for a few months, an unpleasant healthcare fiasco.
I then bought a fully automatic ’86 Mazda 626, U-Hauled it cross-country to Florida on a flat-bed trailer in ’88 and kept it until ’95 when electrical problems at 98K miles led to the purchase of the Toyota 4Runner.
So, on July 1, AAA towing service delivered the truck to Brooksville to be rehabilitated by the masterful mechanics at ToyoDoc.
A Toyota Camry is the traveling car so the truck has never been outside Florida, primarily used to get to and from work and numerous jaunts to Daytona Beach when I lived in Orlando. A minor rear-end nudge pinned the bumper to the back tires. No other accidents.
As a homeowner, it’s been indispensable not only to myself but also to friends when needed. Only two other people have driven it, when I was a little tipsy. I’ve taken very good care of it. Some exterior scratches and dings, barely noticeable, and a few interior scrapes and digs, most of which I caused while hauling things. It’s a truck. The antenna remains broken. The speakers need replacing. Other minor concerns, all cosmetic. My faith in the quality of Toyota products assures me it’ll see me through another decade or more, if I should live that long. Que sera, sera.
Actually, my disinterest in new cars might appear insulting to others but I’m not a car person. It might look nice and pretty but how much per month?, for how many years? and at what increase in auto insurance? are thoughts not actually verbalized. People have different values.
I cringe when a new car owner starts talking about dealer problems. Or when they say there are so many fancy options that it would take a year to read the manual (respectful laughter, please, for the bland sense of humor), and the inevitable whining about parking lot door dings and bumper scratches. It happens and other car owners don’t care.
Then there’s the “Hop in, I’ll give you a ride.” “Wows!” and “That’s unbelievable!” are said out of obligation. Consumer driven technology is truly amazing – can’t live without it, right? Just get me from point A to point B with air or heat as needed. Most everything else is fluff and something else that can go wrong. Okay, I like electric windows and door locks.
The ‘cash for clunkers’ scheme was never an option for me. Before the July 24 kick-off, my truck had already been resurrected. It’s not a ‘junker’. It had a boo-boo that may have been avoided if it had been checked out when I first noticed an odd noise. I still saved thousands of dollars and years of car payments that wouldn’t fit into my budget anyway. When The Big One hits, it’ll safely transport my cats, a few emergency essentials and myself to Tennessee, if not for some other life-changing mission.
The 250,000 new cars sold under the plan are mainly foreign made, replacing American brands. They get an average increase of nearly 10 mpg, reducing nationwide gasoline use, thus greenhouse gas emissions, by a paltry .04 percent. Annual savings are about $600 at $2.70/gallon if driven the same number of miles. The debt to trade-in ratio isn’t an enticement.
The plan may temporarily keep a number of employees from becoming the latest victims of the recession but six months down the road the streamers and balloons will be gone as will many of the dealerships.
I Don't Go Out Much
I don’t go out much any more. Call it summertime hibernation. The blackout, block-out drapes are drawn to a close. The horizontal and vertical blinds too.
Candles lit at night aren’t for the esthetics. Night lights shed a soft glow so as not to step on Elvis, my Burmese buddy in black, or from tripping over Sassy, a Siamese pretty boy with the bluest of eyes reminiscent of those of Paul Newman.
The 82 degree thermostat setting suits a person with hypothyroidism. For the rest of us, a few moments in the blistering heat and stifling humidity makes the indoor temperature feel like a touch of cool springtime air.
Try as I may, for too long words have been ignored that the air movement from an overhead fan are only affective when you’re in the room, otherwise it’s wasteful electricity. As is too often the case, not until someone else makes the same claim that there’s a miraculous moment of understanding. Pointing out the fact that it’s been said many times before is as pointless as saying, I told you so. I empathize with Rodney Dangerfield.
There are no shade trees to shelter the house from the heat of the sun. The three trees that the builder is supposed to leave on the property were jokable. Two scrub bushes and a sickly, barely rooted sand hill pine tree didn’t make for an umbrella effect. The saplings from the Arbor Day Foundation for a token contribution may take years to grow hip-high, so rainy or cloudy days are needed to keep the electric bill down.
A moment of respite from this self-imposed isolation might come with dinner. A buy one, get the second half off is a good deal but the occasional two for the price of one is the best. Still, I’d rather cook the meal myself, preferably on the grill. No overhead costs, no head counts garnering wages or tips and no feeling of being short-changed in quality, freshness or service. The best experiences are at family-owned restaurants where faces, if not names, are always recognized.
These days of isolation aren’t to be considered antisocial. As I quizzed a friend, What do you do whenever you step out of the house? After a pause, I suggested he think about it a moment longer to which he responded, You spend money? Teacher turned carpenter, he nailed it.
From the moment the garage door opener does it’s thing to the ignition of the vehicle, and hence the trip from, to and back, there are costs incurred, however slight, that tally up and creep deep into the pocket book.
However un-American it sounds, if it can’t be paid in cash or by debit, spending is to be avoided at all cost. Is it a need or a want? Sometimes a good-feeling purchase brings a little joy but those little purchases add up and might be better put toward paying down debt or, more immediate, to pay a utility bill. No added debt, no regret.
Making the best of an outside venture is a priority. For instance, a cashier looked so grumpy I thought of seeking a different register but I stuck it out for the few items in the basket – only what was truly needed. Somewhat surprisingly, the lady greeted as she had been trained. I offered a conciliatory comment that she appeared to be having a very bad day. She admitted so. Days of sinus headaches make for a protracted period of discomfort, thus the look of despair. But she perked up a bit, saying she had but a few minutes before her shift was to end. It was fifteen minutes before the hour so relief was indeed on its way. Pleasantries ended our meeting with the feeling that a simple exchange of words was of some value to both of us.
A trip to the airport and the ensuing wait was annoying. The plane was delayed a few times until two hours had passed. Regrets for failing to bring the newspaper or a couple of magazines to which I still subscribe were momentarily forgotten when a mother was heard telling her daughter, about four years old, that a sign on the wall read ‘No crying allowed’ and if the little darling couldn’t hold back the tears, she’d have to ‘go over there’ and wait. There was no such sign! It was a glass-encased fire extinguisher! Not a peep from the girl but chuckles came and went a number of times – from me. I was in awe of a mother’s creative, if not wise, means of parenting. Cheap and priceless entertainment, thank you so very much.
Hopefully these days of penny-pinching will become addictive. I don’t want to become a hermit, but for now I don’t get out much anymore.
Candles lit at night aren’t for the esthetics. Night lights shed a soft glow so as not to step on Elvis, my Burmese buddy in black, or from tripping over Sassy, a Siamese pretty boy with the bluest of eyes reminiscent of those of Paul Newman.
The 82 degree thermostat setting suits a person with hypothyroidism. For the rest of us, a few moments in the blistering heat and stifling humidity makes the indoor temperature feel like a touch of cool springtime air.
Try as I may, for too long words have been ignored that the air movement from an overhead fan are only affective when you’re in the room, otherwise it’s wasteful electricity. As is too often the case, not until someone else makes the same claim that there’s a miraculous moment of understanding. Pointing out the fact that it’s been said many times before is as pointless as saying, I told you so. I empathize with Rodney Dangerfield.
There are no shade trees to shelter the house from the heat of the sun. The three trees that the builder is supposed to leave on the property were jokable. Two scrub bushes and a sickly, barely rooted sand hill pine tree didn’t make for an umbrella effect. The saplings from the Arbor Day Foundation for a token contribution may take years to grow hip-high, so rainy or cloudy days are needed to keep the electric bill down.
A moment of respite from this self-imposed isolation might come with dinner. A buy one, get the second half off is a good deal but the occasional two for the price of one is the best. Still, I’d rather cook the meal myself, preferably on the grill. No overhead costs, no head counts garnering wages or tips and no feeling of being short-changed in quality, freshness or service. The best experiences are at family-owned restaurants where faces, if not names, are always recognized.
These days of isolation aren’t to be considered antisocial. As I quizzed a friend, What do you do whenever you step out of the house? After a pause, I suggested he think about it a moment longer to which he responded, You spend money? Teacher turned carpenter, he nailed it.
From the moment the garage door opener does it’s thing to the ignition of the vehicle, and hence the trip from, to and back, there are costs incurred, however slight, that tally up and creep deep into the pocket book.
However un-American it sounds, if it can’t be paid in cash or by debit, spending is to be avoided at all cost. Is it a need or a want? Sometimes a good-feeling purchase brings a little joy but those little purchases add up and might be better put toward paying down debt or, more immediate, to pay a utility bill. No added debt, no regret.
Making the best of an outside venture is a priority. For instance, a cashier looked so grumpy I thought of seeking a different register but I stuck it out for the few items in the basket – only what was truly needed. Somewhat surprisingly, the lady greeted as she had been trained. I offered a conciliatory comment that she appeared to be having a very bad day. She admitted so. Days of sinus headaches make for a protracted period of discomfort, thus the look of despair. But she perked up a bit, saying she had but a few minutes before her shift was to end. It was fifteen minutes before the hour so relief was indeed on its way. Pleasantries ended our meeting with the feeling that a simple exchange of words was of some value to both of us.
A trip to the airport and the ensuing wait was annoying. The plane was delayed a few times until two hours had passed. Regrets for failing to bring the newspaper or a couple of magazines to which I still subscribe were momentarily forgotten when a mother was heard telling her daughter, about four years old, that a sign on the wall read ‘No crying allowed’ and if the little darling couldn’t hold back the tears, she’d have to ‘go over there’ and wait. There was no such sign! It was a glass-encased fire extinguisher! Not a peep from the girl but chuckles came and went a number of times – from me. I was in awe of a mother’s creative, if not wise, means of parenting. Cheap and priceless entertainment, thank you so very much.
Hopefully these days of penny-pinching will become addictive. I don’t want to become a hermit, but for now I don’t get out much anymore.
Salt Licks and Me, Too
“But I’m not old”, said the young man in his mid-twenties when I suggested he was loading his food with too much salt. I didn’t bother to argue but I assure you, not out of retribution for the inconsiderate comment about age. Most young people remain fearless in all aspects of life, especially health concerns, until bad habits result in threats upon their lives. Sorry guy, but you are what you eat. Even though salt is a preservative in processed foods, it doesn’t extend the life of humans.
Call it atheroslerosis or arteriosclerosis, excess amounts of salt damage the elasticity of and contributes to the hardening of the arteries as does smoking cigarettes, high blood pressure, diabetes and a diet high in saturated fats. Leading to increased levels of cholesterol under the inner lining of artery walls adds to the risks of strokes and heart attacks.
True, as a kid one I did my fair share of salting everything from gravy and mashed potatoes to vegetables I might not have otherwise eaten except for the strict rules set at the dinner table. Salt made the food more palatable.
Instead of French fries, we had oven-baked crinkly cut potatoes and I rationalized that, since I didn’t use ketchup, the volume of granules streaming from the saltshaker was no worse.
It would have been blasphemy to salt my favorite meal of made-from-scratch Spanish rise with mom’s special ingredient (yellow mustard). It was befitting that this was the last meal she fixed for me before she passed away. Just about everything else was subject to a good sprinkling. Buttered popcorn. Goulash. Apples. Thinking back those fifty years, people even salted watermelon, including myself. .
Even though I grew up on a farm with all kinds of fresh veggies, I wouldn’t eat tomatoes unless cooked in one of the many dishes that graced the dinner table. Others did and if they didn’t cover tomato slices with sugar, salt was used as a flavor enhancer.
Potato chips, peanuts, pretzels and many other packaged foods that are still salt-ready were real treats because they were rationed, as was pop. As sure as my parents would head out to play euchre on Saturday nights, it was Nehi and chips for us kids. Thursdays were pop and popcorn night, and an apple afterward, because Friday was vacuum day.
‘Salt licks’ were placed in pasture fields for cattle in the spring and summer. No, I didn’t get down on my hands and knees and partake with the cows but, before being placed on the ground, a chip off the salt block provided for an exotic taste with a variety of added minerals! Calcium, iron, phosphorous and zinc.
My first pizza was Chef-Boy-R-Despicable in the box. Only the provided ingredients - dough and some abomination of tomato sauce and grated cheese. No added toppings. Everybody agreed, just the one time was once too many.
My first real pizza was at Pizza Hut, 1970. Working odd hours, from sunrise to mid-afternoon at a radio station, I braved it on my own. It was delicious! Small, hand-tossed with a ham topping, I relished it all to myself. No salt then but somewhere along the way it too became a habit. Talk about a constriction of the arteries! I gave it up years ago – the salt, not pizza.
Over the past five decades advancements in medical research have proven excess salt also increases the risk of stomach cancer, kidney stones, eye problems and bone loss, thus osteoporosis, later in life.
The 1990 Nutrition Labeling and Education Act required food companies to begin what we have become accustomed to see on over 6.5 million packaged products. Inclusive of the ‘Natural Facts’ are Recommended Daily Allowance figures for diets consisting of 2,000 calories.
Serving size, calorie count, calories from fat, saturated fat, dietary fiber, and sodium levels have all become attention getters. I now balance my diet with fruits and vegetables, which I prefer raw with no side dips. Salads go without dressings. A few olives (calories and salt content noted) and slices of cucumber marinated in diluted white vinegar suits me just fine. Kind of odd to some but who should judge my culinary delights?
One wonderful discovery has been ‘no salt added’ products, particularly stewed tomatoes which I use a lot. I kid you not, there’s a difference of 1% versus 13% RDA. The Great Value deal is a generic brand that costs half the price of name-brand packaging. Frozen dinners are laced with two to three times as much salt.
Successfully reducing my salt intake, I can still satisfy the craving by continuing to follow instructions given by my periodontist to swish a warm, mild saltwater solution that helps to heal mouth sores and strengthen gums. I just don’t swallow.
Call it atheroslerosis or arteriosclerosis, excess amounts of salt damage the elasticity of and contributes to the hardening of the arteries as does smoking cigarettes, high blood pressure, diabetes and a diet high in saturated fats. Leading to increased levels of cholesterol under the inner lining of artery walls adds to the risks of strokes and heart attacks.
True, as a kid one I did my fair share of salting everything from gravy and mashed potatoes to vegetables I might not have otherwise eaten except for the strict rules set at the dinner table. Salt made the food more palatable.
Instead of French fries, we had oven-baked crinkly cut potatoes and I rationalized that, since I didn’t use ketchup, the volume of granules streaming from the saltshaker was no worse.
It would have been blasphemy to salt my favorite meal of made-from-scratch Spanish rise with mom’s special ingredient (yellow mustard). It was befitting that this was the last meal she fixed for me before she passed away. Just about everything else was subject to a good sprinkling. Buttered popcorn. Goulash. Apples. Thinking back those fifty years, people even salted watermelon, including myself. .
Even though I grew up on a farm with all kinds of fresh veggies, I wouldn’t eat tomatoes unless cooked in one of the many dishes that graced the dinner table. Others did and if they didn’t cover tomato slices with sugar, salt was used as a flavor enhancer.
Potato chips, peanuts, pretzels and many other packaged foods that are still salt-ready were real treats because they were rationed, as was pop. As sure as my parents would head out to play euchre on Saturday nights, it was Nehi and chips for us kids. Thursdays were pop and popcorn night, and an apple afterward, because Friday was vacuum day.
‘Salt licks’ were placed in pasture fields for cattle in the spring and summer. No, I didn’t get down on my hands and knees and partake with the cows but, before being placed on the ground, a chip off the salt block provided for an exotic taste with a variety of added minerals! Calcium, iron, phosphorous and zinc.
My first pizza was Chef-Boy-R-Despicable in the box. Only the provided ingredients - dough and some abomination of tomato sauce and grated cheese. No added toppings. Everybody agreed, just the one time was once too many.
My first real pizza was at Pizza Hut, 1970. Working odd hours, from sunrise to mid-afternoon at a radio station, I braved it on my own. It was delicious! Small, hand-tossed with a ham topping, I relished it all to myself. No salt then but somewhere along the way it too became a habit. Talk about a constriction of the arteries! I gave it up years ago – the salt, not pizza.
Over the past five decades advancements in medical research have proven excess salt also increases the risk of stomach cancer, kidney stones, eye problems and bone loss, thus osteoporosis, later in life.
The 1990 Nutrition Labeling and Education Act required food companies to begin what we have become accustomed to see on over 6.5 million packaged products. Inclusive of the ‘Natural Facts’ are Recommended Daily Allowance figures for diets consisting of 2,000 calories.
Serving size, calorie count, calories from fat, saturated fat, dietary fiber, and sodium levels have all become attention getters. I now balance my diet with fruits and vegetables, which I prefer raw with no side dips. Salads go without dressings. A few olives (calories and salt content noted) and slices of cucumber marinated in diluted white vinegar suits me just fine. Kind of odd to some but who should judge my culinary delights?
One wonderful discovery has been ‘no salt added’ products, particularly stewed tomatoes which I use a lot. I kid you not, there’s a difference of 1% versus 13% RDA. The Great Value deal is a generic brand that costs half the price of name-brand packaging. Frozen dinners are laced with two to three times as much salt.
Successfully reducing my salt intake, I can still satisfy the craving by continuing to follow instructions given by my periodontist to swish a warm, mild saltwater solution that helps to heal mouth sores and strengthen gums. I just don’t swallow.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Living Mortgage Free
How did I get here from there? Perhaps it was dumb luck. Or maybe it was thoughtful common sense towards saving and planning, although in all honesty I can’t really give myself credit.
I have to come to the conclusion that, after working for 15 years at the age of 35, I took a modest plunge into my employer’s 401(k). I had no oversight from the company and surely no guidance from my parents. Dad was a farmer. Although he worked long and hard days and at times in the dark of night to maintain his dad’s and granddad’s many years of building the family assets, profitability was much less than it had been during the past generations. In part, our family’s financial security was reliant on the glory years of small farmers.
I am now semi-retired, having made an early exit from the stresses of dealing with a corporate mindset that takes a good chunk out of personal tranquility. Rather than accept a monthly retirement check, I chose a full payout of all of the moneys due me. There was no dipping into the funds for some frivolous spending. An agent with Raymond James provided me with a variety of options for investment. I felt comfortable with all of his recommendations as I pointed out my financial goals. His assurance that they were attainable as he explained the choices gave me comfort that I could realize a sense of security as I continue to age. A quick call to the agent to review the investments would result in a little tweaking in the direction that suits the mood of the financial markets.
During the same period in time, I was able to make the final payment on the mortgage of my home with the help of an inheritance from both of my parents’ deaths some 10 years prior. The sum was not huge considering five children in the family; I made sure not to squander the funds.
Rather than taking pride in the achievement of being nearly debt-free, it was a feeling of relief knowing the largest financial weight was off my back. Sister Sue commended me with the statement, “I don’t know anybody who doesn’t have a mortgage.”
For the time being living in Spring Hill, FL, in a new investor-built home after having sold the home in Orlando, squeaking by financially as my budget has been redirected from what used to be some discretionary spending to buying just the “basics” of living as we know it in America. There’s some minor debt but nothing that can’t be resolved in a reasonable amount of time with some thanks for those 1.99% introductory interest rates on a credit card.
It’s always those unexpected expenses that lead to the temptation, and eventual use, of plastic money. Property insurance and property taxes aren’t really what you’d call unexpected but they still have to be paid on a payment plan.
With all of this taken into consideration, I don’t feel secure in my long-term financial reckonings. The investments of the past five years have done very well, ranging from 12% to 20% of increased moneys. The downturn in the economy has eaten away a good chunk of those earnings but the overall picture still finds me with reasonable gains.
So, with my modest acquisition of savings and investments, including an annuity, I find myself in a unique and disbelieving situation where I am in a class with the so-called well-to-do citizens in these United States. I am among the segment of 12% of the population with the most funds for retirement.
Other figures from the 2008 Retirement Confidence Survey are extremely alarming for Americans. Roughly 61% have less than $50,000 in funds. In 2007, the figure was somewhat less at 58% and 2006 showed 65%. Today, a whopping 69% of existing retirees fit into the category.
I place myself among the 21% of workers who are “Not Too Confident” of having enough money to live comfortably throughout retirement. 43% are somewhat confident and a mere 18% are very confident. The remainder who are not at all confident is 16% - realistically I’m among this group of citizens.
This website will give you a multitude of survey results:
http://www.ebri.org/pdf/briefspdf/EBRI IB 04-2008.pdf
I have to come to the conclusion that, after working for 15 years at the age of 35, I took a modest plunge into my employer’s 401(k). I had no oversight from the company and surely no guidance from my parents. Dad was a farmer. Although he worked long and hard days and at times in the dark of night to maintain his dad’s and granddad’s many years of building the family assets, profitability was much less than it had been during the past generations. In part, our family’s financial security was reliant on the glory years of small farmers.
I am now semi-retired, having made an early exit from the stresses of dealing with a corporate mindset that takes a good chunk out of personal tranquility. Rather than accept a monthly retirement check, I chose a full payout of all of the moneys due me. There was no dipping into the funds for some frivolous spending. An agent with Raymond James provided me with a variety of options for investment. I felt comfortable with all of his recommendations as I pointed out my financial goals. His assurance that they were attainable as he explained the choices gave me comfort that I could realize a sense of security as I continue to age. A quick call to the agent to review the investments would result in a little tweaking in the direction that suits the mood of the financial markets.
During the same period in time, I was able to make the final payment on the mortgage of my home with the help of an inheritance from both of my parents’ deaths some 10 years prior. The sum was not huge considering five children in the family; I made sure not to squander the funds.
Rather than taking pride in the achievement of being nearly debt-free, it was a feeling of relief knowing the largest financial weight was off my back. Sister Sue commended me with the statement, “I don’t know anybody who doesn’t have a mortgage.”
For the time being living in Spring Hill, FL, in a new investor-built home after having sold the home in Orlando, squeaking by financially as my budget has been redirected from what used to be some discretionary spending to buying just the “basics” of living as we know it in America. There’s some minor debt but nothing that can’t be resolved in a reasonable amount of time with some thanks for those 1.99% introductory interest rates on a credit card.
It’s always those unexpected expenses that lead to the temptation, and eventual use, of plastic money. Property insurance and property taxes aren’t really what you’d call unexpected but they still have to be paid on a payment plan.
With all of this taken into consideration, I don’t feel secure in my long-term financial reckonings. The investments of the past five years have done very well, ranging from 12% to 20% of increased moneys. The downturn in the economy has eaten away a good chunk of those earnings but the overall picture still finds me with reasonable gains.
So, with my modest acquisition of savings and investments, including an annuity, I find myself in a unique and disbelieving situation where I am in a class with the so-called well-to-do citizens in these United States. I am among the segment of 12% of the population with the most funds for retirement.
Other figures from the 2008 Retirement Confidence Survey are extremely alarming for Americans. Roughly 61% have less than $50,000 in funds. In 2007, the figure was somewhat less at 58% and 2006 showed 65%. Today, a whopping 69% of existing retirees fit into the category.
I place myself among the 21% of workers who are “Not Too Confident” of having enough money to live comfortably throughout retirement. 43% are somewhat confident and a mere 18% are very confident. The remainder who are not at all confident is 16% - realistically I’m among this group of citizens.
This website will give you a multitude of survey results:
http://www.ebri.org/pdf/briefspdf/EBRI IB 04-2008.pdf
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