As I approach my 85th birthday, I’m learning new things. Just yesterday I learned that nocturia is not a green vegetable that grows at night and tastes like arugula. It has to do with getting up at night to pee, perhaps after eating too much arugula.

   There was a time when I earned a paycheck as a newsman. I’m glad I’m too old-fashioned to do that these days. While I have boasted that during my years on the Central News Desk at Radio Free Europe, “I single-handedly convicted Richard Nixon in all of Eastern Europe,” there can’t be much joy in writing copy today that says “The President said blah, blah, but he was lying” or “The ex-president said blah, blah, but he was lying.” 

   Writing that must be as tiresome as the old standby from my days in news, “New tension in the Middle East.” 

   I don’t read newspapers like I once did. I don’t have to. But occasionally I see something in print that sort of shocks me. Yes, quality newspapers printed Donald J. saying “grab’em by the pussy.” What choice did they have? And then last Sunday in The New York Times op/ed page, I read this: “While I left my marriage at 32 to pursue my true desires, I wondered whether things like blow jobs….”

   Hello! “Blow jobs” in The New York Times? “READ ALL ABOUT IT.” One wonders (or at least this one does) whether there was a discussion by op/ed editors about use of that term.

   “Well, Gang. We have this piece for the Sunday paper that includes the expression ‘blow jobs.’ Anyone think we ought to change that? Sarah?”

   “Hell, no. Everyone knows what a blow job is. Using that term is a lot better I think than springing a Latin word on readers, making some of them have to Google it.” 

   “Walt? What say you?”

   “I hate to be a pedant, but ‘blow job’ is such an inaccurate term. When done right, there is no blowing; it’s all sucking. Right? I suppose we go with it, though maybe someone in a high position should talk to marketing about selling New York Times Sunday bibs to be worn by our precious readers so they don’t spill coffee all over themselves when coming across ‘blow jobs’ and other fun words in our editions.”

   I’m looking forward to this Sunday’s Times and my morning coffee. Just to be safe, I plan to put on a cooking apron in case there are more surprises.

(Posted August 25, 2022)

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LISTEN UP

   Some tips for you youngsters as I approach my 85th birthday:

  —Bring croissants home from the deli or bakery only on the day the cleaning lady is due. 

  –Don’t opt out of receiving spam emails. They can be entertaining. Just this morning there was this on a subject line in my spam file: “Squeeze Your Buttocks Like This To Poop No Matter How Constipated You Are.” I didn’t squeeze anything nor did I open the email.

  -When the rearview mirror in your car needs adjusting every two weeks, it probably means your much stronger and younger neighbor is borrowing your car late at night. So be it. Don’t say a word.

  –And do not say anything when you discover, nearly every morning, that your partner has somehow dropped bits of egg or bagel or cereal or toast under your chair. Smart scientists have been studying this phenomenon for years.

  -If you are fixing dinner and find the can of peas you were going to mix in with the chicken sausage has a use by “2018” date on it, there is no reason to share this information with anyone else. It might be wise though to perhaps examine other tins in your pantry, but still there’s really no reason to rush.

  -It isn’t your fault when tops of prescription pills and juice bottles keep flying out of your hands, seemingly every morning. They don’t make good tops the way they used to. If I were a Republican, I would say this is yet another obvious sign of the dangers of socialism. 

  -Do not (I repeat, do not) throw any object at the TV when a reporter claims “40,000 people are without power.” You know the doofus means customers not people, and the number of people without power is probably much greater than 40,000.  

  -If someone at the gym has configured their cell phone so you hear both sides of the conversation, politely ask them to stop. If they refuse, squeeze their buttocks.

  Good luck. 

(Posted August 3, 2022)

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FAKE NEWS: YOU HAVE REACHED YOUR DESTINATION   

Trips with grandpa should be something that grandkids remember for a long time. I do my damnedest to meet this challenge. 

   For example:

   On a recent trip to Hilton Head, South Carolina, I took our youngest granddaughter, Cristiana, to an animal shelter, fulfilling a promise that during our stay the two of us would go hang out with some dogs. Cristiana is 14 and has been pestering her parents to buy a dog for quite a while. So far she hasn’t been able to persuade them to say “yes.” 

   A couple of days before Cristiana and her parents arrived in Hilton Head I checked out the Animal Shelter run by the Humane Association and made, I thought, a mental note of where to turn off a main road to get there.

   Approaching my mid-80’s, I forget things and recently started asking Irene if she would marry me. As Cristiana and I set out for the shelter, I pressed the WAZE app on my phone. The phone was on my knee when it fell between the driver’s seat and the console, in a space too tight for my chubby fingers to fit. I pulled over, got out of the car and reached under the driver’s seat, managing to touch and then nudge the phone to the floor where I could pick it up. Cristiana praised my effort by saying, “Good work.” She has inherited the McCoy passion for sarcasm.

   Back on the road we went, with Cristiana in the back seat holding my phone now and relaying the directions provided by the GPS screen of WAZE. But wait. I started seeing familiar territory from a visit earlier in the week to the remains of Fort Howell, built by African-Americans in the Civil War to protect a nearby community of recently freed ex-slaves. As we passed the gate of Fort Howell, a voice on WAZE announced, “You have reached your destination.” Like hell we had. 

   We reset WAZE and motored on. My guess is that in retrieving the phone I hit the WAZE icon and it reverted back to the directions for Fort Howell. Eventually, I spotted the corner where I knew to turn for the animal shelter only 100 yards away. Just before we turned, Cristiana said, “Being a GPS is not easy.” 

   The animal shelter folks were wonderful. Cristiana got to play for 20 minutes or so with the dog of the day in a metal enclosure and later took the dog for a walk in a yard. She loved it.

   Surprisingly, I did not get lost on the drive back to the condo where we were staying nor did my phone disappear again in some hard to reach place in the rented car, and that was good because it was time for lunch and then my nap.

(Posted April 28, 2022)

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  The Doctor Will See You Now 

   When you’re in your 80s, you see a lot of doctors. Most of them have to use both hands to carry your file. I wonder if they wear a back brace or other type of support. 

   I recently saw my Primary Care Physician, a guy I’ve seen since I was mugged in a church parking lot nearly 20 years ago. (I stopped going to church in my first or second year in college and being attacked on church property didn’t persuade me to rethink that decision.)

   My doctors are used to getting a lot of sass from me and aren’t bashful about returning the fire. After the PCP took my blood pressure, I said, “So I have four more days to live?”

   “Have you paid?” was his response.

   My latest blood test showed one elevated reading. When I told him I’m sometimes very sleepy in the morning after the gym and breakfast—not tired just sleepy—he suggested that I have eggs for breakfast and no bread for the next two mornings. I love bread, a category in my view that includes bagels. I’m fairly sure this experiment will last only the two-day timeframe he mentioned. Then I will return to my usual pattern of bread (toast, roll or bagel) with preserves or honey and cereal or eggs. 

   Next week I see the orthopedist and a couple of weeks later the heart doctor. The orthopedist frequently mentions my age, and I plan to humor him by repeating what a guy at the gym told me recently: “People say I look good for 75. I’m 70.”

  The heart doctor skis and the last time I saw him I handed over a two-page note about skiing in the St. Anton, Austria, area, a spot my son, grandson and I have been lucky enough to visit frequently, though unfortunately not recently. It was to be the doctor’s first visit there, and, if he got to go, I’d bet that will dominate our conversation. Who wants to talk about the loop recorder he put in my chest last December when we can chat about skiing down the Valluga or the Osthang or the Fang, all runs in St. Anton? Neither he nor I will be in a hurry to stop talking.  

   My all-time favorite doctor is no longer with us. Dr. David Samostie was our main doctor on Long Island before we moved to Munich.

   I was once on the examining table in his office and described a pain I had. He opened a big medical book on his desk and started thumbing through the pages as he said, “I wonder what that could be?” 

   Whatever it was, I survived it.

   Come June it will be time for another colonoscopy. What are the chances that afterwards the doctor will say, “You look good for 90, but you’re only 84”?

(Posted April 6, 2022)

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Why I'm Buying A Whistle

   I don’t know when it happened, but it has. I’m 84-years-old, weigh more than 190 pounds, have a belly and love handles, yet I’m invisible. I only became aware of this condition last week.

   When I got into my car after a visit to the gym, the door of the car next to me was ajar, and the guy in it, wearing white earbuds, was on the phone. I waited on him to finish the call or to give me a go ahead sign before trying to back out. What a dummy, I was.

   After a minute or two—still chatting on the phone wearing white earbuds—the guy got out of his car, banging his door against the passenger side of my car.       There was no recognition that anything had happened. He didn’t look up, kept talking on his phone, wearing white earbuds, and headed to the machine to buy a parking permit.

   I was annoyed and got out of my car to look at the passenger side to see if there was any damage. There didn’t appear to be. I yelled at the guy, but he was still on his phone, wearing white earbuds. 

   Twenty-four hours later he was at the gym, on his phone talking, wearing white earbuds. Am I the only one who thinks people who are on their phones all the time have nothing to say?

   After another gym visit last week, I went to the supermarket, stuffing four or five items in a cloth shopping bag. A woman, holding several items in her arms, started to get in line behind me, but I told her to go ahead. She thanked me.

   When one of the cashiers became free, I started to head for her counter, but a woman who had been standing at the deli counter, pivoted and put her shopping bag on the counter. She did not look up, look over to where I was standing. I was invisible.

   Damn it! I’m here. I exist. 

   I’m going to buy a whistle, a loud one, and wear it around my neck. The next bastard who ignores me is going to get an earful of noise—both from the whistle and from my lips. I’m still working on what I’m going to say after I blow my whistle. It could be:

   “Hey, moron! Wake up!”

   Or

   “Hello! See me? I exist. Wait your turn.”

   Or
  “Hey, Bro, maybe if you got off your phone for just an itsy-bitsy millisecond,  you might realize you’re being a jerk. Then again, maybe you wouldn’t.”

   Whichever it is, it would be wise, I think, for me to have on a pair of comfortable running shoes.

(Posted March 14, 2022)

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 A Christmas Tale

  “Oyster Stew, Oyster Stew. It’s Christmas Time in the City.”

   Oyster stew is one of the mysteries of my childhood. We had oyster stew every Christmas Eve. How oysters made their way to the farm country of Frankfort, Indiana, more than 100 miles from any large body of water, I don’t know. Yet every Christmas Eve, there it was—a bowl of white liquid placed before me. Maybe oysters were expensive because Mom always insisted I only had to eat one and that’s all she ever put in my bowl. Thank you, Mom. 

   In writing about this, I wondered for the first time if I had misunderstood. Could it be Marie and Lavon McCoy were playing another “eat your chicken” ruse on their kids? That the lump in the white liquid was a mountain oyster, something that was once attached to a bull, attached to a very sensitive part of a bull? Was this a little joke Mom and Dad enjoyed every Christmas? If it was, they sure faked me out.

   The next to last week in December was a time of celebration in my dad’s family. In addition to Christmas, there were also anniversaries. Both my great grandfather, James McCoy, and my grandfather, William McCoy, were married on Christmas Eve. (As were their brides.)       The wedding celebrations may have carried over to Christmas morning, starting a family tradition: the McCoys have steak for Christmas breakfast.

   James and William McCoy were farmers, and farmers don’t have days off. Treating themselves to steak at Christmas breakfast perhaps made up a little for the reality that much of the rest of the day was going to be just another workday with cows to be fed and milked and chickens to be fed and their eggs gathered.

   We’ve continued this tradition of steak for Christmas breakfast, and we’ve added bacon and sausage, and pancakes, an egg dish of some kind, and coffee. Plus biscuits. I suspect in my father’s time everyone put gravy on their biscuits instead of fruit jams as we do. 

Dad, who was handy with tools, would be up late some Christmas Eves, putting together a gift for one of his five children. When Sherrilyn, the only daughter, was four years old, Dad spent more than one night building her a small cupboard with several doors and drawers. She played house with it. Many years after she had outgrown it she wrapped it up and sent it to us. 

   Our younger granddaughters, Daniella and Cristiana, love it. Their parents’ love for it has never reached the point of taking it to their home. Before their teen years, the girls headed quickly for the cabinet on our unheated front porch, regardless of how cold it was out there. The girls have indicated one of them will claim the cupboard when we are gone. 

   Dad had the misfortune of being born on December 23rd. His birthday was never the center of attention for his kids. We wanted it to be over as soon as possible, allowing us to focus on any packages under the Christmas tree whose shape might provide clues to their contents. Year after year Dad got crummy birthday presents. Ugly ties and cheap cufflinks were frequently what he unwrapped on December 23rd. 

   My folks never had much money and having a sense of humor in those circumstances helped. Mom splurged one year and bought an expensive pair of shoes for Dad, knowing that as a salesman he liked to dress well to impress potential clients. That year on his birthday, Lavon McCoy’s presents included a box containing one new shoe. He had to wait until Christmas morning to open another box with the second shoe. 

   Merry Christmas.

(Posted December 22, 2021)

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 A STARTER KIT

   A starter kit for those having trouble composing a year-end letter to friends and family.

   They say write about what you know, so I’m writing more these days about being old. I’m thinking of a series of pamphlets dealing with problems and situations seniors face. Such as:

   “How to Pick a Dime off the Floor after You Drop it in the Checkout Line at CVS.” 

   The sequel would be “The Hell with it. It’s Only A Dime.”

   “Using an Axe in the Kitchen to Open the Cap on Olive Oil Bottles and Other Obstinate Tops.”

   “What to Tell Your Grandkids When They Ask ‘What Does Horny Mean?’”

   “Dealing with Middle of the Night Bathroom Visits.”

   The sequel would be “Which Is Better—Depend Or Assurance?”

“   Finding a TV That Has Only Three Volume Settings: Loud, Louder and Turn That Thing Down.”

   “The Key to Fixing Your Cellphone: Call a Grandkid.”

     “The Secret to Outliving Donald J. Trump.”
  “Skipping Your Evening Pills in Favor of a Large Bourbon Isn’t Going to Kill You.”

   The sequel would be “So I Was Wrong.”

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   Good luck. You’re on your own from here on out.

(Posted December 6, 2021)

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ME, MY THUMB AND I

    You’re old when you start seeing doctors who are the sons of doctors you’ve seen for years. This happened to me this week when I saw an orthopedist about a thumb problem caused by a ton of arthritis. Somewhere in medical school orthopedists must be taught that when a patient points to a spot that’s sore a good doctor presses on it until there are at least two screams or one loud utterance of a holy name beginning with “J.”

    You, the good doctor, then confirm, in as light-hearted way as you can, “Yes, that’s the spot. That’s sore.” In my case the doctor suggested a shot of cortisone to relieve the pain. I had a number of cortisone shots years ago when being treated for tennis elbow, which in my case could have been designated as two-finger-typing elbow. Having neglected to learn to type, I pounded newsroom typewriter keys for years with my index fingers.

    The discomfort prompted me to go to the U.S. Army Library in Munich where I borrowed a teach-yourself-to-type book. I studied that baby and learned to touch type and also discovered that there were other ways to activate the space bar besides using your tongue. I thought there ought to be, proving again the value of a good library.

    Medical schools also teach their students that patients like suspense. After I agreed to a new shot this week, the doctor left the room and a nurse put a Band-Aid, a vial with the injection, the spray stuff to deaden the area and the damn needle on a bench and then she left. The patient in this case, me, had lost all interest in reading The New York Times he brought with him. He was consumed by staring at the needle, a phase of his life that seemed like 20 minutes but may have only been ten.

    In comes the doctor—before going on—let’s discuss the amount of fat in a thumb. I’m chunkier than I should be, but my thumbs don’t have a belt to hang over nor are they even flabby. They’re mostly bone and meat. So back to the doctor coming into the room. He sat on the bench, grabbed my right thumb and pulled. I briefly thought he can’t possibly be doing that old “pull my finger” trick, hoping I will fart. I could probably have done that with no thumb-pulling at all.

    When he got the thumb extended as far as a thumb will go and there was a good deal of pain, he sprayed the base of the digit, followed by injecting the needle. To my credit, I believe, I did not use the Lord’s name in vein, but I did grunt two to three times. It felt (I do not watch needles going in or coming out of my skin) as though after inserting the needle he moved it in a circular motion, a little like looking for a parking spot.

    After he put a Band-Aid on the injection site, I said, “I don’t know whether to say ‘thank you’ or not.” But I went ahead and said it. I have a follow up appointment in a month, an appointment I will break if most of the pain is gone.

    The orthopedist is just like his dad, a primary care physician, in that he takes his time with patients and tells stories. His one story wasn’t as good as his dad’s usually are. Maybe he will improve with age. His father’s best story told to Irene and me is that baseball is mentioned in the Bible: “In the big inning.”

    Maybe not a home run in the world of comedy, but hey, Henny Youngman would have been a terrible doctor.

(Posted November 17, 2021)

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October Questions In My October Years

   If you had the misfortune of teaching journalism, what would you tell students about the fallacious label of “BREAKING NEWS” so pervasive on TV now? Would your comments contain many words beginning with “s” and “f”?

   If two hours after you’ve showered and shaved, you discover you put your underwear on backwards is this a sign of the future?

   Will historians trace the decline of the American experience to the millions of drivers who now back into parking spaces instead of driving forward into them as God and Henry Ford intended?

   Would all countries be better off if Facebook devised an IQ test for users before allowing access to its platform?

   What do you call a person who buys lima beans at the farmer’s market, struggles to take them out of their pods and then puts them on the stove and forgets about them because he is updating his mini iPad?

   Is there no one at CBS News who has told Norah O’Donnell her consistent use of the word “all right” before telling a new story is sophomoric, unnecessary, aggravating, stupid?

   How much longer will it be before wearing seat belts, stopping at red lights and using toilet paper are viewed by many citizens as a limitation on personal freedom and therefore unconstitutional?

   Would eating lima beans so burnt they were black kill you?

   If Norah O’Donnell has been told about the “all right” business, does she have a hearing problem?

   What are the chances that a certain guy at the gym will be able to figure out finally that if I’m inches away from the stretching bench and my baseball hat, New York Times, water bottle, and sanitizer are next to the bench that it is being used by me and maybe he shouldn’t toss his cellphone on it and take it over?

   Why doesn’t The New York Times save paper and salaries and stop pretending it has a Sports page?

   After Donald John Trump falls out of favor with believers in his “Big Lie,” who will be first—Mitch McConnell or Kevin McCarthy—to write a book claiming that he had been working vigorously all the time behind the scenes to lessen the damage the King of Bankruptcies was doing to the country and its institutions?

   Would the earth spin out of control if just once ESPN showed basketball highlights that included no dunks but a couple of magnificent passes?

   Would Norah O’Donnell notice if members of her crew began every conversation with “all right”?

   What do I say if one of the kids or grandkids asks, “How were the lima beans?”

   When I see a road crew digging up a street in my town, will I ever get tired of telling folks at the coffee shop, “They’re looking for Hillary’s emails”?

(Posted October 26, 2021)

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 What I've Learned On The Way To 84

 Seventy years ago I was impressed by breasts on girls 14 and older. Now, I have my own breasts. I’m not impressed. I’m depressed.

   There’s no reason to feel guilty about taking a nap at 10:30 a.m. Just do it. This brief snooze in no way negates the need for your usual nap after lunch.

   When you reach into the cookie jar and two cookies are stuck together, do not separate them. That would be discrimination. And also stupid.

   Prostate jokes aren’t nearly as funny as they were 30 years ago.

   If my medical folder at my primary care doctor gets any thicker, the nurse is going to have to use both hands and maybe a back brace to carry it into the examination room.

   So what if nearly every night from eight to nine you yawn constantly? You know around 9:10 you will get a second wind and will stay up, as usual, until 11:45.

   If by mistake you throw in the garbage the washed and trimmed parsley you wrapped in a paper towel, it’s okay to retrieve it and put it on top of the lamb burgers, but your wife doesn’t need to know about this. 

   There are certain words, no matter how many times you look them up, that will never stick in your brain. My words in this category include “synecdoche.”

   It’s no big deal if you tell yourself every morning, “I can’t have dessert every night” and then when eight o’clock rolls around you prove, again, that you can.

   When I was still working in news, there was probably an 84-year-old retired journalist yelling at the radio and TV about the lack of good writing and editing and the absence of any standards. 

   A size 36 pair of pants with an expandable waistband really isn’t a 36, but there’s no harm in thinking it is.

   If you see a guy on a bike who looks like your banker, and you roll down your car window and say, as he passes by, “you’re a cutie” but then realize he wasn’t your banker, you don’t have to tell your wife about this either.

   When you’ve spent a life addicted to wisecracks, most of them bad wisecracks, it’s going to be tough for your family to know when you’re genuinely senile.

   If you always wear a black T-shirt, it’s harder to see the chocolate syrup on it.

(Posted September 25, 2021)

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THE OTTER BOX DEFENDER 

    I am not handy. You have to be patient to be handy. I am not patient.

    Nicholas, our grandson, who claims to be 32 years old, and his wife, Shirley, insisted on buying me a new mini iPad for Father’s Day. Nicholas had given me my first mini iPad several Christmases ago. Irene, who claims to be older than 32, insisted on buying me a case for my new toy.

    The case is an Otter Box Defender. That’s what it says on the top of the box it came in. On the bottom of the box, there is the word “drop” and a + sign.  

     When I opened the box, there was a piece of plastic over part of the case. It looked unnecessary, so my 83-year-old hands tugged and pulled until I removed this un-neccessity. I am not handy. It turns out the clear plastic was the screen that would allow me—perhaps eventually—to push the buttons on my mini iPad while it was held tightly in the case.

    This screw-up was not really my fault. No instructions came with the Otter Box Defender. None. Not even a hard to understand drawing somewhere on the box. The back of the box is populated by descriptions in both English and French of the attributes of the case. These include being subjected to “24+ tests, including thermal shock, abrasion and drop.” I believe Abrasion and Drop was one of the high-powered legal firms that turned down the chance to defend Donald J. Trump.

    With no instructions on how to open the case, I called on Mr. Google for help. I watched approximately ten different videos, a couple of them 30-40 times, showing how to open the Otter Box Defender so a mini iPad may be inserted. None of them worked for me. I was too embarrassed to ask Nicholas or any of the other grandkids to have a go at this.

    The smartest thing to do, I thought briefly, was to put on a disguise and go to Best Buy and ask for help from their Geek Squad. That would be humiliating, but I figured the folks at the Geek Squad need a good laugh every now and then.

    I ended up taking the case to Best Buy dressed as myself, meaning dirty baseball cap, T-shirt and shorts. A person wearing a Geek Squad shirt, who may possibly be 14 on his next birthday, quickly opened the case with a practiced thumb. It took him, maybe, 90 seconds to take the case completely apart, slip in my mini iPad and put the blasted thing back together. Showoff. 

    This has been a learning experience. For one thing, I was unaware that otters made boxes. Does anyone know if they are also good at gift wrapping?

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FROM THE ROCKVILLE CENTRE PUBLIC LIBRARY

Local Authors Larry and Irene McCoy (In-person)
 

Sunday September 19, 2021
2:00 PM

After 61 years of marriage, Irene and Larry McCoy are still speaking to each other. The fact that they don’t hear as well as they once did may partially explain this phenomenon. The pair will give a humorous account of their lives together and read from their recently published books, Only Gypsies Move on Sunday and Grandma Told Me to Never Believe Anything Grandpa Says.

The Rockville Centre Public Library is at 211 North Village Avenue, about a half mile from the LIRR train station. Phone is 516-766-6257.

(Posted August 30, 2021)

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My Days In A Fraternity

    (My mom’s mom is the only grandparent I really knew. She lived down the block from us, and when my parents moved just before my senior year in high school it was decided I would live with Charity Melissa Thornton Smith Alexander, my grandmother. I do not know if she said “yes” to this arrangement at the point of a gun. My dad owned several. 

   (I enjoyed sitting around her coal stove listening to her stories about my mom, the pneumonia I had as an infant, and Edward, one of her sons who drowned  as a teenager. I wish I had asked her more questions about her life. A couple years ago I started writing pieces for our four grandkids about growing up in rural Indiana; how I loved high school and how my first couple of years in college were a struggle.)

   I had never been in a sports car before. I was about to finish high school and was all of 17. It was a snug two-seater, maybe an MG, so low if you opened the door and put your hand down you could become a knuckle-dragger. I had been invited by Jim Rogers from my hometown of Frankfort to see if I wanted to pledge to his fraternity at Indiana University in Bloomington. (Excuse me if I’m not sure of the name of the fraternity. Our relationship, as you will see, was brief.)

   The guy who owned the MG was a smooth-talker from Tennessee, and we drove in the rain to see “Blackboard Jungle,” a tough movie about a rookie teacher trying to maintain order in a New York City school. More than 65 years later I still think about driving to see that film when I’m out on the street on a rainy evening. I’m guessing that we also had something to eat. Whether this happened, before or after I was given a tour of the fraternity house I don’t remember.

   I wasn’t really fraternity material. For some reason—and it took me a long time to get over this—I didn’t think I was as good, as smart, as good-looking as other guys. There were certain places I didn’t belong. It wasn’t until I was in my late 30s or early 40s and making decent money that I felt comfortable going into restaurants that were several notches above a diner. Still, before I had attended a single class at Indiana University, I ended up pledging to Phi Kappa Whatever. 

   It was a losing proposition from the start. I was going to be living at home and not sleeping or dining at the frat house. Plus I was working nights at the A&P and what little studying I did was either at the Gables, a coffee shop next to campus, or the university library. I rarely had time or inclination to be at the fraternity house. I remember hearing a complaint that I was “seldom there.” Well, duh. Yes.

   I’m not sure I lasted even a month as a fraternity brother. One night at the fraternity the pledges were being ordered, amid much yelling of upper classmen, to run from the first floor of the house to the top and back again. Several times. 

   Surprisingly, this did not strike me as either a stimulating endeavor or necessary. I don’t recall how many times I ran up and down the %^&*(%^&*() stairs. What sticks in my mind is an act of honor and honesty. I went up to Jim Rogers, handed him my pledge pin, made some undoubtedly nasty comment about what the pledges were being told to do and said, in what I hope was a clear, calm voice, “Here’s your pin. Stick it up your ass.” No, I do not know if he did as I requested.

   So instead of hanging around and BSing with the frat brothers I shared time, stocking shelves and mopping floors at the A&P,  with the Armstrong brothers, Bloomington kids who introduced me to limestone quarries instead of sorority girls. I’ve never for a second regretted my decision to leave Krappa Dappa Du or whatever it was called. (Posted August 4,2021.)

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My Figured Out's Never Been More Confused   

 “My Figured Out’s Never Been More Confused” is a line borrowed from the lyrics of Eric Church

    Wednesday, July 7th, 2021 was a typical day for this senior citizen. To start at the finish: When I went upstairs to brush my teeth before going to bed, a glance in the mirror showed there were two long brown streaks on my T-shirt—Hershey’s chocolate syrup from the ice cream eaten three hours earlier. I haven’t dared look at the living room couch, the site of the ice cream consumption. It is a brown couch but whether it is as dark as Mrs. Hershey’s syrup I don’t know.

    Conversations with Irene have included the T-shirt but not the couch. I intend to keep it that way.

    Before the ice cream, there was dinner—chicken sausage with broccoli and snap peas and pasta. We use a lot of olive oil, and “my figured out’s never been more confused” when I tried to open a new bottle. The 48-fluid ounce bottle of Pompeian Extra Virgin olive oil had an uncooperative top, a two-tier job with the upper tier supposed to screw off. (Author’s inquiry: Can “screw off” be used when talking about something labeled “extra virgin”?) 

    The skillet with the chicken sausage needed more olive oil, so I hurried, grabbing a pair of pliers and trying to use it to unscrew the top layer of the cap while holding the bottom layer with my hands. No luck.

    I moved the skillet off the burner and searched for another tool. I found a silver thing with squeezable handles (later identified by Irene as a nut cracker). I took the pliers again, attached them to the bottom tier of the cap and used the silver thing to grab hold of the top tier.

    Success! I was pleased, so pleased I had a Chrismasy feeling. All together: “Silver thing, silver thing. It’s olive oil time in the kitchen.” 

    Before this struggle with the Pompeian oil, I noticed I had missed a call on my cellphone, but there was a transcription. It began: “Good afternoon this is Dave_____from Chase bank and left the center I’m trying to contact Larry McCoy a mystical….’’ Eighty-four years old in a few weeks and suddenly I’m “a mystical.” Well, it’s about time.

    The transcription went on to say Dave “is simply checking in to make sure all is well with the relationship here at 10 N. Phyllis….”

    If Dave is a good banker, he appreciates the value of confidentiality, and I’m hoping he keeps his trap shut about the relationship I have with “N. Phyllis” and doesn’t find out there’s also something going on between me and “S. Phyllis”.

    Who knows, if Dave calls me again in six months and I don’t answer, maybe the transcription will describe me as a saint. Should that happen then Chase bank really needs to find another transcription service.

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    *The title is a line from an Eric Church song called “Mixed Drinks About Feelings.”

(Posted July 13, 2021)

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  61st WEDDING ANNIVERSARY  

    Irene and I were married 61 years ago, July 2, 1960, in Whiting, Indiana, a town known for paying its teachers well and for, the only time I saw them, a high school football team that walked onto the field at game time

    July 2, 2021

   For you youngsters reading this, here’s a game plan for celebrating your 61st anniversary.

   1. Get out of bed. I did. This is the way most good days start. 

   2. Scratch. (It is to be hoped your bride/groom is asleep or at least groggy enough that he/she doesn’t see this.)

   3. Bathroom time.

   4. Do your stretching exercises. In my household, these are done downstairs so no need to be tentative about scratching. 

   5. Have some water or Gatorade before or during stretching. Though Irene’s boss left us a bottle of Early Times at the Drake Hotel in Chicago on our wedding night, Early Times or other bourbons are not recommended as a substitute at this hour for water, Gatorade or orange juice. Besides we probably don’t have any ice.

   6. Get dressed. Bring in The New York Times, glance at the front page and take that section with you to the gym along with a bottle of water and a tangerine.

   7. Eat the tangerine in the car on the short drive to the gym, trying not to get any tangerine juice on your shorts as you do many mornings. It’s sort of embarrassing to get to the gym with wet shorts, and then everyone there you know asks, “Is that tangerine juice on your shorts?”

   8. Clean off a recumbent bike and ride for 32 minutes. Your reading of The Times will be interrupted by one of the gym regulars, men not as old as you and who don’t read at the gym. These men have occasionally been told by you, “You know some people who come to the gym use the equipment.” They laugh and just keep talking. 

   9. Go into the stretching room and stretch some more and also grab a couple of five-pound weights. Do arm exercises with the weights, amazing yourself once again how pooped you get doing this in such a short time. Contemplate a dish of ice cream, a large dish, after supper.

   10. Head to the usual place for a copy of Newsday and a dollar scratch off ticket.

   11. Drive home, drink some more Gatorade, take your morning pills (all nine or ten of them), wash your face and head out to the Flour Shoppe, a neat bakery-cafe not far from your house. 

   12. Eat a large omelet with bacon, cheese and veggies. Have a taste of your bride’s blueberry pancakes.

   13. Back home, resume reading of the front section of The Times before heading upstairs to your laptop to answer email and Facebook messages. Rest your eyes in between writing these answers. Wake up after a couple of sharp head snaps. 

   14. Head downstairs for lunch only three hours after you finished breakfast. It’s the usual for you—fruit yogurt that you load up with many helpings of unsalted peanuts and a piece of fruit. This day it was a tangerine, so if there is juice on your shorts it doesn’t matter this time.

   15. While dining in the breakfast nook, turn on the telly. After brief looks at the three major so-called cable “news” channels, switch to TMC where “Crime School” is playing. This is a 1938 beauty with Leo Gorcey, Huntz Hall and Humphrey Bogart. Wonder out loud to your bride whether Bogey ever had drinks with Leo and Huntz and what their conversations would have been like. 

   16. Take a nap on the couch in the living rroom, covering yourself with a blanket because a certain person should have married an air conditioner salesman because she loves the AC. You do not say anything about the frigid temperature in the living room to the Bride of Nanook of the North, which is among the reasons you have been married 61 years. 

   17. Call one of your favorite restaurants to order dinner to be picked up at 6:45, 15 minutes before the start of the Yankees-Mets game. In answer to my question, the lady who took our order on the phone said they do not give refunds if the Yankees lose.

   18. Make sure the lady knows your order includes two (2) brownies. I don’t give a damn how long you’ve been married, brownies are NEVER shared.

(Posted July 3, 2021) 

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I'm Prepared For The Next Time

   At 83 my memory isn’t as sharp as I thought it once was. (Or even twice was.) I recently got a Facebook Friend request from someone whose name sounded familiar from a newsroom I worked in decades ago. Soon after I said “yes” to the request I received a “how’s-it-going?” message. 

   I recounted to this new “friend” what I’ve been doing in recent years (books written, et cetera) and asked that he remind me how we knew each other. The response ignored the question and asked if I was aware of some program that would provide me up to $150,000. My answer could have been, “Yes, that seems to be about the going rate for ladies to keep quiet about having sex with Donald John Trump.” (“John” as a middle name really fits here.)

   I ran the name by one of my former CBS News bosses and was told someone on Facebook was impersonating a person we knew and was involved in a scam.

   Lesson learned, I hope. The next time I encounter something fishy on the internet, someone wanting to be buddy-buddy I’ll be ready. Not only ready, I’m going to have a little fun with it, making up stuff. Many politicians do that all the time, so why can’t I. 

   As a public service for others who may be faced with similar situations here are a few “starter” paragraphs to get you going on a snappy response to the “How’s it going” question from someone you suspect is up to no good. The goal is to get them to leave you the hell alone. 

   Dear xxxx,

   Well, damn. It’s so good to hear from you. Florence and I are busy as hell, partly because she’s 23 years younger than I am and can’t keep her hands off me, and partly because we’re managers of a new rock group called Hot Car Stench. If you haven’t heard of them yet, trust me you will. And soon.

   Oh, wow. Sorry I started this four days ago and never finished it. See what I mean about Florence?

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   Yo, xxxx,

   Look at that. You tracked me down. Good work. I’ve bounced around a lot in the last ten years. After that stint in London working for Boris Johnson—yes, it ended badly as most of my family said it would—I took some time off (or thought I was going to) to study for my CPA license. Then some weasel scoured the internet (get a life!) and found two outstanding warrants for me in East Eau Claire, and that CPA endeavor went down the drain. It’s serendipity that you got in touch. How are you fixed for cash, old friend? Large, fast cash?

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   Hey xxxx,

   Refresh my memory if you don’t mind. Did we work together at Ford Motors or are you the guy who borrowed my JetBlue credit card one night (with my permission) to buy five cans of whipped cream at some insane place in Louisiana. Right next to Trader Joe’s if memory serves. If you are Mr. Whipped Cream, what a night that was and no, you dummy, I didn’t give whatever her name was my phone number. Not even my real name for that matter. How she got your cell number, I don’t know. Don’t blame me.

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   I’ve now blocked whoever it was trying to scam me on Facebook. I need to keep this essay short and get back to dealing with a fresh email from the government of Venezuela where the national bank has $3 million with my name on it if only I answer a few simple questions and do so my midnight tonight. Maybe I’ll send them the Boris Johnson business.  (Posted June 8, 2021)

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       A BIRTHDAY WEEK

   Irene, my wife, turned 83 in April and, feeling bold after being fully vaccinated, we went to the Berkshires for one night. We stayed at a small bed and breakfast, so small there were only two units for rent. It was dark when we came back from dinner, and, thanks to multiple coaching sessions by one of our granddaughters, I was able to activate the light on my cellphone, helping me see where to put the key. It took some jiggling of the key to get the door to open. 

   Before leaving the next morning, I could not find the key, and, since it was daylight, I didn’t think activating the light on my cellphone would help any. I looked in pants pockets, jacket pockets, on the desk and ledges in our unit. No key. After several minutes of searching, I glanced out the glass door and there was the key. It had spent the night outdoors. In the lock.

   A day later, Irene’s birthday, the two of us had dinner at a favorite restaurant in our town and then went home for ice cream and cake. Our guests for dessert included Rachel, our oldest granddaughter. After the singing of Happy Birthday, Rachel was drafted to cut the cake, and I went to the kitchen and grabbed a couple of utensils for the job. When it comes to cake-cutting, Rachel has followed the example of her grandmother; the pieces she cuts are approximately the size of Boston. Once she completed this task she held up one of the tools I had brought out of the kitchen and explained that it was a cheese cutter not something used to cut cake. I did what all smart men do when reprimanded by a woman: I shrugged. 

   Just before we had left for the restaurant, the phone rang and amazingly it was not a robo call. It was my dermatologist. He explained how to treat a patch of skin on my right temple. He recommended an over-the-counter ointment with what sounded like seven or eight syllables in its name. I was going to ask him how to spell the damn thing when he had a coughing spasm. Before I could make a wisecrack suggesting he see a doctor, the dermatologist said, “That’s what happens when you try to talk and eat a cookie at the same time.” At the time there was one piece of birthday cake left, and I wondered if he would like it.

     (Posted May 15)

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TEXTS, TEARS AND SMILES

(This has just been published in ESCAPE, CAW Anthology Spring 2021.)

   After decades of churning out prose as a journalist, I began writing poetry for the first time nearly a year ago as a way to keep in touch with two young granddaughters.  

   My wife and I skipped the 16th birthday party of one of the girls because of COVID-19 and our ages, early 80s. We felt guilty about missing Daniella’s big day, but Irene and I were scared of contracting the virus and seldom left the house. I went to the supermarket, got morning coffee and a newspaper and that was about it.  

   I probably shouldn’t use the word “poetry” to describe the texts I sent to the girls. They’re silly “roses are red, violets are blue” fluff. An example:

  “Roses are red, violets are blue.

   “I swallowed a golf ball. 

   “Now what do I do?”   

   Cristiana, 12, quickly answered: “Lol you  talk to a doctor.” 

   Another early effort:

   “Roses are red, violets are blue.   

   “If you owned a train,

   “You could drive a choo-c

    You’re old when you start seeing doctors who are the sons of doctors you’ve seen for years. This happened to me this week when I saw an orthopedist about a thumb problem caused by a ton of arthritis. Somewhere in medical school orthopedists must be taught that when a patient points to a spot that’s sore a good doctor presses on it until there are at least two screams or one loud utterance of a holy name beginning with “J.”

    You, the good doctor, then confirm, in as light-hearted way as you can, “Yes, that’s the spot. That’s sore.” In my case the doctor suggested a shot of cortisone to relieve the pain. I had a number of cortisone shots years ago when being treated for tennis elbow, which in my case could have been designated as two-finger-typing elbow. Having neglected to learn to type, I pounded newsroom typewriter keys for years with my index fingers.

    The discomfort prompted me to go to the U.S. Army Library in Munich where I borrowed a teach-yourself-to-type book. I studied that baby and learned to touch type and also discovered that there were other ways to activate the space bar besides using your tongue. I thought there ought to be, proving again the value of a good library.

    Medical schools also teach their students that patients like suspense. After I agreed to a new shot this week, the doctor left the room and a nurse put a Band-Aid, a vial with the injection, the spray stuff to deaden the area and the damn needle on a bench and then she left. The patient in this case, me, had lost all interest in reading The New York Times he brought with him. He was consumed by staring at the needle, a phase of his life that seemed like 20 minutes but may have only been ten.

    In comes the doctor—before going on—let’s discuss the amount of fat in a thumb. I’m chunkier than I should be, but my thumbs don’t have a belt to hang over nor are they even flabby. They’re mostly bone and meat. So back to the doctor coming into the room. He sat on the bench, grabbed my right thumb and pulled. I briefly thought he can’t possibly being doing that old “pull my finger” trick, hoping I will fart. I could probably have done that with no thumb-pulling at all.

    When he got the thumb extended as far as a thumb will go and there was a good deal of pain, he sprayed the base of the digit, followed by injecting the needle. To my credit, I believe, I did not use the Lord’s name in vein, but I did grunt two to three times. It felt (I do not watch needles going in or coming out of my skin) as though after inserting the needle he moved it in a circular motion, a little like looking for a parking spot.

    After he put a Band-Aid on the injection site, I said, “I don’t know whether to say ‘thank you’ or not.” But I went ahead and said it. I have a follow up appointment in a month, an appointment I will break if most of the pain is gone.

    The orthopedist is just like his dad, a primary care physician, in that he takes his time with patients and tells stories. His one story wasn’t as good as his dad’s usually are. Maybe he will improve with age. His father’s best story told to Irene and me is that baseball is mentioned in the Bible: “In the big inning.”

    Maybe not a home run in the world of comedy, but hey, Henny Youngman would have been a terrible doctor.

(Posted November 17, 2021)

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October Questions In My October Years

   If you had the misfortune of teaching journalism, what would you tell students about the fallacious label of “BREAKING NEWS” so pervasive on TV now? Would your comments contain many words beginning with “s” and “f”?

   If two hours after you’ve showered and shaved, you discover you put your underwear on backwards is this a sign of the future?

   Will historians trace the decline of the American experience to the millions of drivers who now back into parking spaces instead of driving forward into them as God and Henry Ford intended?

   Would all countries be better off if Facebook devised an IQ test for users before allowing access to its platform?

   What do you call a person who buys lima beans at the farmer’s market, struggles to take them out of their pods and then puts them on the stove and forgets about them because he is updating his mini iPad?

   Is there no one at CBS News who has told Norah O’Donnell her consistent use of the word “all right” before telling a new story is sophomoric, unnecessary, aggravating, stupid?

   How much longer will it be before wearing seat belts, stopping at red lights and using toilet paper are viewed by many citizens as a limitation on personal freedom and therefore unconstitutional?

   Would eating lima beans so burnt they were black kill you?

   If Norah O’Donnell has been told about the “all right” business, does she have a hearing problem?

   What are the chances that a certain guy at the gym will be able to figure out finally that if I’m inches away from the stretching bench and my baseball hat, New York Times, water bottle, and sanitizer are next to the bench that it is being used by me and maybe he shouldn’t toss his cellphone on it and take it over?

   Why doesn’t The New York Times save paper and salaries and stop pretending it has a Sports page?

   After Donald John Trump falls out of favor with believers in his “Big Lie,” who will be first—Mitch McConnell or Kevin McCarthy—to write a book claiming that he had been working vigorously all the time behind the scenes to lessen the damage the King of Bankruptcies was doing to the country and its institutions?

   Would the earth spin out of control if just once ESPN showed basketball highlights that included no dunks but a couple of magnificent passes?

   Would Norah O’Donnell notice if members of her crew began every conversation with “all right”?

   What do I say if one of the kids or grandkids asks, “How were the lima beans?”

   When I see a road crew digging up a street in my town, will I ever get tired of telling folks at the coffee shop, “They’re looking for Hillary’s emails”?

(Posted October 26, 2021)

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 What I've Learned On The Way To 84

 Seventy years ago I was impressed by breasts on girls 14 and older. Now, I have my own breasts. I’m not impressed. I’m depressed.

   There’s no reason to feel guilty about taking a nap at 10:30 a.m. Just do it. This brief snooze in no way negates the need for your usual nap after lunch.

   When you reach into the cookie jar and two cookies are stuck together, do not separate them. That would be discrimination. And also stupid.

   Prostate jokes aren’t nearly as funny as they were 30 years ago.

   If my medical folder at my primary care doctor gets any thicker, the nurse is going to have to use both hands and maybe a back brace to carry it into the examination room.

   So what if nearly every night from eight to nine you yawn constantly? You know around 9:10 you will get a second wind and will stay up, as usual, until 11:45.

   If by mistake you throw in the garbage the washed and trimmed parsley you wrapped in a paper towel, it’s okay to retrieve it and put it on top of the lamb burgers, but your wife doesn’t need to know about this. 

   There are certain words, no matter how many times you look them up, that will never stick in your brain. My words in this category include “synecdoche.”

   It’s no big deal if you tell yourself every morning, “I can’t have dessert every night” and then when eight o’clock rolls around you prove, again, that you can.

   When I was still working in news, there was probably an 84-year-old retired journalist yelling at the radio and TV about the lack of good writing and editing and the absence of any standards. 

   A size 36 pair of pants with an expandable waistband really isn’t a 36, but there’s no harm in thinking it is.

   If you see a guy on a bike who looks like your banker, and you roll down your car window and say, as he passes by, “you’re a cutie” but then realize he wasn’t your banker, you don’t have to tell your wife about this either.

   When you’ve spent a life addicted to wisecracks, most of them bad wisecracks, it’s going to be tough for your family to know when you’re genuinely senile.

   If you always wear a black T-shirt, it’s harder to see the chocolate syrup on it.

(Posted September 25, 2021)

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THE OTTER BOX DEFENDER 

    I am not handy. You have to be patient to be handy. I am not patient.

    Nicholas, our grandson, who claims to be 32 years old, and his wife, Shirley, insisted on buying me a new mini iPad for Father’s Day. Nicholas had given me my first mini iPad several Christmases ago. Irene, who claims to be older than 32, insisted on buying me a case for my new toy.

    The case is an Otter Box Defender. That’s what it says on the top of the box it came in. On the bottom of the box, there is the word “drop” and a + sign.  

     When I opened the box, there was a piece of plastic over part of the case. It looked unnecessary, so my 83-year-old hands tugged and pulled until I removed this un-neccessity. I am not handy. It turns out the clear plastic was the screen that would allow me—perhaps eventually—to push the buttons on my mini iPad while it was held tightly in the case.

    This screw-up was not really my fault. No instructions came with the Otter Box Defender. None. Not even a hard to understand drawing somewhere on the box. The back of the box is populated by descriptions in both English and French of the attributes of the case. These include being subjected to “24+ tests, including thermal shock, abrasion and drop.” I believe Abrasion and Drop was one of the high-powered legal firms that turned down the chance to defend Donald J. Trump.

    With no instructions on how to open the case, I called on Mr. Google for help. I watched approximately ten different videos, a couple of them 30-40 times, showing how to open the Otter Box Defender so a mini iPad may be inserted. None of them worked for me. I was too embarrassed to ask Nicholas or any of the other grandkids to have a go at this.

    The smartest thing to do, I thought briefly, was to put on a disguise and go to Best Buy and ask for help from their Geek Squad. That would be humiliating, but I figured the folks at the Geek Squad need a good laugh every now and then.

    I ended up taking the case to Best Buy dressed as myself, meaning dirty baseball cap, T-shirt and shorts. A person wearing a Geek Squad shirt, who may possibly be 14 on his next birthday, quickly opened the case with a practiced thumb. It took him, maybe, 90 seconds to take the case completely apart, slip in my mini iPad and put the blasted thing back together. Showoff. 

    This has been a learning experience. For one thing, I was unaware that otters made boxes. Does anyone know if they are also good at gift wrapping?

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FROM THE ROCKVILLE CENTRE PUBLIC LIBRARY

Local Authors Larry and Irene McCoy (In-person)
 

Sunday September 19, 2021
2:00 PM

After 61 years of marriage, Irene and Larry McCoy are still speaking to each other. The fact that they don’t hear as well as they once did may partially explain this phenomenon. The pair will give a humorous account of their lives together and read from their recently published books, Only Gypsies Move on Sunday and Grandma Told Me to Never Believe Anything Grandpa Says.

The Rockville Centre Public Library is at 211 North Village Avenue, about a half mile from the LIRR train station. Phone is 516-766-6257.

(Posted August 30, 2021)

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My Days In A Fraternity

    (My mom’s mom is the only grandparent I really knew. She lived down the block from us, and when my parents moved just before my senior year in high school it was decided I would live with Charity Melissa Thornton Smith Alexander, my grandmother. I do not know if she said “yes” to this arrangement at the point of a gun. My dad owned several. 

   (I enjoyed sitting around her coal stove listening to her stories about my mom, the pneumonia I had as an infant, and Edward, one of her sons who drowned  as a teenager. I wish I had asked her more questions about her life. A couple years ago I started writing pieces for our four grandkids about growing up in rural Indiana; how I loved high school and how my first couple of years in college were a struggle.)

   I had never been in a sports car before. I was about to finish high school and was all of 17. It was a snug two-seater, maybe an MG, so low if you opened the door and put your hand down you could become a knuckle-dragger. I had been invited by Jim Rogers from my hometown of Frankfort to see if I wanted to pledge to his fraternity at Indiana University in Bloomington. (Excuse me if I’m not sure of the name of the fraternity. Our relationship, as you will see, was brief.)

   The guy who owned the MG was a smooth-talker from Tennessee, and we drove in the rain to see “Blackboard Jungle,” a tough movie about a rookie teacher trying to maintain order in a New York City school. More than 65 years later I still think about driving to see that film when I’m out on the street on a rainy evening. I’m guessing that we also had something to eat. Whether this happened, before or after I was given a tour of the fraternity house I don’t remember.

   I wasn’t really fraternity material. For some reason—and it took me a long time to get over this—I didn’t think I was as good, as smart, as good-looking as other guys. There were certain places I didn’t belong. It wasn’t until I was in my late 30s or early 40s and making decent money that I felt comfortable going into restaurants that were several notches above a diner. Still, before I had attended a single class at Indiana University, I ended up pledging to Phi Kappa Whatever. 

   It was a losing proposition from the start. I was going to be living at home and not sleeping or dining at the frat house. Plus I was working nights at the A&P and what little studying I did was either at the Gables, a coffee shop next to campus, or the university library. I rarely had time or inclination to be at the fraternity house. I remember hearing a complaint that I was “seldom there.” Well, duh. Yes.

   I’m not sure I lasted even a month as a fraternity brother. One night at the fraternity the pledges were being ordered, amid much yelling of upper classmen, to run from the first floor of the house to the top and back again. Several times. 

   Surprisingly, this did not strike me as either a stimulating endeavor or necessary. I don’t recall how many times I ran up and down the %^&*(%^&*() stairs. What sticks in my mind is an act of honor and honesty. I went up to Jim Rogers, handed him my pledge pin, made some undoubtedly nasty comment about what the pledges were being told to do and said, in what I hope was a clear, calm voice, “Here’s your pin. Stick it up your ass.” No, I do not know if he did as I requested.

   So instead of hanging around and BSing with the frat brothers I shared time, stocking shelves and mopping floors at the A&P,  with the Armstrong brothers, Bloomington kids who introduced me to limestone quarries instead of sorority girls. I’ve never for a second regretted my decision to leave Krappa Dappa Du or whatever it was called. (Posted August 4,2021.)

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My Figured Out's Never Been More Confused   

 “My Figured Out’s Never Been More Confused” is a line borrowed from the lyrics of Eric Church

    Wednesday, July 7th, 2021 was a typical day for this senior citizen. To start at the finish: When I went upstairs to brush my teeth before going to bed, a glance in the mirror showed there were two long brown streaks on my T-shirt—Hershey’s chocolate syrup from the ice cream eaten three hours earlier. I haven’t dared look at the living room couch, the site of the ice cream consumption. It is a brown couch but whether it is as dark as Mrs. Hershey’s syrup I don’t know.

    Conversations with Irene have included the T-shirt but not the couch. I intend to keep it that way.

    Before the ice cream, there was dinner—chicken sausage with broccoli and snap peas and pasta. We use a lot of olive oil, and “my figured out’s never been more confused” when I tried to open a new bottle. The 48-fluid ounce bottle of Pompeian Extra Virgin olive oil had an uncooperative top, a two-tier job with the upper tier supposed to screw off. (Author’s inquiry: Can “screw off” be used when talking about something labeled “extra virgin”?) 

    The skillet with the chicken sausage needed more olive oil, so I hurried, grabbing a pair of pliers and trying to use it to unscrew the top layer of the cap while holding the bottom layer with my hands. No luck.

    I moved the skillet off the burner and searched for another tool. I found a silver thing with squeezable handles (later identified by Irene as a nut cracker). I took the pliers again, attached them to the bottom tier of the cap and used the silver thing to grab hold of the top tier.

    Success! I was pleased, so pleased I had a Chrismasy feeling. All together: “Silver thing, silver thing. It’s olive oil time in the kitchen.” 

    Before this struggle with the Pompeian oil, I noticed I had missed a call on my cellphone, but there was a transcription. It began: “Good afternoon this is Dave_____from Chase bank and left the center I’m trying to contact Larry McCoy a mystical….’’ Eighty-four years old in a few weeks and suddenly I’m “a mystical.” Well, it’s about time.

    The transcription went on to say Dave “is simply checking in to make sure all is well with the relationship here at 10 N. Phyllis….”

    If Dave is a good banker, he appreciates the value of confidentiality, and I’m hoping he keeps his trap shut about the relationship I have with “N. Phyllis” and doesn’t find out there’s also something going on between me and “S. Phyllis”.

    Who knows, if Dave calls me again in six months and I don’t answer, maybe the transcription will describe me as a saint. Should that happen then Chase bank really needs to find another transcription service.

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    *The title is a line from an Eric Church song called “Mixed Drinks About Feelings.”

(Posted July 13, 2021)

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  61st WEDDING ANNIVERSARY  

    Irene and I were married 61 years ago, July 2, 1960, in Whiting, Indiana, a town known for paying its teachers well and for, the only time I saw them, a high school football team that walked onto the field at game time

    July 2, 2021

   For you youngsters reading this, here’s a game plan for celebrating your 61st anniversary.

   1. Get out of bed. I did. This is the way most good days start. 

   2. Scratch. (It is to be hoped your bride/groom is asleep or at least groggy enough that he/she doesn’t see this.)

   3. Bathroom time.

   4. Do your stretching exercises. In my household, these are done downstairs so no need to be tentative about scratching. 

   5. Have some water or Gatorade before or during stretching. Though Irene’s boss left us a bottle of Early Times at the Drake Hotel in Chicago on our wedding night, Early Times or other bourbons are not recommended as a substitute at this hour for water, Gatorade or orange juice. Besides we probably don’t have any ice.

   6. Get dressed. Bring in The New York Times, glance at the front page and take that section with you to the gym along with a bottle of water and a tangerine.

   7. Eat the tangerine in the car on the short drive to the gym, trying not to get any tangerine juice on your shorts as you do many mornings. It’s sort of embarrassing to get to the gym with wet shorts, and then everyone there you know asks, “Is that tangerine juice on your shorts?”

   8. Clean off a recumbent bike and ride for 32 minutes. Your reading of The Times will be interrupted by one of the gym regulars, men not as old as you and who don’t read at the gym. These men have occasionally been told by you, “You know some people who come to the gym use the equipment.” They laugh and just keep talking. 

   9. Go into the stretching room and stretch some more and also grab a couple of five-pound weights. Do arm exercises with the weights, amazing yourself once again how pooped you get doing this in such a short time. Contemplate a dish of ice cream, a large dish, after supper.

   10. Head to the usual place for a copy of Newsday and a dollar scratch off ticket.

   11. Drive home, drink some more Gatorade, take your morning pills (all nine or ten of them), wash your face and head out to the Flour Shoppe, a neat bakery-cafe not far from your house. 

   12. Eat a large omelet with bacon, cheese and veggies. Have a taste of your bride’s blueberry pancakes.

   13. Back home, resume reading of the front section of The Times before heading upstairs to your laptop to answer email and Facebook messages. Rest your eyes in between writing these answers. Wake up after a couple of sharp head snaps. 

   14. Head downstairs for lunch only three hours after you finished breakfast. It’s the usual for you—fruit yogurt that you load up with many helpings of unsalted peanuts and a piece of fruit. This day it was a tangerine, so if there is juice on your shorts it doesn’t matter this time.

   15. While dining in the breakfast nook, turn on the telly. After brief looks at the three major so-called cable “news” channels, switch to TMC where “Crime School” is playing. This is a 1938 beauty with Leo Gorcey, Huntz Hall and Humphrey Bogart. Wonder out loud to your bride whether Bogey ever had drinks with Leo and Huntz and what their conversations would have been like. 

   16. Take a nap on the couch in the living rroom, covering yourself with a blanket because a certain person should have married an air conditioner salesman because she loves the AC. You do not say anything about the frigid temperature in the living room to the Bride of Nanook of the North, which is among the reasons you have been married 61 years. 

   17. Call one of your favorite restaurants to order dinner to be picked up at 6:45, 15 minutes before the start of the Yankees-Mets game. In answer to my question, the lady who took our order on the phone said they do not give refunds if the Yankees lose.

   18. Make sure the lady knows your order includes two (2) brownies. I don’t give a damn how long you’ve been married, brownies are NEVER shared.

(Posted July 3, 2021) 

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I'm Prepared For The Next Time

   At 83 my memory isn’t as sharp as I thought it once was. (Or even twice was.) I recently got a Facebook Friend request from someone whose name sounded familiar from a newsroom I worked in decades ago. Soon after I said “yes” to the request I received a “how’s-it-going?” message. 

   I recounted to this new “friend” what I’ve been doing in recent years (books written, et cetera) and asked that he remind me how we knew each other. The response ignored the question and asked if I was aware of some program that would provide me up to $150,000. My answer could have been, “Yes, that seems to be about the going rate for ladies to keep quiet about having sex with Donald John Trump.” (“John” as a middle name really fits here.)

   I ran the name by one of my former CBS News bosses and was told someone on Facebook was impersonating a person we knew and was involved in a scam.

   Lesson learned, I hope. The next time I encounter something fishy on the internet, someone wanting to be buddy-buddy I’ll be ready. Not only ready, I’m going to have a little fun with it, making up stuff. Many politicians do that all the time, so why can’t I. 

   As a public service for others who may be faced with similar situations here are a few “starter” paragraphs to get you going on a snappy response to the “How’s it going” question from someone you suspect is up to no good. The goal is to get them to leave you the hell alone. 

   Dear xxxx,

   Well, damn. It’s so good to hear from you. Florence and I are busy as hell, partly because she’s 23 years younger than I am and can’t keep her hands off me, and partly because we’re managers of a new rock group called Hot Car Stench. If you haven’t heard of them yet, trust me you will. And soon.

   Oh, wow. Sorry I started this four days ago and never finished it. See what I mean about Florence?

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   Yo, xxxx,

   Look at that. You tracked me down. Good work. I’ve bounced around a lot in the last ten years. After that stint in London working for Boris Johnson—yes, it ended badly as most of my family said it would—I took some time off (or thought I was going to) to study for my CPA license. Then some weasel scoured the internet (get a life!) and found two outstanding warrants for me in East Eau Claire, and that CPA endeavor went down the drain. It’s serendipity that you got in touch. How are you fixed for cash, old friend? Large, fast cash?

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   Hey xxxx,

   Refresh my memory if you don’t mind. Did we work together at Ford Motors or are you the guy who borrowed my JetBlue credit card one night (with my permission) to buy five cans of whipped cream at some insane place in Louisiana. Right next to Trader Joe’s if memory serves. If you are Mr. Whipped Cream, what a night that was and no, you dummy, I didn’t give whatever her name was my phone number. Not even my real name for that matter. How she got your cell number, I don’t know. Don’t blame me.

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   I’ve now blocked whoever it was trying to scam me on Facebook. I need to keep this essay short and get back to dealing with a fresh email from the government of Venezuela where the national bank has $3 million with my name on it if only I answer a few simple questions and do so my midnight tonight. Maybe I’ll send them the Boris Johnson business.  (Posted June 8, 2021)

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       A BIRTHDAY WEEK

   Irene, my wife, turned 83 in April and, feeling bold after being fully vaccinated, we went to the Berkshires for one night. We stayed at a small bed and breakfast, so small there were only two units for rent. It was dark when we came back from dinner, and, thanks to multiple coaching sessions by one of our granddaughters, I was able to activate the light on my cellphone, helping me see where to put the key. It took some jiggling of the key to get the door to open. 

   Before leaving the next morning, I could not find the key, and, since it was daylight, I didn’t think activating the light on my cellphone would help any. I looked in pants pockets, jacket pockets, on the desk and ledges in our unit. No key. After several minutes of searching, I glanced out the glass door and there was the key. It had spent the night outdoors. In the lock.

   A day later, Irene’s birthday, the two of us had dinner at a favorite restaurant in our town and then went home for ice cream and cake. Our guests for dessert included Rachel, our oldest granddaughter. After the singing of Happy Birthday, Rachel was drafted to cut the cake, and I went to the kitchen and grabbed a couple of utensils for the job. When it comes to cake-cutting, Rachel has followed the example of her grandmother; the pieces she cuts are approximately the size of Boston. Once she completed this task she held up one of the tools I had brought out of the kitchen and explained that it was a cheese cutter not something used to cut cake. I did what all smart men do when reprimanded by a woman: I shrugged. 

   Just before we had left for the restaurant, the phone rang and amazingly it was not a robo call. It was my dermatologist. He explained how to treat a patch of skin on my right temple. He recommended an over-the-counter ointment with what sounded like seven or eight syllables in its name. I was going to ask him how to spell the damn thing when he had a coughing spasm. Before I could make a wisecrack suggesting he see a doctor, the dermatologist said, “That’s what happens when you try to talk and eat a cookie at the same time.” At the time there was one piece of birthday cake left, and I wondered if he would like it.

     (Posted May 15)

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TEXTS, TEARS AND SMILES

(This has just been published in ESCAPE, CAW Anthology Spring 2021.)

   After decades of churning out prose as a journalist, I began writing poetry for the first time nearly a year ago as a way to keep in touch with two young granddaughters.  

   My wife and I skipped the 16th birthday party of one of the girls because of COVID-19 and our ages, early 80s. We felt guilty about missing Daniella’s big day, but Irene and I were scared of contracting the virus and seldom left the house. I went to the supermarket, got morning coffee and a newspaper and that was about it.  

   I probably shouldn’t use the word “poetry” to describe the texts I sent to the girls. They’re silly “roses are red, violets are blue” fluff. An example:

  “Roses are red, violets are blue.

   “I swallowed a golf ball. 

   “Now what do I do?”   

   Cristiana, 12, quickly answered: “Lol you  talk to a doctor.” 

   Another early effort:

   “Roses are red, violets are blue.   

   “If you owned a train,

   “You could drive a choo-choo.”

   Daniella provided a cheeky reply: “Look at those rhymes.”

   Many of the girls’ responses were entertaining and were unencumbered by what people my age call punctuation. At my suggestion, they wrote their own poems one day: 

    Cristiana: “Roses are red, violets are blue I miss the old days cause I really miss you. But only happy vibes will make us thrive ….”

   Daniella: “Roses are red, violets are blue we had dinner last night, good thing we didn’t have stew. For dessert we had ice cream and cake, and when it melted it was a lake.”

   Things changed in all our lives in late June, 2020 when Cristiana’s headaches and vomiting, originally diagnosed as a bad ear infection, turned out to be a brain tumor. 

   She had five operations and spent 47 out of 58 days in a hospital or a rehab center. Although the tumor was benign, Cristiana had a long road ahead of her, beginning with learning to walk again.

   Twice, after setbacks, I stopped sending the poems but then resumed, hoping they might help me and Daniella keep our spirits up and maybe even Cristiana’s on days when she felt strong enough to check her cellphone.

   Trying to make the texts more interesting, I started including cellphone pictures, most of them taken on my morning walk in a park. After a while, I became so good at this that several of the pictures did not include my thumb. 

   Because of my ineptitude with devices, I jokingly call myself the Craftsman. After taking a picture of two seagulls, I sent a very unpoetic text:

   “Good morning. Roses are red, violins are brown. (Just seeing if you are paying attention.) These two seagulls asked the Craftsman to take their graduation picture. He did. They said they would send the money later. Can seagulls be trusted? Enjoy today. Love and mucho hugs.”

   Cristiana hadn’t lost her sense of humor, even in a pediatric ICU: “Lol I don’t think ur getting that money I had to wake up early for a cat scan.”

   Daniella showed little respect: “I love your shadow in the photo.”

   Another day only one seagull was in the picture:

   “Roses are red, violets are blue. Good morning to you two. (If you were sheep, it would be good morning to you two ewes.) A seagull begins her day at Bay Park. No therapy to do. No homework. But no apple pie. Life is full of trade-offs. How are we today? Love….”

   That set off an exchange with Cristiana:

“Lol! Last night sucked I’m gonna try to take some naps today”

   “You couldn’t sleep or?”

   “I just didn’t feel good and was scared I was gonna throw up again”   

   “But you didn’t?”

   “No Not at night at least idk (I don’t know) if anyone told you but I threw up yesterday before dinner” 

   “Yes. We heard. It’s good it was only once. Keep smiling.”

   “I will, it’s just I’m really sick of it and I want all this medical stuff to end”

   “Understand. We all do!....”

   Only her parents were allowed to see her. Her days were full of MRIs, cat scans, and COVID-19 tests. It was exhausting for the entire family. Occasionally we would have a brief chat on the phone, but it was hard to know what to say to a young girl who asked her parents before one operation, “Am I going to die?” (All these months later typing that question is still painful.)

   Despite a feeling of helplessness, I didn’t stop sending texts, thinking they might give her a few seconds of diversion, something to take her mind off recurring questions, asked out loud to mom and dad: “Why is this happening to me?” And  “what did I do to deserve this?”          Assurances were given that she hadn’t done anything wrong. The tumor just happened, and that it was good it was found before things got worse.  

   I kept on texting: “Roses are red, violets are blue. Today is sunny. Money, bunny, honey and funny all rhyme with sunny. In a perfect world, someone named Bunny would have money and honey and be funny. You can run out of money. Try not to run out of funny. ”

   The responses from the girls made that one a home run to me.

   Cristiana: “Lol Thank you these make me smile”

   Daniella: “That was a tongue twister.”

One day, apparently having nothing else to occupy my time, I sent a note: 

   “Question: Should I send five roses are red poems a day?”

   Daniella was the first to respond, “Maybe not,” followed by Cristiana “That’s a lot. Save your intelligence.”

   Smart girls. Their parents aren’t raising any dummies.

   Cristiana came home, for good we hope, in August. She’s been doing extensive therapy, going to virtual school, and still receiving poems from me and, I’m pretty sure, rolling her eyes at the really bad ones. Atta girl.

(Posted May 2, 2021)

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ESCAPE, CAW Anthology Spring 2021  is a volume of poems, short stories, essays and other works produced by the Calling All Writers group. It’s now available on Amazon.

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  AM I DONE WITH SKIING?

 (This appeared in the April 4, 2021 edition of Newsday.)

    THINK I MAY BE AT THE END OF MY SLOPE 

    After 46 years ago of skiing and thousands of wonderful moments, it may be time for this octogenarian to stop. It’s hard for many of us to know when we are no longer capable of handling something we love to do, be it play or work. 

     With the COVID-19 pandemic creating complications, I hadn’t skied a lick this season until my son, Jack, and I went to Camelback Mountain in Pennsylvania recently. Assuming I would be tired after this outing, I emailed the leader of a Long Island writing group that I wouldn’t make a video session scheduled for that evening. 

     She responded: “As you swoosh down the mountain, I hope a new essay will occur to you for us to hear next time!  Have fun!”   

     There was no swooshing, no fun, but you’re reading a new essay.  

     Perhaps I should have known this was not to be my day when just before we got on a chairlift I realized my goggles were attached upside down to my helmet. Once this was corrected, Jack and I rode the chairlift up, and I skied maybe 20 yards before taking a hard fall, landing on my left side. Good heavens, this was level land, and I couldn’t deal with it.

     When Jack saw I was down, he yelled, “Are you okay?” My left side hurt and the tumble had scared me. “No,” I replied. He climbed up to me and demanded that I take the chairlift back down. I said “no.” He said we were done for the day.

     I wanted to keep going and insisted I would ski down. When we got to the bottom of the run, we went to the first aid office where a young medic pressed on my left rib cage and had me breathe. I was in pain but not agony. He didn’t think anything was broken but suggested a chest x-ray when we got home.

     Jack handed me the car keys and ordered me to go there while he took one run. My condition became clearer to me at the car. I couldn’t bend comfortably to take my boots off and had to ask Jack to do it for me. 

     As we headed home, he called his mother. After several sighs and “oh Lords,” Irene looked up the phone number for a radiology place in Lynbrook. I got an appointment for an x-ray later that day.

     During the drive back to Long Island, Jack talked of how long we had skied together, skiing that included trips with his two young daughters. He made it clear he thought I should stop. I was done.

     I naturally advanced the illusion that I would spend the rest of the year working on my balance, and when the snows came again I would be back out there. He wasn’t buying that nor was another frequent ski buddy, Nicholas, our grandson, when he talked to me later in the day. 

     The x-ray showed “a nondisplaced fracture of the left sixth rib.” Later tests showed I had also broken two pelvic bones and torn a hamstring.

     In all my years of playing football in high school and pickup basketball into my 70s, I had never broken a bone. 

     Although my brain is telling me enough is probably enough, I’m sure my pride will be lobbying for one more chance when the 2021-2022 ski season starts. 

     While I was at the radiology facility, Jack texted me, asking what was going on. I tried to type “waiting to be x-rayed” but twice the message came out “waiting to be crated.” 

     Aren’t we all.

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(Jack took the picture several years while we were skiing (upright skiing) at Beaver Creek, Colorado. His work may be seen at https://jackmccoyphotography.com/)

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  SALUTE TO ANTON LINDNER

   One of the best men I ever met died this week. Anton Lindner worked at Radio Free Europe and was very helpful (and patient) with me when we first moved to Munich more than half a century ago. We played tennis at clay courts across from RFE, and it was Toni who relayed a suggestion from the management that I wear something more appropriate than high top basketball shoes and blue shorts.

   He took me and my daughter Julie sledding in Westendorf, Austria—a day I remember because Toni’s idea of a sled wasn’t mine. I was used to American Flyer sleds that had a handle to steer. The sleds of Westendorf had no handles. You allegedly steered and controlled your speed with your feet. Right. I ran at great speed, feet-first into a barn door. No, I didn’t think it was funny then, but I do now. 

   Toni spoke and wrote excellent English at work and in letters. In one of his last emails, he sent a joke circulating in Germany about what George Bush, Barack Obama and Donald Trump say when they meet God.  

   He recommended places newcomers to Europe could visit. He went with us to Melk, Austria, along the Danube River, a lovely area we liked so much that we took my folks there when they came to see us. Toni had an assortment of ties, which, of course, I made fun of. One night when our shift in the newsroom was almost over I told Toni I would give him 10 marks for his tie. He handed it over and I cut it up and distributed the pieces to others in the newsroom.

   Forty one years after we came back to the States we were still in touch. He sent the best Christmas cards with inviting pictures of winter in Munich. In the years when my son, grandson (Jack and Nicholas) and I were able to go skiing in Austria, it was Toni who volunteered to make reservations for us and other RFEers at the Augustiner Keller in Munich, where we spent the night before heading home. (Editor’s notes: A portion of the night was spent in a Munich hotel not the beer hall. The picture shows Toni on the phone at the Augustiner to Irene back on Long Island.) 

   A month or so after one of these outings Toni would send a collection of pictures from the evening, which got the juices going for another visit the following year. 

   He was a generous man and sent a substantial wedding gift to Nicholas and his wife, Shirley Cruz.

   Everyone liked him. When told of the news about Toni, another buddy from my days at RFE said “such a sweetheart.” He sure as hell was. 

(Posted March 20, 2021)

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One Down, One To Go

   Most of the seniors I know can’t shut up about Covid-19 vaccinations—whether they have had any shots or whether they are still struggling to get an appointment. 

   After many hours of frustrating internet searches and phone calls, I secured appointments for my wife and me, but they were at different locations and weeks away. Then a call from the Bronx, more than 20 miles from our home on Long Island, asked if Irene and I were available for shots in four days. Were we ever. We got our shots on a Sunday afternoon and were impressed by the organization and efficiency of the procedure at the St. Barnabas Health and Wellness Center. 

   Our son, Jack, who drove us there, won’t stop teasing me about how excited I was when the call came from St. Barnabas. In an email to the family, all I put in the subject line was “Jackpot!” I hope he doesn’t find out that when the young-sounding man on the phone confirmed all the information he needed I said, “You know, I love you.”

   Although setting up appointments was an exasperating experience, it was also a learning one. My prowling of the internet included logging on to a medical site I seldom use. I was informed that I would be asked three security questions to confirm my identity. I got no further than “Question 1 of 3: What was the name of your first stuffed animal?”

   I am not making this up. I’ve never had a stuffed animal, which is a good thing because with my temper any such creature in my possession would quickly become unstuffed. At a loss how to respond to the question, I entered “none.” That was the wrong answer and I was denied access to the site. Usually when I’m asked to pick security questions, I go for the simple stuff: grade school attended; hometown; and year married. What could the second and third security questions have been? Maybe (2) Why aren’t you speaking to your younger brother? And (3) why do you feel you owe an apology to all your former bosses?

   All my site browsing and clicking made me realize I have way too many different passwords. The sites, ranging from ABC Reunion (as in ABC News) to Zwanger-Pesiri, (a radiology outfit), are listed on an eight-page printout. The experts say you should change your passwords every six months. It would not be fun trying to think up new passwords for all those addresses. What if I simply used one password for every site? Something like Clueless@83. That could easily be changed six months later to Clueless@83andahalf and easily updated from then on.

   Most of the time when I was on the New York State website all the locations within 40 miles of us had “no appointments available currently.” On the Covid vaccination phone line, when there was an availability the process bogged down because the schedulers had to read legal disclaimers. All the people I dealt with apologized before reading the disclaimer, which must have taken four minutes, start to finish. 

   If government lawyers insisted this be done, couldn’t a recorded version have been read by a celebrity?  I mean are Scarlett Johansson and Brad Pitt so busy they couldn’t have voiced the disclaimers? This octogenarian asks what guy wouldn’t want to say “yes” to Scarlett Johansson?

      (Posted March 9, 2021)

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        EARLY 2021 QUESTIONS 

   If Kentucky can’t elect anyone more qualified to sit in the U.S. Senate than Mitch McConnell and Rand Paul, should its two seats be taken away and given to Washington, D.C.? After all, there are more people in the Washington metro area than in Kentucky.

   If Trump had won a second term, would Uber Eats have morphed into Uber Alles?

   In filling out the New York State eligibility form for Covid vaccinations, am I the only one who had to look up “non-binary,” one of the choices along with male and female?

   I recently had four medical visits scheduled in one week and was seen at two of the sessions by nurse practitioners. Could I be classified as a patient practitioner? 

   What are the chances the NFL would scrub the frequently ridiculous half-time show at the Super Bowl and instead let two competitive football teams take the field to fill that time?

   Is the Republican Party going to be another one of those entities Donald John Trump puts out of business à la Trump Airlines, Trump Steaks, Trump University and on and on?

   Should that happen, will you have a frowny face?

   Is there a newspaper in the United States with a worse sports section than The New York Times? Say what? I don’t believe you.

   If Rachel Maddow didn’t say everything 15 times, 14 different ways would her show on MSNBC be only ten minutes long?

   Did I smile when I opened a Christmas card from friends in Germany that included the sentence, “We were happy to see Donald Duck crash”?

   What is it about Black conservatives that drives white liberals nuts?

   Was Lindsey Graham buried with John McCain and the goofball running around now is an imposter?

   Are Josh Hawley (Yale) and Ted Cruz (Harvard) living proof of the failure of the U.S. education system?

   On the off and sad chance that Donald John Trump wins the Nobel Peace Prize, should the United States immediately invade both Norway and Sweden?

   If all the current Republican members of Congress had been serving during the Nixon Administration, would there have been no visit to the White House to tell him he had to go?

   When Rudy Giuliani’s name is mentioned, what is the first thing that comes into your head? Is the first thing the same as the second and third and fourth things? Could any of these things be said in front of young children?

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   Seventy years ago I was impressed by breasts on girls 14 and older. Now, I have my own breasts. I’m not impressed. I’m depressed.

   There’s no reason to feel guilty about taking a nap at 10:30 a.m. Just do it. This brief snooze in no way negates the need for your usual nap after lunch.

   When you reach into the cookie jar and two cookies are stuck together, do not separate them. That would be discrimination. And also stupid.

   Prostate jokes aren’t nearly as funny as they were 30 years ago.

   If my medical folder at my primary care doctor gets any thicker, the nurse is going to have to use both hands and maybe a back brace to carry it into the examination room.

   So what if nearly every night from eight to nine you yawn constantly? You know around 9:10 you will get a second wind and will stay up, as usual, until 11:45.

   If by mistake you throw in the garbage the washed and trimmed parsley you wrapped in a paper towel, it’s okay to retrieve it and put it on top of the lamb burgers, but your wife doesn’t need to know about this. 

   There are certain words, no matter how many times you look them up, that will never stick in your brain. My words in this category include “synecdoche.”

   It’s no big deal if you tell yourself every morning, “I can’t have dessert every night” and then when eight o’clock rolls around you prove, again, that you can.

   When I was still working in news, there was probably an 84-year-old retired journalist yelling at the radio and TV about the lack of good writing and editing and the absence of any standards. 

   A size 36 pair of pants with an expandable waistband really isn’t a 36, but there’s no harm in thinking it is.

   If you see a guy on a bike who looks like your banker, and you roll down your car window and say, as he passes by, “you’re a cutie” but then realize he wasn’t your banker, you don’t have to tell your wife about this either.

   When you’ve spent a life addicted to wisecracks, most of them bad wisecracks, it’s going to be tough for your family to know when you’re genuinely senile.

   If you always wear a black T-shirt, it’s harder to see the chocolate syrup on it.

(Posted September 25, 2021)

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THE OTTER BOX DEFENDER 

    I am not handy. You have to be patient to be handy. I am not patient.

    Nicholas, our grandson, who claims to be 32 years old, and his wife, Shirley, insisted on buying me a new mini iPad for Father’s Day. Nicholas had given me my first mini iPad several Christmases ago. Irene, who claims to be older than 32, insisted on buying me a case for my new toy.

    The case is an Otter Box Defender. That’s what it says on the top of the box it came in. On the bottom of the box, there is the word “drop” and a + sign.  

     When I opened the box, there was a piece of plastic over part of the case. It looked unnecessary, so my 83-year-old hands tugged and pulled until I removed this un-neccessity. I am not handy. It turns out the clear plastic was the screen that would allow me—perhaps eventually—to push the buttons on my mini iPad while it was held tightly in the case.

    This screw-up was not really my fault. No instructions came with the Otter Box Defender. None. Not even a hard to understand drawing somewhere on the box. The back of the box is populated by descriptions in both English and French of the attributes of the case. These include being subjected to “24+ tests, including thermal shock, abrasion and drop.” I believe Abrasion and Drop was one of the high-powered legal firms that turned down the chance to defend Donald J. Trump.

    With no instructions on how to open the case, I called on Mr. Google for help. I watched approximately ten different videos, a couple of them 30-40 times, showing how to open the Otter Box Defender so a mini iPad may be inserted. None of them worked for me. I was too embarrassed to ask Nicholas or any of the other grandkids to have a go at this.

    The smartest thing to do, I thought briefly, was to put on a disguise and go to Best Buy and ask for help from their Geek Squad. That would be humiliating, but I figured the folks at the Geek Squad need a good laugh every now and then.

    I ended up taking the case to Best Buy dressed as myself, meaning dirty baseball cap, T-shirt and shorts. A person wearing a Geek Squad shirt, who may possibly be 14 on his next birthday, quickly opened the case with a practiced thumb. It took him, maybe, 90 seconds to take the case completely apart, slip in my mini iPad and put the blasted thing back together. Showoff. 

    This has been a learning experience. For one thing, I was unaware that otters made boxes. Does anyone know if they are also good at gift wrapping?

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FROM THE ROCKVILLE CENTRE PUBLIC LIBRARY

Local Authors Larry and Irene McCoy (In-person)
 

Sunday September 19, 2021
2:00 PM

After 61 years of marriage, Irene and Larry McCoy are still speaking to each other. The fact that they don’t hear as well as they once did may partially explain this phenomenon. The pair will give a humorous account of their lives together and read from their recently published books, Only Gypsies Move on Sunday and Grandma Told Me to Never Believe Anything Grandpa Says.

The Rockville Centre Public Library is at 211 North Village Avenue, about a half mile from the LIRR train station. Phone is 516-766-6257.

(Posted August 30, 2021)

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My Days In A Fraternity

    (My mom’s mom is the only grandparent I really knew. She lived down the block from us, and when my parents moved just before my senior year in high school it was decided I would live with Charity Melissa Thornton Smith Alexander, my grandmother. I do not know if she said “yes” to this arrangement at the point of a gun. My dad owned several. 

   (I enjoyed sitting around her coal stove listening to her stories about my mom, the pneumonia I had as an infant, and Edward, one of her sons who drowned  as a teenager. I wish I had asked her more questions about her life. A couple years ago I started writing pieces for our four grandkids about growing up in rural Indiana; how I loved high school and how my first couple of years in college were a struggle.)

   I had never been in a sports car before. I was about to finish high school and was all of 17. It was a snug two-seater, maybe an MG, so low if you opened the door and put your hand down you could become a knuckle-dragger. I had been invited by Jim Rogers from my hometown of Frankfort to see if I wanted to pledge to his fraternity at Indiana University in Bloomington. (Excuse me if I’m not sure of the name of the fraternity. Our relationship, as you will see, was brief.)

   The guy who owned the MG was a smooth-talker from Tennessee, and we drove in the rain to see “Blackboard Jungle,” a tough movie about a rookie teacher trying to maintain order in a New York City school. More than 65 years later I still think about driving to see that film when I’m out on the street on a rainy evening. I’m guessing that we also had something to eat. Whether this happened, before or after I was given a tour of the fraternity house I don’t remember.

   I wasn’t really fraternity material. For some reason—and it took me a long time to get over this—I didn’t think I was as good, as smart, as good-looking as other guys. There were certain places I didn’t belong. It wasn’t until I was in my late 30s or early 40s and making decent money that I felt comfortable going into restaurants that were several notches above a diner. Still, before I had attended a single class at Indiana University, I ended up pledging to Phi Kappa Whatever. 

   It was a losing proposition from the start. I was going to be living at home and not sleeping or dining at the frat house. Plus I was working nights at the A&P and what little studying I did was either at the Gables, a coffee shop next to campus, or the university library. I rarely had time or inclination to be at the fraternity house. I remember hearing a complaint that I was “seldom there.” Well, duh. Yes.

   I’m not sure I lasted even a month as a fraternity brother. One night at the fraternity the pledges were being ordered, amid much yelling of upper classmen, to run from the first floor of the house to the top and back again. Several times. 

   Surprisingly, this did not strike me as either a stimulating endeavor or necessary. I don’t recall how many times I ran up and down the %^&*(%^&*() stairs. What sticks in my mind is an act of honor and honesty. I went up to Jim Rogers, handed him my pledge pin, made some undoubtedly nasty comment about what the pledges were being told to do and said, in what I hope was a clear, calm voice, “Here’s your pin. Stick it up your ass.” No, I do not know if he did as I requested.

   So instead of hanging around and BSing with the frat brothers I shared time, stocking shelves and mopping floors at the A&P,  with the Armstrong brothers, Bloomington kids who introduced me to limestone quarries instead of sorority girls. I’ve never for a second regretted my decision to leave Krappa Dappa Du or whatever it was called. (Posted August 4,2021.)

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My Figured Out's Never Been More Confused   

 “My Figured Out’s Never Been More Confused” is a line borrowed from the lyrics of Eric Church

    Wednesday, July 7th, 2021 was a typical day for this senior citizen. To start at the finish: When I went upstairs to brush my teeth before going to bed, a glance in the mirror showed there were two long brown streaks on my T-shirt—Hershey’s chocolate syrup from the ice cream eaten three hours earlier. I haven’t dared look at the living room couch, the site of the ice cream consumption. It is a brown couch but whether it is as dark as Mrs. Hershey’s syrup I don’t know.

    Conversations with Irene have included the T-shirt but not the couch. I intend to keep it that way.

    Before the ice cream, there was dinner—chicken sausage with broccoli and snap peas and pasta. We use a lot of olive oil, and “my figured out’s never been more confused” when I tried to open a new bottle. The 48-fluid ounce bottle of Pompeian Extra Virgin olive oil had an uncooperative top, a two-tier job with the upper tier supposed to screw off. (Author’s inquiry: Can “screw off” be used when talking about something labeled “extra virgin”?) 

    The skillet with the chicken sausage needed more olive oil, so I hurried, grabbing a pair of pliers and trying to use it to unscrew the top layer of the cap while holding the bottom layer with my hands. No luck.

    I moved the skillet off the burner and searched for another tool. I found a silver thing with squeezable handles (later identified by Irene as a nut cracker). I took the pliers again, attached them to the bottom tier of the cap and used the silver thing to grab hold of the top tier.

    Success! I was pleased, so pleased I had a Chrismasy feeling. All together: “Silver thing, silver thing. It’s olive oil time in the kitchen.” 

    Before this struggle with the Pompeian oil, I noticed I had missed a call on my cellphone, but there was a transcription. It began: “Good afternoon this is Dave_____from Chase bank and left the center I’m trying to contact Larry McCoy a mystical….’’ Eighty-four years old in a few weeks and suddenly I’m “a mystical.” Well, it’s about time.

    The transcription went on to say Dave “is simply checking in to make sure all is well with the relationship here at 10 N. Phyllis….”

    If Dave is a good banker, he appreciates the value of confidentiality, and I’m hoping he keeps his trap shut about the relationship I have with “N. Phyllis” and doesn’t find out there’s also something going on between me and “S. Phyllis”.

    Who knows, if Dave calls me again in six months and I don’t answer, maybe the transcription will describe me as a saint. Should that happen then Chase bank really needs to find another transcription service.

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    *The title is a line from an Eric Church song called “Mixed Drinks About Feelings.”

(Posted July 13, 2021)

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  61st WEDDING ANNIVERSARY  

    Irene and I were married 61 years ago, July 2, 1960, in Whiting, Indiana, a town known for paying its teachers well and for, the only time I saw them, a high school football team that walked onto the field at game time

    July 2, 2021

   For you youngsters reading this, here’s a game plan for celebrating your 61st anniversary.

   1. Get out of bed. I did. This is the way most good days start. 

   2. Scratch. (It is to be hoped your bride/groom is asleep or at least groggy enough that he/she doesn’t see this.)

   3. Bathroom time.

   4. Do your stretching exercises. In my household, these are done downstairs so no need to be tentative about scratching. 

   5. Have some water or Gatorade before or during stretching. Though Irene’s boss left us a bottle of Early Times at the Drake Hotel in Chicago on our wedding night, Early Times or other bourbons are not recommended as a substitute at this hour for water, Gatorade or orange juice. Besides we probably don’t have any ice.

   6. Get dressed. Bring in The New York Times, glance at the front page and take that section with you to the gym along with a bottle of water and a tangerine.

   7. Eat the tangerine in the car on the short drive to the gym, trying not to get any tangerine juice on your shorts as you do many mornings. It’s sort of embarrassing to get to the gym with wet shorts, and then everyone there you know asks, “Is that tangerine juice on your shorts?”

   8. Clean off a recumbent bike and ride for 32 minutes. Your reading of The Times will be interrupted by one of the gym regulars, men not as old as you and who don’t read at the gym. These men have occasionally been told by you, “You know some people who come to the gym use the equipment.” They laugh and just keep talking. 

   9. Go into the stretching room and stretch some more and also grab a couple of five-pound weights. Do arm exercises with the weights, amazing yourself once again how pooped you get doing this in such a short time. Contemplate a dish of ice cream, a large dish, after supper.

   10. Head to the usual place for a copy of Newsday and a dollar scratch off ticket.

   11. Drive home, drink some more Gatorade, take your morning pills (all nine or ten of them), wash your face and head out to the Flour Shoppe, a neat bakery-cafe not far from your house. 

   12. Eat a large omelet with bacon, cheese and veggies. Have a taste of your bride’s blueberry pancakes.

   13. Back home, resume reading of the front section of The Times before heading upstairs to your laptop to answer email and Facebook messages. Rest your eyes in between writing these answers. Wake up after a couple of sharp head snaps. 

   14. Head downstairs for lunch only three hours after you finished breakfast. It’s the usual for you—fruit yogurt that you load up with many helpings of unsalted peanuts and a piece of fruit. This day it was a tangerine, so if there is juice on your shorts it doesn’t matter this time.

   15. While dining in the breakfast nook, turn on the telly. After brief looks at the three major so-called cable “news” channels, switch to TMC where “Crime School” is playing. This is a 1938 beauty with Leo Gorcey, Huntz Hall and Humphrey Bogart. Wonder out loud to your bride whether Bogey ever had drinks with Leo and Huntz and what their conversations would have been like. 

   16. Take a nap on the couch in the living rroom, covering yourself with a blanket because a certain person should have married an air conditioner salesman because she loves the AC. You do not say anything about the frigid temperature in the living room to the Bride of Nanook of the North, which is among the reasons you have been married 61 years. 

   17. Call one of your favorite restaurants to order dinner to be picked up at 6:45, 15 minutes before the start of the Yankees-Mets game. In answer to my question, the lady who took our order on the phone said they do not give refunds if the Yankees lose.

   18. Make sure the lady knows your order includes two (2) brownies. I don’t give a damn how long you’ve been married, brownies are NEVER shared.

(Posted July 3, 2021) 

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I'm Prepared For The Next Time

   At 83 my memory isn’t as sharp as I thought it once was. (Or even twice was.) I recently got a Facebook Friend request from someone whose name sounded familiar from a newsroom I worked in decades ago. Soon after I said “yes” to the request I received a “how’s-it-going?” message. 

   I recounted to this new “friend” what I’ve been doing in recent years (books written, et cetera) and asked that he remind me how we knew each other. The response ignored the question and asked if I was aware of some program that would provide me up to $150,000. My answer could have been, “Yes, that seems to be about the going rate for ladies to keep quiet about having sex with Donald John Trump.” (“John” as a middle name really fits here.)

   I ran the name by one of my former CBS News bosses and was told someone on Facebook was impersonating a person we knew and was involved in a scam.

   Lesson learned, I hope. The next time I encounter something fishy on the internet, someone wanting to be buddy-buddy I’ll be ready. Not only ready, I’m going to have a little fun with it, making up stuff. Many politicians do that all the time, so why can’t I. 

   As a public service for others who may be faced with similar situations here are a few “starter” paragraphs to get you going on a snappy response to the “How’s it going” question from someone you suspect is up to no good. The goal is to get them to leave you the hell alone. 

   Dear xxxx,

   Well, damn. It’s so good to hear from you. Florence and I are busy as hell, partly because she’s 23 years younger than I am and can’t keep her hands off me, and partly because we’re managers of a new rock group called Hot Car Stench. If you haven’t heard of them yet, trust me you will. And soon.

   Oh, wow. Sorry I started this four days ago and never finished it. See what I mean about Florence?

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   Yo, xxxx,

   Look at that. You tracked me down. Good work. I’ve bounced around a lot in the last ten years. After that stint in London working for Boris Johnson—yes, it ended badly as most of my family said it would—I took some time off (or thought I was going to) to study for my CPA license. Then some weasel scoured the internet (get a life!) and found two outstanding warrants for me in East Eau Claire, and that CPA endeavor went down the drain. It’s serendipity that you got in touch. How are you fixed for cash, old friend? Large, fast cash?

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   Hey xxxx,

   Refresh my memory if you don’t mind. Did we work together at Ford Motors or are you the guy who borrowed my JetBlue credit card one night (with my permission) to buy five cans of whipped cream at some insane place in Louisiana. Right next to Trader Joe’s if memory serves. If you are Mr. Whipped Cream, what a night that was and no, you dummy, I didn’t give whatever her name was my phone number. Not even my real name for that matter. How she got your cell number, I don’t know. Don’t blame me.

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   I’ve now blocked whoever it was trying to scam me on Facebook. I need to keep this essay short and get back to dealing with a fresh email from the government of Venezuela where the national bank has $3 million with my name on it if only I answer a few simple questions and do so my midnight tonight. Maybe I’ll send them the Boris Johnson business.  (Posted June 8, 2021)

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       A BIRTHDAY WEEK

   Irene, my wife, turned 83 in April and, feeling bold after being fully vaccinated, we went to the Berkshires for one night. We stayed at a small bed and breakfast, so small there were only two units for rent. It was dark when we came back from dinner, and, thanks to multiple coaching sessions by one of our granddaughters, I was able to activate the light on my cellphone, helping me see where to put the key. It took some jiggling of the key to get the door to open. 

   Before leaving the next morning, I could not find the key, and, since it was daylight, I didn’t think activating the light on my cellphone would help any. I looked in pants pockets, jacket pockets, on the desk and ledges in our unit. No key. After several minutes of searching, I glanced out the glass door and there was the key. It had spent the night outdoors. In the lock.

   A day later, Irene’s birthday, the two of us had dinner at a favorite restaurant in our town and then went home for ice cream and cake. Our guests for dessert included Rachel, our oldest granddaughter. After the singing of Happy Birthday, Rachel was drafted to cut the cake, and I went to the kitchen and grabbed a couple of utensils for the job. When it comes to cake-cutting, Rachel has followed the example of her grandmother; the pieces she cuts are approximately the size of Boston. Once she completed this task she held up one of the tools I had brought out of the kitchen and explained that it was a cheese cutter not something used to cut cake. I did what all smart men do when reprimanded by a woman: I shrugged. 

   Just before we had left for the restaurant, the phone rang and amazingly it was not a robo call. It was my dermatologist. He explained how to treat a patch of skin on my right temple. He recommended an over-the-counter ointment with what sounded like seven or eight syllables in its name. I was going to ask him how to spell the damn thing when he had a coughing spasm. Before I could make a wisecrack suggesting he see a doctor, the dermatologist said, “That’s what happens when you try to talk and eat a cookie at the same time.” At the time there was one piece of birthday cake left, and I wondered if he would like it.

     (Posted May 15)

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TEXTS, TEARS AND SMILES

(This has just been published in ESCAPE, CAW Anthology Spring 2021.)

   After decades of churning out prose as a journalist, I began writing poetry for the first time nearly a year ago as a way to keep in touch with two young granddaughters.  

   My wife and I skipped the 16th birthday party of one of the girls because of COVID-19 and our ages, early 80s. We felt guilty about missing Daniella’s big day, but Irene and I were scared of contracting the virus and seldom left the house. I went to the supermarket, got morning coffee and a newspaper and that was about it.  

   I probably shouldn’t use the word “poetry” to describe the texts I sent to the girls. They’re silly “roses are red, violets are blue” fluff. An example:

  “Roses are red, violets are blue.

   “I swallowed a golf ball. 

   “Now what do I do?”   

   Cristiana, 12, quickly answered: “Lol you  talk to a doctor.” 

   Another early effort:

   “Roses are red, violets are blue.   

   “If you owned a train,

   “You could drive a choo-choo.”

   Daniella provided a cheeky reply: “Look at those rhymes.”

   Many of the girls’ responses were entertaining and were unencumbered by what people my age call punctuation. At my suggestion, they wrote their own poems one day: 

    Cristiana: “Roses are red, violets are blue I miss the old days cause I really miss you. But only happy vibes will make us thrive ….”

   Daniella: “Roses are red, violets are blue we had dinner last night, good thing we didn’t have stew. For dessert we had ice cream and cake, and when it melted it was a lake.”

   Things changed in all our lives in late June, 2020 when Cristiana’s headaches and vomiting, originally diagnosed as a bad ear infection, turned out to be a brain tumor. 

   She had five operations and spent 47 out of 58 days in a hospital or a rehab center. Although the tumor was benign, Cristiana had a long road ahead of her, beginning with learning to walk again.

   Twice, after setbacks, I stopped sending the poems but then resumed, hoping they might help me and Daniella keep our spirits up and maybe even Cristiana’s on days when she felt strong enough to check her cellphone.

   Trying to make the texts more interesting, I started including cellphone pictures, most of them taken on my morning walk in a park. After a while, I became so good at this that several of the pictures did not include my thumb. 

   Because of my ineptitude with devices, I jokingly call myself the Craftsman. After taking a picture of two seagulls, I sent a very unpoetic text:

   “Good morning. Roses are red, violins are brown. (Just seeing if you are paying attention.) These two seagulls asked the Craftsman to take their graduation picture. He did. They said they would send the money later. Can seagulls be trusted? Enjoy today. Love and mucho hugs.”

   Cristiana hadn’t lost her sense of humor, even in a pediatric ICU: “Lol I don’t think ur getting that money I had to wake up early for a cat scan.”

   Daniella showed little respect: “I love your shadow in the photo.”

   Another day only one seagull was in the picture:

   “Roses are red, violets are blue. Good morning to you two. (If you were sheep, it would be good morning to you two ewes.) A seagull begins her day at Bay Park. No therapy to do. No homework. But no apple pie. Life is full of trade-offs. How are we today? Love….”

   That set off an exchange with Cristiana:

“Lol! Last night sucked I’m gonna try to take some naps today”

   “You couldn’t sleep or?”

   “I just didn’t feel good and was scared I was gonna throw up again”   

   “But you didn’t?”

   “No Not at night at least idk (I don’t know) if anyone told you but I threw up yesterday before dinner” 

   “Yes. We heard. It’s good it was only once. Keep smiling.”

   “I will, it’s just I’m really sick of it and I want all this medical stuff to end”

   “Understand. We all do!....”

   Only her parents were allowed to see her. Her days were full of MRIs, cat scans, and COVID-19 tests. It was exhausting for the entire family. Occasionally we would have a brief chat on the phone, but it was hard to know what to say to a young girl who asked her parents before one operation, “Am I going to die?” (All these months later typing that question is still painful.)

   Despite a feeling of helplessness, I didn’t stop sending texts, thinking they might give her a few seconds of diversion, something to take her mind off recurring questions, asked out loud to mom and dad: “Why is this happening to me?” And  “what did I do to deserve this?”          Assurances were given that she hadn’t done anything wrong. The tumor just happened, and that it was good it was found before things got worse.  

   I kept on texting: “Roses are red, violets are blue. Today is sunny. Money, bunny, honey and funny all rhyme with sunny. In a perfect world, someone named Bunny would have money and honey and be funny. You can run out of money. Try not to run out of funny. ”

   The responses from the girls made that one a home run to me.

   Cristiana: “Lol Thank you these make me smile”

   Daniella: “That was a tongue twister.”

One day, apparently having nothing else to occupy my time, I sent a note: 

   “Question: Should I send five roses are red poems a day?”

   Daniella was the first to respond, “Maybe not,” followed by Cristiana “That’s a lot. Save your intelligence.”

   Smart girls. Their parents aren’t raising any dummies.

   Cristiana came home, for good we hope, in August. She’s been doing extensive therapy, going to virtual school, and still receiving poems from me and, I’m pretty sure, rolling her eyes at the really bad ones. Atta girl.

(Posted May 2, 2021)

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ESCAPE, CAW Anthology Spring 2021  is a volume of poems, short stories, essays and other works produced by the Calling All Writers group. It’s now available on Amazon.

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  AM I DONE WITH SKIING?

 (This appeared in the April 4, 2021 edition of Newsday.)

    THINK I MAY BE AT THE END OF MY SLOPE 

    After 46 years ago of skiing and thousands of wonderful moments, it may be time for this octogenarian to stop. It’s hard for many of us to know when we are no longer capable of handling something we love to do, be it play or work. 

     With the COVID-19 pandemic creating complications, I hadn’t skied a lick this season until my son, Jack, and I went to Camelback Mountain in Pennsylvania recently. Assuming I would be tired after this outing, I emailed the leader of a Long Island writing group that I wouldn’t make a video session scheduled for that evening. 

     She responded: “As you swoosh down the mountain, I hope a new essay will occur to you for us to hear next time!  Have fun!”   

     There was no swooshing, no fun, but you’re reading a new essay.  

     Perhaps I should have known this was not to be my day when just before we got on a chairlift I realized my goggles were attached upside down to my helmet. Once this was corrected, Jack and I rode the chairlift up, and I skied maybe 20 yards before taking a hard fall, landing on my left side. Good heavens, this was level land, and I couldn’t deal with it.

     When Jack saw I was down, he yelled, “Are you okay?” My left side hurt and the tumble had scared me. “No,” I replied. He climbed up to me and demanded that I take the chairlift back down. I said “no.” He said we were done for the day.

     I wanted to keep going and insisted I would ski down. When we got to the bottom of the run, we went to the first aid office where a young medic pressed on my left rib cage and had me breathe. I was in pain but not agony. He didn’t think anything was broken but suggested a chest x-ray when we got home.

     Jack handed me the car keys and ordered me to go there while he took one run. My condition became clearer to me at the car. I couldn’t bend comfortably to take my boots off and had to ask Jack to do it for me. 

     As we headed home, he called his mother. After several sighs and “oh Lords,” Irene looked up the phone number for a radiology place in Lynbrook. I got an appointment for an x-ray later that day.

     During the drive back to Long Island, Jack talked of how long we had skied together, skiing that included trips with his two young daughters. He made it clear he thought I should stop. I was done.

     I naturally advanced the illusion that I would spend the rest of the year working on my balance, and when the snows came again I would be back out there. He wasn’t buying that nor was another frequent ski buddy, Nicholas, our grandson, when he talked to me later in the day. 

     The x-ray showed “a nondisplaced fracture of the left sixth rib.” Later tests showed I had also broken two pelvic bones and torn a hamstring.

     In all my years of playing football in high school and pickup basketball into my 70s, I had never broken a bone. 

     Although my brain is telling me enough is probably enough, I’m sure my pride will be lobbying for one more chance when the 2021-2022 ski season starts. 

     While I was at the radiology facility, Jack texted me, asking what was going on. I tried to type “waiting to be x-rayed” but twice the message came out “waiting to be crated.” 

     Aren’t we all.

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(Jack took the picture several years while we were skiing (upright skiing) at Beaver Creek, Colorado. His work may be seen at https://jackmccoyphotography.com/)

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  SALUTE TO ANTON LINDNER

   One of the best men I ever met died this week. Anton Lindner worked at Radio Free Europe and was very helpful (and patient) with me when we first moved to Munich more than half a century ago. We played tennis at clay courts across from RFE, and it was Toni who relayed a suggestion from the management that I wear something more appropriate than high top basketball shoes and blue shorts.

   He took me and my daughter Julie sledding in Westendorf, Austria—a day I remember because Toni’s idea of a sled wasn’t mine. I was used to American Flyer sleds that had a handle to steer. The sleds of Westendorf had no handles. You allegedly steered and controlled your speed with your feet. Right. I ran at great speed, feet-first into a barn door. No, I didn’t think it was funny then, but I do now. 

   Toni spoke and wrote excellent English at work and in letters. In one of his last emails, he sent a joke circulating in Germany about what George Bush, Barack Obama and Donald Trump say when they meet God.  

   He recommended places newcomers to Europe could visit. He went with us to Melk, Austria, along the Danube River, a lovely area we liked so much that we took my folks there when they came to see us. Toni had an assortment of ties, which, of course, I made fun of. One night when our shift in the newsroom was almost over I told Toni I would give him 10 marks for his tie. He handed it over and I cut it up and distributed the pieces to others in the newsroom.

   Forty one years after we came back to the States we were still in touch. He sent the best Christmas cards with inviting pictures of winter in Munich. In the years when my son, grandson (Jack and Nicholas) and I were able to go skiing in Austria, it was Toni who volunteered to make reservations for us and other RFEers at the Augustiner Keller in Munich, where we spent the night before heading home. (Editor’s notes: A portion of the night was spent in a Munich hotel not the beer hall. The picture shows Toni on the phone at the Augustiner to Irene back on Long Island.) 

   A month or so after one of these outings Toni would send a collection of pictures from the evening, which got the juices going for another visit the following year. 

   He was a generous man and sent a substantial wedding gift to Nicholas and his wife, Shirley Cruz.

   Everyone liked him. When told of the news about Toni, another buddy from my days at RFE said “such a sweetheart.” He sure as hell was. 

(Posted March 20, 2021)

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One Down, One To Go

   Most of the seniors I know can’t shut up about Covid-19 vaccinations—whether they have had any shots or whether they are still struggling to get an appointment. 

   After many hours of frustrating internet searches and phone calls, I secured appointments for my wife and me, but they were at different locations and weeks away. Then a call from the Bronx, more than 20 miles from our home on Long Island, asked if Irene and I were available for shots in four days. Were we ever. We got our shots on a Sunday afternoon and were impressed by the organization and efficiency of the procedure at the St. Barnabas Health and Wellness Center. 

   Our son, Jack, who drove us there, won’t stop teasing me about how excited I was when the call came from St. Barnabas. In an email to the family, all I put in the subject line was “Jackpot!” I hope he doesn’t find out that when the young-sounding man on the phone confirmed all the information he needed I said, “You know, I love you.”

   Although setting up appointments was an exasperating experience, it was also a learning one. My prowling of the internet included logging on to a medical site I seldom use. I was informed that I would be asked three security questions to confirm my identity. I got no further than “Question 1 of 3: What was the name of your first stuffed animal?”

   I am not making this up. I’ve never had a stuffed animal, which is a good thing because with my temper any such creature in my possession would quickly become unstuffed. At a loss how to respond to the question, I entered “none.” That was the wrong answer and I was denied access to the site. Usually when I’m asked to pick security questions, I go for the simple stuff: grade school attended; hometown; and year married. What could the second and third security questions have been? Maybe (2) Why aren’t you speaking to your younger brother? And (3) why do you feel you owe an apology to all your former bosses?

   All my site browsing and clicking made me realize I have way too many different passwords. The sites, ranging from ABC Reunion (as in ABC News) to Zwanger-Pesiri, (a radiology outfit), are listed on an eight-page printout. The experts say you should change your passwords every six months. It would not be fun trying to think up new passwords for all those addresses. What if I simply used one password for every site? Something like Clueless@83. That could easily be changed six months later to Clueless@83andahalf and easily updated from then on.

   Most of the time when I was on the New York State website all the locations within 40 miles of us had “no appointments available currently.” On the Covid vaccination phone line, when there was an availability the process bogged down because the schedulers had to read legal disclaimers. All the people I dealt with apologized before reading the disclaimer, which must have taken four minutes, start to finish. 

   If government lawyers insisted this be done, couldn’t a recorded version have been read by a celebrity?  I mean are Scarlett Johansson and Brad Pitt so busy they couldn’t have voiced the disclaimers? This octogenarian asks what guy wouldn’t want to say “yes” to Scarlett Johansson?

      (Posted March 9, 2021)

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        EARLY 2021 QUESTIONS 

   If Kentucky can’t elect anyone more qualified to sit in the U.S. Senate than Mitch McConnell and Rand Paul, should its two seats be taken away and given to Washington, D.C.? After all, there are more people in the Washington metro area than in Kentucky.

   If Trump had won a second term, would Uber Eats have morphed into Uber Alles?

   In filling out the New York State eligibility form for Covid vaccinations, am I the only one who had to look up “non-binary,” one of the choices along with male and female?

   I recently had four medical visits scheduled in one week and was seen at two of the sessions by nurse practitioners. Could I be classified as a patient practitioner? 

   What are the chances the NFL would scrub the frequently ridiculous half-time show at the Super Bowl and instead let two competitive football teams take the field to fill that time?

   Is the Republican Party going to be another one of those entities Donald John Trump puts out of business à la Trump Airlines, Trump Steaks, Trump University and on and on?

   Should that happen, will you have a frowny face?

   Is there a newspaper in the United States with a worse sports section than The New York Times? Say what? I don’t believe you.

   If Rachel Maddow didn’t say everything 15 times, 14 different ways would her show on MSNBC be only ten minutes long?

   Did I smile when I opened a Christmas card from friends in Germany that included the sentence, “We were happy to see Donald Duck crash”?

   What is it about Black conservatives that drives white liberals nuts?

   Was Lindsey Graham buried with John McCain and the goofball running around now is an imposter?

   Are Josh Hawley (Yale) and Ted Cruz (Harvard) living proof of the failure of the U.S. education system?

   On the off and sad chance that Donald John Trump wins the Nobel Peace Prize, should the United States immediately invade both Norway and Sweden?

   If all the current Republican members of Congress had been serving during the Nixon Administration, would there have been no visit to the White House to tell him he had to go?

   When Rudy Giuliani’s name is mentioned, what is the first thing that comes into your head? Is the first thing the same as the second and third and fourth things? Could any of these things be said in front of young children?

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     Mornings With The "Regulars"

   Since I stopped going to the gym last March, I walk six mornings a week in Bay Park in East Rockaway on Long Island. Like the gym, the park has a group of regulars. 

   One of them is Barry, a slight man from Missouri who walks at a much faster pace than I do, so we have stationary conversations. At age 66, he just became a grandfather for the first time. When he told me, I did my usual mumbling about what a great experience that would be, that I was a grandfather when I was 52, more than three decades ago.

   Two couples who live near the park—a sprawling place with a golf course, tennis and basketball courts, boat ramps, fishing piers, a playground, fields for baseball and soccer and a dog run—are also there nearly every day. One of the men frequently rides a unicycle while his partner walks. He must be in his early 60s. I’ve teased him about trying to juggle, perhaps flaming torches, while on his unicycle. The woman in this couple has been by herself recently, and I asked where the guy was.

   “He has broken ribs.”

   “Did he fall off his unicycle?”
  “No, off a ladder.”

   Later I regretted not reminding her of the dangers of ladders, especially if you get on one to try to fix something around the house. There are people, smart people, who are paid to do such things. I did express hope for the man’s quick recovery and wished her a Happy New Year.

   Another couple shows up most mornings, walking their dog. It’s a small dog, hardly longer than a can of Alpo. The first time I talked to the man, Charles, it was about a sign at the entrance to a police station at the edge of the park. The sign reads: 

   Do Not

   Police Only

   Enter

   I told him the sign could mean that everyone was welcome to enter the police station parking lot, not just police. In responding, he used the word “dichotomy” to which I said “you don’t normally hear that word before breakfast.” The next time I saw Charles I again mentioned I was impressed with hearing “dichotomy” and from his lips out popped the word “obfuscation.” I said if he kept this up I was going to have to come to the park with a dictionary. 

   In a recent chat, I learned he’s a retired airline captain who grew up in Kansas. This transplanted Hoosier recalled that when he first moved to New York he was surprised by how little some folks here knew about the rest of the country. A landlady once asked me if Indiana was on the way to Florida. I suppose it is if you don’t care how long it takes you to get there.

   The former pilot said on a flight from New York to San Juan a passenger asked him which side of the plane to sit on to get the best view of the Grand Canyon. I don’t remember what Charles told the passenger, but I would have suggested either side will do, and you’ll need a really strong pair of binoculars to appreciate the full splendor of that magnificent site.

   Shortly before New Year’s Eve, there was a woman in the park I had never seen before. She stood out because she had an enormous purse over her arm, something unusual for ladies out for a morning walk. I wonder if she was on her way to see the guy with the rich vocabulary, and, before leaving her home, stuffed the biggest dictionary she could find in her purse.

#   (Posted January 20,  2021)

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Some Things Won't Be Different in 2021     

   While many of us are hoping for a change in tone from the White House in 2021, let’s face it—there probably won’t be any change at all in our quotidian* existence, especially for those of us in our 80s.

   In my case that means:

   --I will go into the downstairs bathroom to brush my teeth and reach first for the stick deodorant instead of the toothpaste. I wonder if Old Spice is bad for your teeth.

   --Opening Listerine bottles will still require concentration and patience. There are arrows on the cap but pushing down and twisting counterclockwise (or is it clockwise?) requires a lot of coordination and seldom do I get all the required steps right on the first try. Caps and tops on all sorts of necessities, including pill and spice bottles, are built to resist easy opening and who ever designed them should get a raise.

   --My rush to pop my morning pills down my gullet won’t abate. This means a pill occasionally misses its mark, disappearing onto the kitchen floor where it is not spotted until a week later near the dishwasher.

   --I must also eat breakfast in a hurry, judging by the droppings on the floor in the breakfast nook. When the urge hits me or Irene to sweep up the bits of egg, toast and other debris, there is one constant: somewhere in a hard to reach area under the table will be a lone Cheerio. “From out of the past, come the thundering hoof beats of the great horse Silver, the Lone Cheerio hides again.”

   --My accuracy from plate to mouth doesn’t improve at dinner. I’ve taken to wearing an apron for my evening meal, saving sweaters and shirts from tomato sauce and chocolate syrup, especially the latter.

   --Cleaning up after supper, I will occasionally save a small amount of food. Sometimes Irene has it for lunch the following day. More often it stays in the fridge until …Until you know what.

   --I will continue to wear on special occasions—defined as a dinner eaten at the dining room table instead of in front of the TV—a favorite LL Bean shirt, a button-down that has the tiniest button holes in the collar. On Christmas Eve, I spent five to seven minutes on each collar, coaxing my fingers to force each button through the hole. I’m not suspicious by nature, but someone at a shirt factory in Sri Lanka could have decided to have a little fun with an uppity American, and I just happened to be that uppity American.

   --Our bedroom has a glow. (Sorry, I hate to brag.) The glow is from various pieces of electrical equipment—a heart monitor for me, a hearing aid charger for Irene. To glow is healthy. When I get up at 4:30 or 1:30 to do what old men do at 4:30 or 1:30 (or both), I don’t need to turn on a light to see my way to the bathroom. The glow from the dev

   Seventy years ago I was impressed by breasts on girls 14 and older. Now, I have my own breasts. I’m not impressed. I’m depressed.

   There’s no reason to feel guilty about taking a nap at 10:30 a.m. Just do it. This brief snooze in no way negates the need for your usual nap after lunch.

   When you reach into the cookie jar and two cookies are stuck together, do not separate them. That would be discrimination. And also stupid.

   Prostate jokes aren’t nearly as funny as they were 30 years ago.

   If my medical folder at my primary care doctor gets any thicker, the nurse is going to have to use both hands and maybe a back brace to carry it into the examination room.

   So what if nearly every night from eight to nine you yawn constantly? You know around 9:10 you will get a second wind and will stay up, as usual, until 11:45.

   If by mistake you throw in the garbage the washed and trimmed parsley you wrapped in a paper towel, it’s okay to retrieve it and put it on top of the lamb burgers, but your wife doesn’t need to know about this. 

   There are certain words, no matter how many times you look them up, that will never stick in your brain. My words in this category include “synecdoche.”

   It’s no big deal if you tell yourself every morning, “I can’t have dessert every night” and then when eight o’clock rolls around you prove, again, that you can.

   When I was still working in news, there was probably an 84-year-old retired journalist yelling at the radio and TV about the lack of good writing and editing and the absence of any standards. 

   A size 36 pair of pants with an expandable waistband really isn’t a 36, but there’s no harm in thinking it is.

   If you see a guy on a bike who looks like your banker, and you roll down your car window and say, as he passes by, “you’re a cutie” but then realize he wasn’t your banker, you don’t have to tell your wife about this either.

   When you’ve spent a life addicted to wisecracks, most of them bad wisecracks, it’s going to be tough for your family to know when you’re genuinely senile.

   If you always wear a black T-shirt, it’s harder to see the chocolate syrup on it.

(Posted September 25, 2021)

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THE OTTER BOX DEFENDER 

    I am not handy. You have to be patient to be handy. I am not patient.

    Nicholas, our grandson, who claims to be 32 years old, and his wife, Shirley, insisted on buying me a new mini iPad for Father’s Day. Nicholas had given me my first mini iPad several Christmases ago. Irene, who claims to be older than 32, insisted on buying me a case for my new toy.

    The case is an Otter Box Defender. That’s what it says on the top of the box it came in. On the bottom of the box, there is the word “drop” and a + sign.  

     When I opened the box, there was a piece of plastic over part of the case. It looked unnecessary, so my 83-year-old hands tugged and pulled until I removed this un-neccessity. I am not handy. It turns out the clear plastic was the screen that would allow me—perhaps eventually—to push the buttons on my mini iPad while it was held tightly in the case.

    This screw-up was not really my fault. No instructions came with the Otter Box Defender. None. Not even a hard to understand drawing somewhere on the box. The back of the box is populated by descriptions in both English and French of the attributes of the case. These include being subjected to “24+ tests, including thermal shock, abrasion and drop.” I believe Abrasion and Drop was one of the high-powered legal firms that turned down the chance to defend Donald J. Trump.

    With no instructions on how to open the case, I called on Mr. Google for help. I watched approximately ten different videos, a couple of them 30-40 times, showing how to open the Otter Box Defender so a mini iPad may be inserted. None of them worked for me. I was too embarrassed to ask Nicholas or any of the other grandkids to have a go at this.

    The smartest thing to do, I thought briefly, was to put on a disguise and go to Best Buy and ask for help from their Geek Squad. That would be humiliating, but I figured the folks at the Geek Squad need a good laugh every now and then.

    I ended up taking the case to Best Buy dressed as myself, meaning dirty baseball cap, T-shirt and shorts. A person wearing a Geek Squad shirt, who may possibly be 14 on his next birthday, quickly opened the case with a practiced thumb. It took him, maybe, 90 seconds to take the case completely apart, slip in my mini iPad and put the blasted thing back together. Showoff. 

    This has been a learning experience. For one thing, I was unaware that otters made boxes. Does anyone know if they are also good at gift wrapping?

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FROM THE ROCKVILLE CENTRE PUBLIC LIBRARY

Local Authors Larry and Irene McCoy (In-person)
 

Sunday September 19, 2021
2:00 PM

After 61 years of marriage, Irene and Larry McCoy are still speaking to each other. The fact that they don’t hear as well as they once did may partially explain this phenomenon. The pair will give a humorous account of their lives together and read from their recently published books, Only Gypsies Move on Sunday and Grandma Told Me to Never Believe Anything Grandpa Says.

The Rockville Centre Public Library is at 211 North Village Avenue, about a half mile from the LIRR train station. Phone is 516-766-6257.

(Posted August 30, 2021)

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My Days In A Fraternity

    (My mom’s mom is the only grandparent I really knew. She lived down the block from us, and when my parents moved just before my senior year in high school it was decided I would live with Charity Melissa Thornton Smith Alexander, my grandmother. I do not know if she said “yes” to this arrangement at the point of a gun. My dad owned several. 

   (I enjoyed sitting around her coal stove listening to her stories about my mom, the pneumonia I had as an infant, and Edward, one of her sons who drowned  as a teenager. I wish I had asked her more questions about her life. A couple years ago I started writing pieces for our four grandkids about growing up in rural Indiana; how I loved high school and how my first couple of years in college were a struggle.)

   I had never been in a sports car before. I was about to finish high school and was all of 17. It was a snug two-seater, maybe an MG, so low if you opened the door and put your hand down you could become a knuckle-dragger. I had been invited by Jim Rogers from my hometown of Frankfort to see if I wanted to pledge to his fraternity at Indiana University in Bloomington. (Excuse me if I’m not sure of the name of the fraternity. Our relationship, as you will see, was brief.)

   The guy who owned the MG was a smooth-talker from Tennessee, and we drove in the rain to see “Blackboard Jungle,” a tough movie about a rookie teacher trying to maintain order in a New York City school. More than 65 years later I still think about driving to see that film when I’m out on the street on a rainy evening. I’m guessing that we also had something to eat. Whether this happened, before or after I was given a tour of the fraternity house I don’t remember.

   I wasn’t really fraternity material. For some reason—and it took me a long time to get over this—I didn’t think I was as good, as smart, as good-looking as other guys. There were certain places I didn’t belong. It wasn’t until I was in my late 30s or early 40s and making decent money that I felt comfortable going into restaurants that were several notches above a diner. Still, before I had attended a single class at Indiana University, I ended up pledging to Phi Kappa Whatever. 

   It was a losing proposition from the start. I was going to be living at home and not sleeping or dining at the frat house. Plus I was working nights at the A&P and what little studying I did was either at the Gables, a coffee shop next to campus, or the university library. I rarely had time or inclination to be at the fraternity house. I remember hearing a complaint that I was “seldom there.” Well, duh. Yes.

   I’m not sure I lasted even a month as a fraternity brother. One night at the fraternity the pledges were being ordered, amid much yelling of upper classmen, to run from the first floor of the house to the top and back again. Several times. 

   Surprisingly, this did not strike me as either a stimulating endeavor or necessary. I don’t recall how many times I ran up and down the %^&*(%^&*() stairs. What sticks in my mind is an act of honor and honesty. I went up to Jim Rogers, handed him my pledge pin, made some undoubtedly nasty comment about what the pledges were being told to do and said, in what I hope was a clear, calm voice, “Here’s your pin. Stick it up your ass.” No, I do not know if he did as I requested.

   So instead of hanging around and BSing with the frat brothers I shared time, stocking shelves and mopping floors at the A&P,  with the Armstrong brothers, Bloomington kids who introduced me to limestone quarries instead of sorority girls. I’ve never for a second regretted my decision to leave Krappa Dappa Du or whatever it was called. (Posted August 4,2021.)

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My Figured Out's Never Been More Confused   

 “My Figured Out’s Never Been More Confused” is a line borrowed from the lyrics of Eric Church

    Wednesday, July 7th, 2021 was a typical day for this senior citizen. To start at the finish: When I went upstairs to brush my teeth before going to bed, a glance in the mirror showed there were two long brown streaks on my T-shirt—Hershey’s chocolate syrup from the ice cream eaten three hours earlier. I haven’t dared look at the living room couch, the site of the ice cream consumption. It is a brown couch but whether it is as dark as Mrs. Hershey’s syrup I don’t know.

    Conversations with Irene have included the T-shirt but not the couch. I intend to keep it that way.

    Before the ice cream, there was dinner—chicken sausage with broccoli and snap peas and pasta. We use a lot of olive oil, and “my figured out’s never been more confused” when I tried to open a new bottle. The 48-fluid ounce bottle of Pompeian Extra Virgin olive oil had an uncooperative top, a two-tier job with the upper tier supposed to screw off. (Author’s inquiry: Can “screw off” be used when talking about something labeled “extra virgin”?) 

    The skillet with the chicken sausage needed more olive oil, so I hurried, grabbing a pair of pliers and trying to use it to unscrew the top layer of the cap while holding the bottom layer with my hands. No luck.

    I moved the skillet off the burner and searched for another tool. I found a silver thing with squeezable handles (later identified by Irene as a nut cracker). I took the pliers again, attached them to the bottom tier of the cap and used the silver thing to grab hold of the top tier.

    Success! I was pleased, so pleased I had a Chrismasy feeling. All together: “Silver thing, silver thing. It’s olive oil time in the kitchen.” 

    Before this struggle with the Pompeian oil, I noticed I had missed a call on my cellphone, but there was a transcription. It began: “Good afternoon this is Dave_____from Chase bank and left the center I’m trying to contact Larry McCoy a mystical….’’ Eighty-four years old in a few weeks and suddenly I’m “a mystical.” Well, it’s about time.

    The transcription went on to say Dave “is simply checking in to make sure all is well with the relationship here at 10 N. Phyllis….”

    If Dave is a good banker, he appreciates the value of confidentiality, and I’m hoping he keeps his trap shut about the relationship I have with “N. Phyllis” and doesn’t find out there’s also something going on between me and “S. Phyllis”.

    Who knows, if Dave calls me again in six months and I don’t answer, maybe the transcription will describe me as a saint. Should that happen then Chase bank really needs to find another transcription service.

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    *The title is a line from an Eric Church song called “Mixed Drinks About Feelings.”

(Posted July 13, 2021)

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  61st WEDDING ANNIVERSARY  

    Irene and I were married 61 years ago, July 2, 1960, in Whiting, Indiana, a town known for paying its teachers well and for, the only time I saw them, a high school football team that walked onto the field at game time

    July 2, 2021

   For you youngsters reading this, here’s a game plan for celebrating your 61st anniversary.

   1. Get out of bed. I did. This is the way most good days start. 

   2. Scratch. (It is to be hoped your bride/groom is asleep or at least groggy enough that he/she doesn’t see this.)

   3. Bathroom time.

   4. Do your stretching exercises. In my household, these are done downstairs so no need to be tentative about scratching. 

   5. Have some water or Gatorade before or during stretching. Though Irene’s boss left us a bottle of Early Times at the Drake Hotel in Chicago on our wedding night, Early Times or other bourbons are not recommended as a substitute at this hour for water, Gatorade or orange juice. Besides we probably don’t have any ice.

   6. Get dressed. Bring in The New York Times, glance at the front page and take that section with you to the gym along with a bottle of water and a tangerine.

   7. Eat the tangerine in the car on the short drive to the gym, trying not to get any tangerine juice on your shorts as you do many mornings. It’s sort of embarrassing to get to the gym with wet shorts, and then everyone there you know asks, “Is that tangerine juice on your shorts?”

   8. Clean off a recumbent bike and ride for 32 minutes. Your reading of The Times will be interrupted by one of the gym regulars, men not as old as you and who don’t read at the gym. These men have occasionally been told by you, “You know some people who come to the gym use the equipment.” They laugh and just keep talking. 

   9. Go into the stretching room and stretch some more and also grab a couple of five-pound weights. Do arm exercises with the weights, amazing yourself once again how pooped you get doing this in such a short time. Contemplate a dish of ice cream, a large dish, after supper.

   10. Head to the usual place for a copy of Newsday and a dollar scratch off ticket.

   11. Drive home, drink some more Gatorade, take your morning pills (all nine or ten of them), wash your face and head out to the Flour Shoppe, a neat bakery-cafe not far from your house. 

   12. Eat a large omelet with bacon, cheese and veggies. Have a taste of your bride’s blueberry pancakes.

   13. Back home, resume reading of the front section of The Times before heading upstairs to your laptop to answer email and Facebook messages. Rest your eyes in between writing these answers. Wake up after a couple of sharp head snaps. 

   14. Head downstairs for lunch only three hours after you finished breakfast. It’s the usual for you—fruit yogurt that you load up with many helpings of unsalted peanuts and a piece of fruit. This day it was a tangerine, so if there is juice on your shorts it doesn’t matter this time.

   15. While dining in the breakfast nook, turn on the telly. After brief looks at the three major so-called cable “news” channels, switch to TMC where “Crime School” is playing. This is a 1938 beauty with Leo Gorcey, Huntz Hall and Humphrey Bogart. Wonder out loud to your bride whether Bogey ever had drinks with Leo and Huntz and what their conversations would have been like. 

   16. Take a nap on the couch in the living rroom, covering yourself with a blanket because a certain person should have married an air conditioner salesman because she loves the AC. You do not say anything about the frigid temperature in the living room to the Bride of Nanook of the North, which is among the reasons you have been married 61 years. 

   17. Call one of your favorite restaurants to order dinner to be picked up at 6:45, 15 minutes before the start of the Yankees-Mets game. In answer to my question, the lady who took our order on the phone said they do not give refunds if the Yankees lose.

   18. Make sure the lady knows your order includes two (2) brownies. I don’t give a damn how long you’ve been married, brownies are NEVER shared.

(Posted July 3, 2021) 

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I'm Prepared For The Next Time

   At 83 my memory isn’t as sharp as I thought it once was. (Or even twice was.) I recently got a Facebook Friend request from someone whose name sounded familiar from a newsroom I worked in decades ago. Soon after I said “yes” to the request I received a “how’s-it-going?” message. 

   I recounted to this new “friend” what I’ve been doing in recent years (books written, et cetera) and asked that he remind me how we knew each other. The response ignored the question and asked if I was aware of some program that would provide me up to $150,000. My answer could have been, “Yes, that seems to be about the going rate for ladies to keep quiet about having sex with Donald John Trump.” (“John” as a middle name really fits here.)

   I ran the name by one of my former CBS News bosses and was told someone on Facebook was impersonating a person we knew and was involved in a scam.

   Lesson learned, I hope. The next time I encounter something fishy on the internet, someone wanting to be buddy-buddy I’ll be ready. Not only ready, I’m going to have a little fun with it, making up stuff. Many politicians do that all the time, so why can’t I. 

   As a public service for others who may be faced with similar situations here are a few “starter” paragraphs to get you going on a snappy response to the “How’s it going” question from someone you suspect is up to no good. The goal is to get them to leave you the hell alone. 

   Dear xxxx,

   Well, damn. It’s so good to hear from you. Florence and I are busy as hell, partly because she’s 23 years younger than I am and can’t keep her hands off me, and partly because we’re managers of a new rock group called Hot Car Stench. If you haven’t heard of them yet, trust me you will. And soon.

   Oh, wow. Sorry I started this four days ago and never finished it. See what I mean about Florence?

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   Yo, xxxx,

   Look at that. You tracked me down. Good work. I’ve bounced around a lot in the last ten years. After that stint in London working for Boris Johnson—yes, it ended badly as most of my family said it would—I took some time off (or thought I was going to) to study for my CPA license. Then some weasel scoured the internet (get a life!) and found two outstanding warrants for me in East Eau Claire, and that CPA endeavor went down the drain. It’s serendipity that you got in touch. How are you fixed for cash, old friend? Large, fast cash?

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   Hey xxxx,

   Refresh my memory if you don’t mind. Did we work together at Ford Motors or are you the guy who borrowed my JetBlue credit card one night (with my permission) to buy five cans of whipped cream at some insane place in Louisiana. Right next to Trader Joe’s if memory serves. If you are Mr. Whipped Cream, what a night that was and no, you dummy, I didn’t give whatever her name was my phone number. Not even my real name for that matter. How she got your cell number, I don’t know. Don’t blame me.

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   I’ve now blocked whoever it was trying to scam me on Facebook. I need to keep this essay short and get back to dealing with a fresh email from the government of Venezuela where the national bank has $3 million with my name on it if only I answer a few simple questions and do so my midnight tonight. Maybe I’ll send them the Boris Johnson business.  (Posted June 8, 2021)

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       A BIRTHDAY WEEK

   Irene, my wife, turned 83 in April and, feeling bold after being fully vaccinated, we went to the Berkshires for one night. We stayed at a small bed and breakfast, so small there were only two units for rent. It was dark when we came back from dinner, and, thanks to multiple coaching sessions by one of our granddaughters, I was able to activate the light on my cellphone, helping me see where to put the key. It took some jiggling of the key to get the door to open. 

   Before leaving the next morning, I could not find the key, and, since it was daylight, I didn’t think activating the light on my cellphone would help any. I looked in pants pockets, jacket pockets, on the desk and ledges in our unit. No key. After several minutes of searching, I glanced out the glass door and there was the key. It had spent the night outdoors. In the lock.

   A day later, Irene’s birthday, the two of us had dinner at a favorite restaurant in our town and then went home for ice cream and cake. Our guests for dessert included Rachel, our oldest granddaughter. After the singing of Happy Birthday, Rachel was drafted to cut the cake, and I went to the kitchen and grabbed a couple of utensils for the job. When it comes to cake-cutting, Rachel has followed the example of her grandmother; the pieces she cuts are approximately the size of Boston. Once she completed this task she held up one of the tools I had brought out of the kitchen and explained that it was a cheese cutter not something used to cut cake. I did what all smart men do when reprimanded by a woman: I shrugged. 

   Just before we had left for the restaurant, the phone rang and amazingly it was not a robo call. It was my dermatologist. He explained how to treat a patch of skin on my right temple. He recommended an over-the-counter ointment with what sounded like seven or eight syllables in its name. I was going to ask him how to spell the damn thing when he had a coughing spasm. Before I could make a wisecrack suggesting he see a doctor, the dermatologist said, “That’s what happens when you try to talk and eat a cookie at the same time.” At the time there was one piece of birthday cake left, and I wondered if he would like it.

     (Posted May 15)

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TEXTS, TEARS AND SMILES

(This has just been published in ESCAPE, CAW Anthology Spring 2021.)

   After decades of churning out prose as a journalist, I began writing poetry for the first time nearly a year ago as a way to keep in touch with two young granddaughters.  

   My wife and I skipped the 16th birthday party of one of the girls because of COVID-19 and our ages, early 80s. We felt guilty about missing Daniella’s big day, but Irene and I were scared of contracting the virus and seldom left the house. I went to the supermarket, got morning coffee and a newspaper and that was about it.  

   I probably shouldn’t use the word “poetry” to describe the texts I sent to the girls. They’re silly “roses are red, violets are blue” fluff. An example:

  “Roses are red, violets are blue.

   “I swallowed a golf ball. 

   “Now what do I do?”   

   Cristiana, 12, quickly answered: “Lol you  talk to a doctor.” 

   Another early effort:

   “Roses are red, violets are blue.   

   “If you owned a train,

   “You could drive a choo-choo.”

   Daniella provided a cheeky reply: “Look at those rhymes.”

   Many of the girls’ responses were entertaining and were unencumbered by what people my age call punctuation. At my suggestion, they wrote their own poems one day: 

    Cristiana: “Roses are red, violets are blue I miss the old days cause I really miss you. But only happy vibes will make us thrive ….”

   Daniella: “Roses are red, violets are blue we had dinner last night, good thing we didn’t have stew. For dessert we had ice cream and cake, and when it melted it was a lake.”

   Things changed in all our lives in late June, 2020 when Cristiana’s headaches and vomiting, originally diagnosed as a bad ear infection, turned out to be a brain tumor. 

   She had five operations and spent 47 out of 58 days in a hospital or a rehab center. Although the tumor was benign, Cristiana had a long road ahead of her, beginning with learning to walk again.

   Twice, after setbacks, I stopped sending the poems but then resumed, hoping they might help me and Daniella keep our spirits up and maybe even Cristiana’s on days when she felt strong enough to check her cellphone.

   Trying to make the texts more interesting, I started including cellphone pictures, most of them taken on my morning walk in a park. After a while, I became so good at this that several of the pictures did not include my thumb. 

   Because of my ineptitude with devices, I jokingly call myself the Craftsman. After taking a picture of two seagulls, I sent a very unpoetic text:

   “Good morning. Roses are red, violins are brown. (Just seeing if you are paying attention.) These two seagulls asked the Craftsman to take their graduation picture. He did. They said they would send the money later. Can seagulls be trusted? Enjoy today. Love and mucho hugs.”

   Cristiana hadn’t lost her sense of humor, even in a pediatric ICU: “Lol I don’t think ur getting that money I had to wake up early for a cat scan.”

   Daniella showed little respect: “I love your shadow in the photo.”

   Another day only one seagull was in the picture:

   “Roses are red, violets are blue. Good morning to you two. (If you were sheep, it would be good morning to you two ewes.) A seagull begins her day at Bay Park. No therapy to do. No homework. But no apple pie. Life is full of trade-offs. How are we today? Love….”

   That set off an exchange with Cristiana:

“Lol! Last night sucked I’m gonna try to take some naps today”

   “You couldn’t sleep or?”

   “I just didn’t feel good and was scared I was gonna throw up again”   

   “But you didn’t?”

   “No Not at night at least idk (I don’t know) if anyone told you but I threw up yesterday before dinner” 

   “Yes. We heard. It’s good it was only once. Keep smiling.”

   “I will, it’s just I’m really sick of it and I want all this medical stuff to end”

   “Understand. We all do!....”

   Only her parents were allowed to see her. Her days were full of MRIs, cat scans, and COVID-19 tests. It was exhausting for the entire family. Occasionally we would have a brief chat on the phone, but it was hard to know what to say to a young girl who asked her parents before one operation, “Am I going to die?” (All these months later typing that question is still painful.)

   Despite a feeling of helplessness, I didn’t stop sending texts, thinking they might give her a few seconds of diversion, something to take her mind off recurring questions, asked out loud to mom and dad: “Why is this happening to me?” And  “what did I do to deserve this?”          Assurances were given that she hadn’t done anything wrong. The tumor just happened, and that it was good it was found before things got worse.  

   I kept on texting: “Roses are red, violets are blue. Today is sunny. Money, bunny, honey and funny all rhyme with sunny. In a perfect world, someone named Bunny would have money and honey and be funny. You can run out of money. Try not to run out of funny. ”

   The responses from the girls made that one a home run to me.

   Cristiana: “Lol Thank you these make me smile”

   Daniella: “That was a tongue twister.”

One day, apparently having nothing else to occupy my time, I sent a note: 

   “Question: Should I send five roses are red poems a day?”

   Daniella was the first to respond, “Maybe not,” followed by Cristiana “That’s a lot. Save your intelligence.”

   Smart girls. Their parents aren’t raising any dummies.

   Cristiana came home, for good we hope, in August. She’s been doing extensive therapy, going to virtual school, and still receiving poems from me and, I’m pretty sure, rolling her eyes at the really bad ones. Atta girl.

(Posted May 2, 2021)

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ESCAPE, CAW Anthology Spring 2021  is a volume of poems, short stories, essays and other works produced by the Calling All Writers group. It’s now available on Amazon.

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  AM I DONE WITH SKIING?

 (This appeared in the April 4, 2021 edition of Newsday.)

    THINK I MAY BE AT THE END OF MY SLOPE 

    After 46 years ago of skiing and thousands of wonderful moments, it may be time for this octogenarian to stop. It’s hard for many of us to know when we are no longer capable of handling something we love to do, be it play or work. 

     With the COVID-19 pandemic creating complications, I hadn’t skied a lick this season until my son, Jack, and I went to Camelback Mountain in Pennsylvania recently. Assuming I would be tired after this outing, I emailed the leader of a Long Island writing group that I wouldn’t make a video session scheduled for that evening. 

     She responded: “As you swoosh down the mountain, I hope a new essay will occur to you for us to hear next time!  Have fun!”   

     There was no swooshing, no fun, but you’re reading a new essay.  

     Perhaps I should have known this was not to be my day when just before we got on a chairlift I realized my goggles were attached upside down to my helmet. Once this was corrected, Jack and I rode the chairlift up, and I skied maybe 20 yards before taking a hard fall, landing on my left side. Good heavens, this was level land, and I couldn’t deal with it.

     When Jack saw I was down, he yelled, “Are you okay?” My left side hurt and the tumble had scared me. “No,” I replied. He climbed up to me and demanded that I take the chairlift back down. I said “no.” He said we were done for the day.

     I wanted to keep going and insisted I would ski down. When we got to the bottom of the run, we went to the first aid office where a young medic pressed on my left rib cage and had me breathe. I was in pain but not agony. He didn’t think anything was broken but suggested a chest x-ray when we got home.

     Jack handed me the car keys and ordered me to go there while he took one run. My condition became clearer to me at the car. I couldn’t bend comfortably to take my boots off and had to ask Jack to do it for me. 

     As we headed home, he called his mother. After several sighs and “oh Lords,” Irene looked up the phone number for a radiology place in Lynbrook. I got an appointment for an x-ray later that day.

     During the drive back to Long Island, Jack talked of how long we had skied together, skiing that included trips with his two young daughters. He made it clear he thought I should stop. I was done.

     I naturally advanced the illusion that I would spend the rest of the year working on my balance, and when the snows came again I would be back out there. He wasn’t buying that nor was another frequent ski buddy, Nicholas, our grandson, when he talked to me later in the day. 

     The x-ray showed “a nondisplaced fracture of the left sixth rib.” Later tests showed I had also broken two pelvic bones and torn a hamstring.

     In all my years of playing football in high school and pickup basketball into my 70s, I had never broken a bone. 

     Although my brain is telling me enough is probably enough, I’m sure my pride will be lobbying for one more chance when the 2021-2022 ski season starts. 

     While I was at the radiology facility, Jack texted me, asking what was going on. I tried to type “waiting to be x-rayed” but twice the message came out “waiting to be crated.” 

     Aren’t we all.

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(Jack took the picture several years while we were skiing (upright skiing) at Beaver Creek, Colorado. His work may be seen at https://jackmccoyphotography.com/)

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  SALUTE TO ANTON LINDNER

   One of the best men I ever met died this week. Anton Lindner worked at Radio Free Europe and was very helpful (and patient) with me when we first moved to Munich more than half a century ago. We played tennis at clay courts across from RFE, and it was Toni who relayed a suggestion from the management that I wear something more appropriate than high top basketball shoes and blue shorts.

   He took me and my daughter Julie sledding in Westendorf, Austria—a day I remember because Toni’s idea of a sled wasn’t mine. I was used to American Flyer sleds that had a handle to steer. The sleds of Westendorf had no handles. You allegedly steered and controlled your speed with your feet. Right. I ran at great speed, feet-first into a barn door. No, I didn’t think it was funny then, but I do now. 

   Toni spoke and wrote excellent English at work and in letters. In one of his last emails, he sent a joke circulating in Germany about what George Bush, Barack Obama and Donald Trump say when they meet God.  

   He recommended places newcomers to Europe could visit. He went with us to Melk, Austria, along the Danube River, a lovely area we liked so much that we took my folks there when they came to see us. Toni had an assortment of ties, which, of course, I made fun of. One night when our shift in the newsroom was almost over I told Toni I would give him 10 marks for his tie. He handed it over and I cut it up and distributed the pieces to others in the newsroom.

   Forty one years after we came back to the States we were still in touch. He sent the best Christmas cards with inviting pictures of winter in Munich. In the years when my son, grandson (Jack and Nicholas) and I were able to go skiing in Austria, it was Toni who volunteered to make reservations for us and other RFEers at the Augustiner Keller in Munich, where we spent the night before heading home. (Editor’s notes: A portion of the night was spent in a Munich hotel not the beer hall. The picture shows Toni on the phone at the Augustiner to Irene back on Long Island.) 

   A month or so after one of these outings Toni would send a collection of pictures from the evening, which got the juices going for another visit the following year. 

   He was a generous man and sent a substantial wedding gift to Nicholas and his wife, Shirley Cruz.

   Everyone liked him. When told of the news about Toni, another buddy from my days at RFE said “such a sweetheart.” He sure as hell was. 

(Posted March 20, 2021)

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One Down, One To Go

   Most of the seniors I know can’t shut up about Covid-19 vaccinations—whether they have had any shots or whether they are still struggling to get an appointment. 

   After many hours of frustrating internet searches and phone calls, I secured appointments for my wife and me, but they were at different locations and weeks away. Then a call from the Bronx, more than 20 miles from our home on Long Island, asked if Irene and I were available for shots in four days. Were we ever. We got our shots on a Sunday afternoon and were impressed by the organization and efficiency of the procedure at the St. Barnabas Health and Wellness Center. 

   Our son, Jack, who drove us there, won’t stop teasing me about how excited I was when the call came from St. Barnabas. In an email to the family, all I put in the subject line was “Jackpot!” I hope he doesn’t find out that when the young-sounding man on the phone confirmed all the information he needed I said, “You know, I love you.”

   Although setting up appointments was an exasperating experience, it was also a learning one. My prowling of the internet included logging on to a medical site I seldom use. I was informed that I would be asked three security questions to confirm my identity. I got no further than “Question 1 of 3: What was the name of your first stuffed animal?”

   I am not making this up. I’ve never had a stuffed animal, which is a good thing because with my temper any such creature in my possession would quickly become unstuffed. At a loss how to respond to the question, I entered “none.” That was the wrong answer and I was denied access to the site. Usually when I’m asked to pick security questions, I go for the simple stuff: grade school attended; hometown; and year married. What could the second and third security questions have been? Maybe (2) Why aren’t you speaking to your younger brother? And (3) why do you feel you owe an apology to all your former bosses?

   All my site browsing and clicking made me realize I have way too many different passwords. The sites, ranging from ABC Reunion (as in ABC News) to Zwanger-Pesiri, (a radiology outfit), are listed on an eight-page printout. The experts say you should change your passwords every six months. It would not be fun trying to think up new passwords for all those addresses. What if I simply used one password for every site? Something like Clueless@83. That could easily be changed six months later to Clueless@83andahalf and easily updated from then on.

   Most of the time when I was on the New York State website all the locations within 40 miles of us had “no appointments available currently.” On the Covid vaccination phone line, when there was an availability the process bogged down because the schedulers had to read legal disclaimers. All the people I dealt with apologized before reading the disclaimer, which must have taken four minutes, start to finish. 

   If government lawyers insisted this be done, couldn’t a recorded version have been read by a celebrity?  I mean are Scarlett Johansson and Brad Pitt so busy they couldn’t have voiced the disclaimers? This octogenarian asks what guy wouldn’t want to say “yes” to Scarlett Johansson?

      (Posted March 9, 2021)

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        EARLY 2021 QUESTIONS 

   If Kentucky can’t elect anyone more qualified to sit in the U.S. Senate than Mitch McConnell and Rand Paul, should its two seats be taken away and given to Washington, D.C.? After all, there are more people in the Washington metro area than in Kentucky.

   If Trump had won a second term, would Uber Eats have morphed into Uber Alles?

   In filling out the New York State eligibility form for Covid vaccinations, am I the only one who had to look up “non-binary,” one of the choices along with male and female?

   I recently had four medical visits scheduled in one week and was seen at two of the sessions by nurse practitioners. Could I be classified as a patient practitioner? 

   What are the chances the NFL would scrub the frequently ridiculous half-time show at the Super Bowl and instead let two competitive football teams take the field to fill that time?

   Is the Republican Party going to be another one of those entities Donald John Trump puts out of business à la Trump Airlines, Trump Steaks, Trump University and on and on?

   Should that happen, will you have a frowny face?

   Is there a newspaper in the United States with a worse sports section than The New York Times? Say what? I don’t believe you.

   If Rachel Maddow didn’t say everything 15 times, 14 different ways would her show on MSNBC be only ten minutes long?

   Did I smile when I opened a Christmas card from friends in Germany that included the sentence, “We were happy to see Donald Duck crash”?

   What is it about Black conservatives that drives white liberals nuts?

   Was Lindsey Graham buried with John McCain and the goofball running around now is an imposter?

   Are Josh Hawley (Yale) and Ted Cruz (Harvard) living proof of the failure of the U.S. education system?

   On the off and sad chance that Donald John Trump wins the Nobel Peace Prize, should the United States immediately invade both Norway and Sweden?

   If all the current Republican members of Congress had been serving during the Nixon Administration, would there have been no visit to the White House to tell him he had to go?

   When Rudy Giuliani’s name is mentioned, what is the first thing that comes into your head? Is the first thing the same as the second and third and fourth things? Could any of these things be said in front of young children?

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     Mornings With The "Regulars"

   Since I stopped going to the gym last March, I walk six mornings a week in Bay Park in East Rockaway on Long Island. Like the gym, the park has a group of regulars. 

   One of them is Barry, a slight man from Missouri who walks at a much faster pace than I do, so we have stationary conversations. At age 66, he just became a grandfather for the first time. When he told me, I did my usual mumbling about what a great experience that would be, that I was a grandfather when I was 52, more than three decades ago.

   Two couples who live near the park—a sprawling place with a golf course, tennis and basketball courts, boat ramps, fishing piers, a playground, fields for baseball and soccer and a dog run—are also there nearly every day. One of the men frequently rides a unicycle while his partner walks. He must be in his early 60s. I’ve teased him about trying to juggle, perhaps flaming torches, while on his unicycle. The woman in this couple has been by herself recently, and I asked where the guy was.

   “He has broken ribs.”

   “Did he fall off his unicycle?”
  “No, off a ladder.”

   Later I regretted not reminding her of the dangers of ladders, especially if you get on one to try to fix something around the house. There are people, smart people, who are paid to do such things. I did express hope for the man’s quick recovery and wished her a Happy New Year.

   Another couple shows up most mornings, walking their dog. It’s a small dog, hardly longer than a can of Alpo. The first time I talked to the man, Charles, it was about a sign at the entrance to a police station at the edge of the park. The sign reads: 

   Do Not

   Police Only

   Enter

   I told him the sign could mean that everyone was welcome to enter the police station parking lot, not just police. In responding, he used the word “dichotomy” to which I said “you don’t normally hear that word before breakfast.” The next time I saw Charles I again mentioned I was impressed with hearing “dichotomy” and from his lips out popped the word “obfuscation.” I said if he kept this up I was going to have to come to the park with a dictionary. 

   In a recent chat, I learned he’s a retired airline captain who grew up in Kansas. This transplanted Hoosier recalled that when he first moved to New York he was surprised by how little some folks here knew about the rest of the country. A landlady once asked me if Indiana was on the way to Florida. I suppose it is if you don’t care how long it takes you to get there.

   The former pilot said on a flight from New York to San Juan a passenger asked him which side of the plane to sit on to get the best view of the Grand Canyon. I don’t remember what Charles told the passenger, but I would have suggested either side will do, and you’ll need a really strong pair of binoculars to appreciate the full splendor of that magnificent site.

   Shortly before New Year’s Eve, there was a woman in the park I had never seen before. She stood out because she had an enormous purse over her arm, something unusual for ladies out for a morning walk. I wonder if she was on her way to see the guy with the rich vocabulary, and, before leaving her home, stuffed the biggest dictionary she could find in her purse.

#   (Posted January 20,  2021)

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Some Things Won't Be Different in 2021     

   While many of us are hoping for a change in tone from the White House in 2021, let’s face it—there probably won’t be any change at all in our quotidian* existence, especially for those of us in our 80s.

   In my case that means:

   --I will go into the downstairs bathroom to brush my teeth and reach first for the stick deodorant instead of the toothpaste. I wonder if Old Spice is bad for your teeth.

   --Opening Listerine bottles will still require concentration and patience. There are arrows on the cap but pushing down and twisting counterclockwise (or is it clockwise?) requires a lot of coordination and seldom do I get all the required steps right on the first try. Caps and tops on all sorts of necessities, including pill and spice bottles, are built to resist easy opening and who ever designed them should get a raise.

   --My rush to pop my morning pills down my gullet won’t abate. This means a pill occasionally misses its mark, disappearing onto the kitchen floor where it is not spotted until a week later near the dishwasher.

   --I must also eat breakfast in a hurry, judging by the droppings on the floor in the breakfast nook. When the urge hits me or Irene to sweep up the bits of egg, toast and other debris, there is one constant: somewhere in a hard to reach area under the table will be a lone Cheerio. “From out of the past, come the thundering hoof beats of the great horse Silver, the Lone Cheerio hides again.”

   --My accuracy from plate to mouth doesn’t improve at dinner. I’ve taken to wearing an apron for my evening meal, saving sweaters and shirts from tomato sauce and chocolate syrup, especially the latter.

   --Cleaning up after supper, I will occasionally save a small amount of food. Sometimes Irene has it for lunch the following day. More often it stays in the fridge until …Until you know what.

   --I will continue to wear on special occasions—defined as a dinner eaten at the dining room table instead of in front of the TV—a favorite LL Bean shirt, a button-down that has the tiniest button holes in the collar. On Christmas Eve, I spent five to seven minutes on each collar, coaxing my fingers to force each button through the hole. I’m not suspicious by nature, but someone at a shirt factory in Sri Lanka could have decided to have a little fun with an uppity American, and I just happened to be that uppity American.

   --Our bedroom has a glow. (Sorry, I hate to brag.) The glow is from various pieces of electrical equipment—a heart monitor for me, a hearing aid charger for Irene. To glow is healthy. When I get up at 4:30 or 1:30 to do what old men do at 4:30 or 1:30 (or both), I don’t need to turn on a light to see my way to the bathroom. The glow from the dev

 (UPDATED December 23, 2020) 

   We have steak for breakfast once a year at our house. After much agonizing, it will be just Irene and I eating steak on Christmas morning. We had planned to have six of us around the table, but the closer we got to Christmas the more uneasy Irene and I became.

    We’re both in our early 80’s and why risk catching something as potentially lethal as COVID-19? We’d like to be around for Christmas 2021. Even though there will just be the two of us this time, we will have something to talk about. Irene doesn’t know it yet, but we are about to be rich. Wait until I read her the first few sentences of an email I got today: 

   “We the U.S. Bank Ohio are here to Notify you about the latest development regards your abandoned fund worth US$650.000.00 in our Bank. You were given a huge bill in order to receive this fund which we didn’t hear from you again since then. Now, we are offering a Special BONUS to help all our customers that are having Outstanding funds in our Bank due to the situation of things now.”

   Someone who can write like that should be working for one of the network evening newscasts.

Merry Christmas.

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 We have steak for breakfast once a year at our house. It’s a Christmas morning tradition traced back to my grandfather, William Alva McCoy, who farmed land near Colfax, Indiana. Farm animals don’t have holidays and neither do farmers. I’m guessing having steak for breakfast on Christmas was a treat on a day when cows still had to be milked and fed along with other chores, including feeding the chickens and gathering their eggs. 

   In recent years our son Jack has bought the steak and cooked it. Also on the long dining room table Christmas morning, there are sausages, bacon, pancakes, maple syrup, home-made biscuits, two jams, an egg dish or two (usually one of them has potatoes mixed in), juice, coffee and glasses full or half full of Bloody Marys or Mimosas. To state the obvious, there are no medical doctors or nutritionists in the family, and if there were we wouldn’t invite them to join us.

   After breakfast comes the unwrapping of gifts, by those still awake. This in turn is followed by “did you save the receipts? It looks a little small.” Or “I like it. It’s nice, but you gave me the exact same sweater last year.” Or, my favorite, “Gee, what is it?”

   Almost always Christmas is not a one or two-day affair for one of us. Irene has always been an early shopper and stashes presents here and there around the house. Along about February or March, while doing something in a closet, she will find a gift, wrapped and with someone’s name on it. She then contacts the lucky person, suggesting they stop by to pick it up.

   Another family tradition I grew up with was oyster stew on Christmas Eve. Where my folks got oysters is one of the mysteries of my youth. My hometown, Frankfort, Indiana, was nowhere near a decent body of water, let alone one that had oysters. 

   But that yearly bowl of oyster stew proved that Mom and Dad loved me. At the time I didn’t like oysters, and they only put one of those slippery devils in my bowl. We don’t do oyster stew these days. In normal times, Jack and his family have been our hosts on Christmas Eve, serving lobster bisque.

   Next Friday there will be six of us at Christmas breakfast instead of the usual 12. We will be wearing masks and sitting far apart when not at the table, but the menu will be basically the same. Here’s hoping Christmas 2021 has a much different look and feel with more of us around the breakfast table, waiting for someone to pass the steak. 

Merry Christmas.

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   In Praise Of Pie

   This senior citizen thinks he’s solved the problem of what to give younger people when a gift is in order: I bake them an apple pie.

   Two young couples who live next to us in Rockville Centre have recently been given apple pies and, I’m happy to report, returned the pie plates. One of the couples had just had twin boys, their first babies. After my wife Irene bought two onesies, I got busy peeling apples and measuring flour.

   The second couple already had twin boys (could it be the Rockville Centre water?), and they got a pie because they refused to let us help pay for a strong new metal fence on their property which replaced a rotting wooden one on ours.   

       One sturdy fence for one apple pie is a heck of a deal. Feeling a smidgen guilty, I took over a loaf of homemade bread a few days before handing the pie over the fence. (Have I mentioned that the fence is strong and sturdy?)

   I started making pies back in 1998 when, having worn out by welcome with yet another employer, I had lots of spare time. This transplanted son of Indiana bought “The Hoosier Cookbook,” a volume that was in my mom’s kitchen, and found two simple recipes for both the crust and the filling.

   As an octogenarian—what a long word to denote “old”—I haven’t a clue what inexpensive gift to buy for grandkids or neighbors, so I bake. Most of the time it’s an apple pie or bread. Baking eliminates worrying about what size sweater a kid takes or the colors they like or investing in some social media apparatus you know nothing about. I’ll admit I’m pleased when we invite grandkids over and they ask, “Are you going to make an apple pie?”

   Giving a pie or bread to an adult is a clear sign that you went to some trouble to show your appreciation and didn’t run to the liquor store and ended up guessing whether the recipients prefer red or white wine. 

   Baking a pie or bread from scratch really isn’t that big a deal. Outside of those two items, my talents in the kitchen are limited to omelets, pancakes, meatloaf, chicken cutlets and roasts. I could live to be 150 and never unravel the secret of making gravy.

   There’s no reason you shouldn’t occasionally give yourself a gift. I recently had a birthday and baked myself an apple pie. Not wishing to be vulgar, we put a single candle in it. A few slices were left over and the grandkids took them home.    The two younger ones love to start their day with apple pie for breakfast. Good for them. 

   I’m counting on them to remember how much they liked the pies when I’m really, really old and my chin needs wiping.

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(First published November 2020 in Hope, the CAW Anthology/Winter 2020, a book of poetry, short stories, essays and plays. CAW is an acronym for Calling All Writers.)  

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