“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-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 phon