CONTINUED: She's Trouble With A Capital T

 At first we had no invisible fence and tried to monitor Sweetpea on our own property when we were working in the yard.  In spite of our vigilance, she managed to escape to other yards.  She was so quick that we often were unable to find her within seconds of her absconding from our yard.  It was then that we began to hear from some neighbors, "She's trouble with a capital T."  Fortunately most pronouncements were made without rancor.

Our next door neighbors, Peter and Kathy, had a young shih tzu named Lucy whom they were training to use a newly installed doggy door leading from their kitchen to their back yard.  On more than one occasion Sweetpea observed them coaxing Lucy with treats to use the door.   She must have stored that useful bit of information in her memory bank because early one Sunday morning, after Sweetpea's walk, she bolted from our property and disappeared.  I went inside to seek Jerry's help.  Moments later our telephone rang.  "Who could be calling us at 7:30 on a Sunday morning?" I asked.  The call was from Peter.  He said, "Kathy and I are in bed and Sweetpea is pressing  her nose into Kathy's neck..  She scared us half to death.  We heard a loud bang when the door to our bedroom flew open and then the wet nose." If I hadn't felt so badly, I might have laughed.  We all concluded that Sweetpea had used Lucy's doggy door to enter the house and finding the downstairs empty, she went upstairs in search of companionship.

Jerry and I were thorouhly embarrassed but not enough so apparently to spend the money to buy an invisible fence.  After yet another encounter with a neighbor, an irate one at that, we decided that we didn't want to be the pariahs of the neighborhood and we installed an invisible fence with Peter's help.  The second incident came at a time that I was mending from some surgery and instructed not to walk Sweetpea.  She had whined to be let out and believing that she needed to relieve herself, I took her out sans leash so she would not pull on my stitches.  Immediately Sweetpea took off.  She quickly reappeared with what looked like a limp bunny hanging from her mouth.  Oh, and what looked like a pair of chop sticks angled into a V pushed into the poor bunny.  As she drew nearer, I realized that the bunny was in fact part of an unfinished sweater sleeve and the chopsticks were knitting needles.  I asked for Peterl and Kathy's help to get Sweetpea to release the partial sweater.  Sweetpea milked the game of "Catch me if you can" by dashing past our friends (but friends for how much longer) in their attempts to grab her.  Eventually Sweetpea released the knitting and I scooped it up.  It looked none the worse for wear except for some loose grass that I removed.  I followed the yarn to a neighbor's yard two door away.  The yarn was attached to a skein sitting in a tote bag on their garage floor.  The attraction was two bowls of dog food which she must have discovered during one of her disappearances.

Sweetpea's least favorite playmate was a black lab named  Bear.  His name well suited him as he was strong and muscular and rowdy.  During the time I was in his yard overseeing the two dogs play, I had a glove ripped and another time I was knocked over by Bear to the extent that my glasses went flying and I was leveled to the ground. When Sweetpea could not "bear" Bear any longer, she removed herself from him by lying on the grass near the outside boundary line of the invisible fence.  Bear could not cross the line without getting zapped.  He yelped and moaned but Sweetpea held fast.  I felt proud of her because I thought he had a thing coming to him.  Jerry and I  imagined that Sweetpea was having the last laugh at Bear's misfortune.  Maybe only humans like to get revenge but we would like to think Sweetpea did that day.

 My last story involves Sweetpea and her friend Liberty, a yellow lab.  My husband had walked Sweetpea to Liberty's home for play in their spacious wooded back yard that had a creek running through it.  Liberty was waiting at the dining room window and signaled the family's baby sitter that Sweetpea was arriving.  Out sprung Liberty from their front door and the two pals darted to the back yard for their rough and tumble play.  To cool off, they would break through a thin layer of ice on the creek and submerge themselves in the chilling water.  This particular day, however, after a brief chase, Sweetpea left the property and Liberty who was not wearing her collar ran after her.  My husband called me to help him find the two run-a-ways.  Immediately after his call, our phone rang and a neighbor called to say, "We have Sweetpea here in our garage and she brought a friend with her.  They have polished off our dogs' food and they look very pleased with themselves."  I inwardly groaned. Can you believe my bad luck?  It was the needle knitting neighbor.  Fortunately she found their escapade funny.

Today Sweetpea is twelve year's old.  She continues to stalk bunnies, can sprint short distances and teases the daylights out of us.  She no longer takes off on us and is content to sit under a tree when we do yard work.  The neighbors all know her but not as "trouble."   I must admit that she is the best loved dog in our neighborhood

copyright Sandra Gurev, 2014

CONTINUED: Not So Famous

  I had heard only John Philip Sousa and Elvis Presley amplified on the tiny speaker of the record player my parents had received as a wedding present.  But music from Red Rovera and The Rockin’ Pneumonias at DiCastro’s was like a call from another world.  The sound had to be magic, I later realized, because I never smelled the stale beer and cigarette butts until the music stopped.  And frankly, the music never did stop for me.  I fell totally head over heels in love with the fantastic idea of becoming a rock and roll musician.  There is not an iota of difference between believing you can do it and falling completely in love with yourself. 

The few songs I had learned by ear on my mother’s piano in our living room would be replaced after some serious self teaching work with a few riffs, runs and rumbles.   The effort was enough to get me into a rock and roll band.  I was ready to mount the stage and impress audiences all over the county.

Soon my opportunity came along.  But I must admit I got the job only because a friend needed somebody … anybody … to play keyboard for the group he started when we were 16.  I learned my chords in various keys from a boy who sounded out each note for me on his guitar until I could see their structure and begin to pick them out myself.  (Oh, yeah!  Two half tones down from the top makes a seventh!)  Then I was lucky enough to meet another kid who was in a real band and actually knew how to play piano.  He taught me a few bass lines.  He also told me that absolutely none of his 3 years of piano lessons helped him to play piano in a rock and roll band.  Although that was probably untrue, I believed him.  Since I’d never taken a single lesson, this knowledge helped bolster my confidence.  

An older teen I met at a friend’s house taught me how to invert my chords.  Little Richard’s 45 rpm records taught me to bang on the keys way up at the high end of the keyboard.  The music of the 1950’s wasn’t very complicated.  Chord progressions for the Top 40 songs were almost always I, IV, V for the fast songs and I, VI, IV, V for the slow tunes.  (In the key of C that would be C,F,G and C, Am, F, G7 respectively.)

That’s all I learned about music before I suited up in my bright red tux and gold cummerbund, ready to wow music lovers everywhere.  If I’d been a solo act without other band members playing louder than me, I would have been in a lot of trouble.  I didn’t continue to deepen my knowledge of the piano at that time because I was in high school and I was busy.  Not with studies, but with day dreaming.  I spent a lot of time day dreaming.  

Our first gig provided my initial jolt of that addictive substance known as  applause.  It occurred at a dance our new band played in South Utica, hosted by a local DJ.  I can’t remember the number I sang that first time in public, but the girls swooned and screamed and I was absolutely hooked.    For all I knew, the girls were screaming at rats running across the floor.  I didn’t realize at the time that teenage girls would swoon over President Eisenhower singing God Bless America, if he hung a guitar over his shoulder.  And maybe wiggled his hips.  This first job would spoil us, it turned out.  We didn’t know it that night, but things would get worse before they got better.

We played at a gas station grand opening, at a hunting lodge that almost burned down during our second set,  in dingy bars where as sixteen year olds we were propositioned by prostitutes,  at high school and college proms where the kids often got drunk and threw up on us or wanted to beat us up, like the night in Canajoharie when we needed a police escort out of town.

I can’t say any of us really liked playing in bars until we were a bit older, but the money was union scale and much more than what we received for proms and school dances.  Mom and Dad knew I was in the band, of course.  Even a resourceful sixteen year old can’t leave the house in a bright red tux without some kind of explanation.  I told Mom our band played only at teen dances in Church Halls.  I don't think she believed me.  She just loved me.

       We played in so many school gyms we should have made sneakers part of our outfits.  In fact the extra traction of the rubber soles would have been helpful at all the Beer Bashes we played when the floor would become slippery with spilled beer after a couple of hours.  And I still feel the sand in my shoes from all the summer gigs we played on weekends at Sylvan Beach. 

I knew enough musical techniques back then to keep from getting fired.   I liked the adulation that sometimes came from audiences and our teenage rock and roll band certainly brought me more money than I might earn delivering newspapers.  Plus, I never had a paper route customer scream with delight when I came to their door with the newspaper.  And it happened that I could sing, after a fashion.  Although Brook Benton and even Gene Vincent were surely not worried about competition from me,  my golden voice may be why the band didn’t fire me when I flubbed my keyboard solos. 

My desire to be noticed by girls as I played in the band didn't work out quite the way I had planned.  The ladies who came up to speak to me between sets were older or drunk and they always advised me to find a better crowd to hang out with, evidently including themselves in the comparison.  Some were more free with their charms.  But the only girl who ever swooned over me also threw up on me.

Still, playing to rowdy young women was a lot of fun.  I'm reminded of that when I occasionally sit in church while the music ministry sing their hearts out or play the guitar or kazoos at a Folk Mass.  I assume they are enjoying themselves, but with no young women screaming when you huff out your low notes, I can't imagine singing in the choir is as much fun as belting out a song to dozens of beer drinking sorority girls.  

It is true I met my wife as a result of my short career of fame in two small towns.  She noticed me in the band one night and recognized me from our college.  When I approached her some months later, it served as sort of an introduction and we hit it off, something that didn’t always happen to me with many young women who understandably had second thoughts about bringing a musician home to meet Mom and Dad.   What I needed and found was a very brave girl.

I had toyed with the notion of working seriously on my playing and becoming a career musician, but no one in their right mind would choose a life of wandering around looking for work and playing music in side street pubs for people who expressed their appreciation by sitting there and getting drunk.  I didn’t want to find myself on a Greyhound bus every week touring the worst parts of one town after another as I played out a career in all the cheap dives on the east coast.   Some of my band friends got regular jobs and played evenings and weekends for extra money.  That must have cut into their family life.

An honest assessment of me as a musician would say I wasn’t very serious and I certainly wasn’t very good.  My time of being almost famous didn’t last very long, only from my junior year of  high school until my second year of college.  At age 19 I was done.

One hot and sticky night in July of ’62, after playing in some crummy club at Sylvan Beach, I was odd man out when the management gave us an overnight room that slept only four.  I woke up on the sandy beach at about 7 the next morning to a bright sunny day that was giving me a terrific headache.  As I rolled over and tried to get comfortable, sand trickling down the back of my pants that were wet from the dew, I sensed my life as a musician was over.  

I sat up on the beach and looked around in the bright sunlight.  A young mother some distance away looked at me and instantly called out to her young daughter to come to her.  I should have paid for a room somewhere instead of lying out on the sand.

I looked down the beach to DiCastro’s,  where I had fallen in love with the whole idea of becoming a rock musician.  I wished I had been invited to play there, but they were an upscale bar and never hired us, preferring older bands from the Syracuse area.  My old friend and neighbor Petey got a great job with a band from Buffalo.  Eventually he quit his accounting work and took off for Nashville with them.  Today he is a studio musician and has credits with well known bands.  His Aunt Dominica left her bedroom and Uncle Angie and joined Petey down south.  I never knew what she was to Petey, aunt or lover.  He calls me now and then and asks me if I remember how many window panes were built into each of our houses.

For me, my musical ambition was limited and there were other adventures in life to pursue and places to go. I wanted a life with interesting work in computers,  a terrific  girl and kids and a house in the country and money to spend.  I'm pretty happy with the way my life turned out, but it's fun to remember those golden days … some of them … when I was a rock musician. 

copyright 2012, David Griffin

CONTINUED: Treasure

“That brings back memories,” he said, and smiled.

“ Most often on our lips were the names of famous actresses,” I continued, “and just about any neighborhood girl with boobs. And I can truthfully say ‘billionairess’ would have caught our attention.”

“And so did you marry a woman of great wealth?” he asked.

“No,” I confessed.  “I didn’t marry money.  I  married the first girl who laughed at my jokes.”

“I hope it was successful,” he said.

“Well … we’re still married, but …” I replied.

“But?” he said.

“We seem to argue an awful lot,” I said.

“Ah,” he said.  “Perhaps, the thrill is gone?”

“I sincerely hope not.” My voice trailed off with a degree of resignation.  I shifted my gaze out the window.

The sun was down.  The mountains were left in the dark.  I could barely see their outline.  When the sky soon turned black, I saw nothing, but knew they were there.  I wondered why we humans lacked a facility deep inside to tell us when our eyes lied and something immense stood just beyond our awareness.  Across the river or across a room.  

“I knew a young man in high school who married an heiress,” said Daniel, interrupting my thoughts.  We were not far from my station.

 “Gee,” I said, afraid I’d have to sit through another tale from the old man, “my stop is up ahead and I have to get off.  I should get my coat and –“

“He was a very quiet boy,” said Daniel, who didn’t acknowledge my mild disinterest in hearing one more story.  “A few of the students thought he might be a deaf-mute and tried sign language to communicate with him.” He gave a quiet laugh.

“And he married well?” I said, trying to move the story along.

“He had a rather curious relationship with his French teacher,” he continued.

“Curious?”  I said.

“She was quite young,” Daniel said.  “He asked her to his Senior Prom.  Of course, she refused, but helped find him a date.”

“Why did you say ‘curious,’” I asked.

“Well, you know … he loved her,” he said.

“When I was fifteen,” I said, “I was in love with a woman on my paper route who made great meat balls, but I never thought it was all that ‘curious.’”

“They met after school in her classroom for extra lessons,” said Daniel.  “She was French and very pretty. So sweet and so very friendly.

 “But if he couldn’t speak –”  I said.

“Oh, he could write,” said Daniel.  “He sometimes did so in his classes.”

 “And after school?”  I said.

Daniel looked at me and smiled.  “Ah hah,” he said with mischief in his voice.  “The boy asked her for lessons, and he didn’t mean the French language.”

“I hope she refused,” I said. 

“No,” said Daniel, “she didn’t. There was more going on than most of the students realized.”

The conductor announced my station.   I had to leave, but Daniel had captured my attention.

 “So what happened?”  I asked as I gathered up my newspaper, magazine and umbrella.

   “Yes, well what do you think happened?”  said an almost leering Daniel.

“I don’t know,” I replied, tired of this game.

“The boy won the door prize at the Prom,” the old fellow continued without answering his own question. “As he walked to the microphone to claim his prize, everyone was embarrassed for him and they wondered what a person who couldn’t speak would possibly have to say.”

“Not much, probably,” I said.

“But for the first time in anyone’s memory, he piped up and spoke! Everyone said he had a warm and deep voice, and sounded just like the actor, Charles Boyer. Every girl in the gym immediately fell in love with him.”

“Wait a minute, Daniel,” I said. “Charles Boyer had a French accent.”

“That’s right!” said Daniel. “She had been teaching him English.”

“Oh, c’mon,” I said. 

Daniel laughed at my reaction. “He was a war orphan from France. Just learning English. That’s what he asked her to teach him after school.” 

“But someone in the school must have –”  I began.

Daniel interrupted and rushed on with his story.  “When he spoke into the mike that night, he became an immediate hit with the young women at school.”

The lights of my station came into view and I reached up for my coat on the overhead rack.  I had taken it off because the train was so warm.

 “The young man ended his senior year in a blaze of romance and glory,” Daniel said.  “His entire high school social life took place after the night of the Senior Prom, from May 18 to June 22, 1947.  Movies and cokes and milkshakes with 34 girls in our senior class.”

I laughed at yet another tall story.

“OK, I said, “But wasn’t he in love with –” 

“You try refusing 34 girls,” said Daniel. 

I smiled.  The train slowed almost to a stop.

 “Please tell me he married the great love of his young life, his French teacher,” I said.  I held my coat and umbrella, ready to hop off the train.

“His English teacher, as it turned out,” he said.  “But no, she wouldn’t have him.  Instead she married the principal of the school.”

“Well, that ruins a good story,” I said.

Daniel’s smile faltered.

“OK,  sorry,” I said, “what happened to the boy?  And when did he meet the heiress?”

“He had no money,” said Daniel, “but a college scholarship took him to New Hampshire where he met and married the daughter of a lumber merchant who was as rich as Croesus.”

“As a consolation prize,” I said, “money isn’t all bad.”

“Money can be a terrible consolation,” he said.

The conductor called out the name of my station, the city of Hudson.  I stood up and stepped into the aisle.  I turned to say goodbye to Daniel.  He stood and gathered up his newspaper and a small valise.

“You’re getting off here?”  I said.

“Juliette is here,” he said.

We stepped off the train on to the platform as a brisk wind blew up from the river, my damp shirt chilling me after the warm interior of the railroad car.  So many years ago a cold breeze often caused the girl to pull herself closer to me.  She would whisper in a husky voice, “Keep me warm,”  and I’d reach my arm around her and sweep her to me.

With the few passengers leaving the train, Daniel and I walked down the platform and through the station out to the small apron of sidewalk.  We stopped at the edge of a circular driveway and were soon alone as the others got in their cars and headed home to their firesides.  My impatience to do the same had evaporated.  I was concerned for Daniel and wondered if at his advanced age he was  senile and roaming around the countryside following people home.

“I live a few miles from here,” I said.  “Do you live here in Hudson?”

“Not in a long time,” he said.

We stood like two gentlemen waiting for our carriage.   I wondered if  Juliette was the French teacher and if she really lived here with the man she married, if he was still alive. 

“I can see the city has changed dramatically over the years,” Daniel said, as he gazed up the hill at a mixture of new and old buildings, their faces lit by streetlights in the downtown area.

“It probably didn’t look like much in 1947,” I said, wondering how he would respond.

“It was a far better sight than the bombed out buildings on the Rue St. Pierre,” he said.

“Are you the French orphan?” I asked.

“Mon Dieu, vous es un bon détective!,” he said.

“Your English has no accent,” I said, but I now realized why his speech had sounded a bit odd.

“Not easy to rid myself of it,” he said with a chuckle. “It was a hit with the girls in my class, but a handicap when doing serious business in this country.”

 “I guess Juliette is late,” I said.

“Juliette is not coming,” he said. “I’m the one who is late.”

As he spoke, a black limousine bounced into the circle from the street and pulled up in front of us.  A middle aged man in a white shirt and black tie jumped out and came around to us on the passenger side of the car.  I thought he might ask us the way to the nearest hotel or nearby town.

“May I offer you a ride?” Daniel said, surprising me.

“Are you Mister Droulette?” the driver said to the empty space between Daniel and myself.

Daniel indicated the rear door with a slight wave of his hand and the man quickly stepped to open it.  I moved out of the way.

“I have my car here,” I said, “but thank you.”

The old man carefully folded himself into the back seat of the limo and put a frail hand out to stop the driver from closing the door. He looked up at me.

“I lost my heiress three years ago,” he said.  “It was not a happy marriage for either of us.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“And Juliette,” he continued.  “Now I’ve lost the opportunity to speak with her one last time.  I always meant to call or write her.  Her funeral is here tomorrow.”

“I’m very sorry,” I said.  I felt awful for him.

“Neither of the loves in my life worked out very well,” Daniel continued.  “Perhaps I should have looked for someone who laughed at my jokes.  She would be a treasure.” 

Daniel smiled up at me and nodded to the driver.  The man closed the door. The limo carried Daniel off to the funeral of a woman to whom he could never again speak of his love.  A funeral can be a regrettable end to an unfinished conversation.

I turned from the driveway and found a public telephone in the station.

“I saw the mountains,” I said into the phone.  “Across the river …”

She said nothing.

“I can meet you at the restaurant you like in the village,”  I said.

I heard her breathe, nothing more.

“When did we stop sitting together on the same side of the booth?”  I asked. 

She began to cry.

“I still want us to spend the rest of our lives together,” I said.  “I want to keep you warm.”

copyright 2013 by David Griffin

CONTINUED: Heart Attack

Paul turned to me as the Buick sputtered down the street. “If you step out of line even once, I’ll call Uncle Billy and he’ll get the county here to take you to the orphanage for the weekend.”

I snorted. “Wow, new friends. Get me in the girls dormitory, huh?” Billy was a cop and it would not be surprising to see a police car drive by a few times on the weekend. It was doubtful he would stop in unless he saw other emergency vehicles on the scene.

And so at precisely 1:41 p.m. Eastern Daylight Savings Time, June 20, 1959, Paul and I began life as the odd couple. I checked my watch one more time. On Monday I wanted to be able to tell my friends how many hours I had been left on my own. I wouldn’t mention the presence of my older brother, who in any case wasn’t watching me. He shut himself in our bedroom closet with a portable record player and his Bill Haley records. The player’s power cord snaked out from under the door to a nearby electrical outlet.

Twice I tipped the plug out of the socket momentarily and the record slowed down. From behind the door I heard him swear and punch the little player until I coughed and he realized what was happening. He chased me through the house and down the front stairs and part way down the street. But that was the only excitement all afternoon. The neighbors didn’t start hollering at us, so it turned out that all went well until after supper.

Around five o’clock Paul came out of the closet and made us a light supper. Except for well timed derisive comments, I let him accomplish his work. Although Paul had been assigned the cooking chores, he didn’t know how to cook any better than me, but he was considered more careful around fire. Specifically, I wasn’t allowed near the stove since curiosity got the better of me the month before and I heated up a D cell battery in one of Mom’s Revere Ware copper bottomed pots over an open flame. I did indeed employ a safety precaution by placing a lid on the pot. You could still see the round impression on the ceiling left by the lid when the battery blew up. The explosion made the neatest sound. Not a bang, but a sharp whoosh with a green flash of flame shooting up from the pot.

 When supper was over we sat back and finished up a dessert of candy and bananas. I noticed Paul massaging his chest.

“I think I’m having a heart attack,” he said and leaned forward hunching his shoulders. We hadn’t even begun to argue about who would wash or dry the two plates and two milk glasses.  

“You can’t have a heart attack,” I said. “You’re only sixteen.” But he really didn’t look so good. His face was pale and he wheezed with each breath.

“My chest hurts something awful,” he said.

 “It’s the peanut butter and fried baloney sandwiches you made us,” I said. “Topped off with the marshmallow chocolate cookies and the chicken corn candy for dessert. It’s called heartburn.”

“I don’t think so,” he moaned. “It really hurts.”

“Should I call Uncle Billy?” I said.

“Hell, no. Mom and Dad would never leave us alone again. Ever.”

I was getting concerned. “But if it’s a real heart attack, maybe we should—“

“Can’t you think of something? Remember the time you said toothpaste would work for Athlete’s Foot? Well, it did.”

“It did?”

“You made it up?”

“Not exactly,” I said. “It was based on my long experience in topical ointments.”

“You’re full of crap,” he said.

“Watch your tongue. I invented the use of ketchup for itchy scalp.”

“It worked?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen Mrs. Bletcher on my paper route since I recommended it to her. Seemed logical to me.”

“My chest really, really hurts,” he said and moaned again.

I racked my brain and finally an idea came.

 “Take the long wooden spoon Mom uses for spaghetti and stick it down your throat as far as it will go.”

“You mean, like a sword swallower?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Don’t swallow all of it. When it hits bottom, with just an inch or two sticking up out of your mouth, twist it around two or three times.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, it’ll mix up all the stomach acid with your food and that’ll take care of the heartburn.”

Paul sat there silent, his face a mask of pain.

“It might work,” I said, “if you don’t choke to death.”

He moaned again.

“Can you ride your bike?” I said.

“To where?

”The hospital. It’s only a mile or two over Pleasant Street. Maybe three.”

“I don’t think I can ride that far.”

“I’m sure it’s just heartburn,” I said.

He seemed to be getting worse as he pushed his knuckles back and forth over his chest. I had to think of a solution.

Another helpful thought came to me. “Where’s the Reader’s Digest Brain Surgery Manual?” That’s what we called the Home Health and First Aid book Mom kept on a bookshelf in the living room. I went and got it, brought it to the kitchen and thumbed through the heavy book waiting for my older brother to get over what I hoped was a bad case of heartburn.

“Here’s a diagnosis chart in the book,” I said. “Let’s go through it. Is the pain inside or outside the chest?”

“Inside.”

“Above or below the solar plexus?”

“What’s a solar plexus,” he said.

“If you don’t know what it is, you don’t have one. Left side or right side?”

“The middle.”

“Well,” I said, “the middle more to the right or the middle more to the left?”

“The middle of the middle.”

“Have you had this pain for over thirty days or less than ten days or –“

“I just got it, for cripe’s sake!”

“Have you participated in any strenuous activity in the past 24 hours? Lifted heavy objects or worked overtime?”

Paul ignored me.

“Does your skin possess a pallor or grayness?”

“I don’t know. Does it?”

“Just your hands from changing the bicycle tire this morning. Is there pain in your left arm?”

“I’m calling a cab,” said Paul.

On the phone he gave our address and asked how long it would take for a taxi to arrive. He said he needed to go to the hospital and volunteered he might be having a heart attack, but refused the suggestion to call an ambulance. “I’m only sixteen,” Paul told the dispatcher,” so I don’t think it’s bad enough for an ambulance.” Dad would have his own heart attack if he had to pay an ambulance bill.

The taxi cab arrived in fifteen minutes and pulled to the curb in front of the house. Mom and Dad and Michael pulled in the driveway seconds later as Paul and I were about to get in the cab. Gone only a few hours, they surprised us.

“You guys are certainly traveling in style,” said my father as he got out of our car and came over to the taxi. He didn’t look very well, his summer tan now rather peaked.

Paul began to whine. “My chest hurts something awful, Dad.”

“Paul’s having a heart attack,” I said.

Dad nodded and smiled. “No, he’s not. He’s got the flu.”

Mom walked over to us and Michael ran along behind her with his tin box. The tape was mostly off and trailed down like a ribbon..

“Your father has to go inside now and lie down,” Mom said.

“What’s the matter with him,” asked Paul.

“He has a bad case of the flu. It hit him just as we were leaving the city. We spent the afternoon in the hospital emergency room.”

“Thought I was having a heart attack,” Dad said. “You’re OK, Paul, you’ll have the heartburn for a little while longer, but it goes away when you start throwing up.”

“Thanks, Dad.” said Paul.”

“But that doesn’t last too long either,” said Dad. “When the chills and the muscle pains start, the vomiting is over.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Paul said again.

“Good thing, too,” said Dad, “because that’s when your other end cranks up.”

Paul was looking worse.

“I should go inside now, Dad.,” he said. “David will give you his blessing.”

“I think I’ll wait for his ordination,” said Dad.

Mom lit another Chesterfield. “I’ll have to call the family and tell them why we didn’t show up. Oh dear, they planned for us to stay overnight.”

Dad laughed. “They’ll forget all about us when they get the gin and whiskey out.”

Over the next few days all five of us came down with the symptoms. I told Michael we’d caught the flu from his Teddy Bear.

“Serves us right,” he said, “for stuffing him in a tin box with only two air holes.”

copyright David Griffin, 2014

CONTINUED: So, This Is Christmas ...by Rev. Lou Kavar Ph.D.

As John Lennon sang in a song from my youth, “So, this is Christmas!”

Our images of Christmas are of warmth, good cheer, and peace among people. While there is a good deal of merry-making and celebrations small and large, the world doesn’t stop for Christmas. If anything, our hopes of what Christmas should be make the realities of life seem more harsh and frustrating.

Our fantasies about Christmas gloss over the sacred stories of the birth of Jesus that are the foundation for this holiday day. Perhaps we forget that it was a poor young couple who made a difficult journey and had no safe place to stay. Or we romanticize the shepherds and miss that they were viewed as second class citizens who lived with their animals, didn’t maintain the religious laws of cleanliness, and were not welcome in most social circles. We mistakenly refer to the magi as “kings” but they were foreigners of a different religion and culture. Then, much like today, foreigners of a different culture and religion were viewed with suspicion not a warm welcome. The bottom line is this: the sacred stories of Christmas are about those who were outsiders, down on their luck, without any redeeming social value. Yet, they were the ones who are the central characters for the beginning for our stories about the birth of Jesus.

The sacred stories of Christmas are meant to remind us that hope is born in the lives of people who are struggling, facing hardship, and live in fear. These stories are the most significant when we allow the darkness of our lives to be filled with light – even if that light is just the glimmer of a single star. The depth of meaning in the stories of Christmas is most relevant for those living on the edge who aren’t sure what may come next.

I think the meaning of Christmas is captured in a sermon from the fifth century by Peter Chrysologus, a bishop in Central Italy, who wrote: “God saw the world falling to ruin because of fear and immediately acted to call it back with love. God invited it by grace, preserved it by love, and embraced it with compassion.”

The essence of the sacred stories of Christmas is that because the world is falling apart, because people experience pain and tragedy, because wrapped in fear we fail to do better, grace calls again and again to be people of love and compassion. The hope of Christmas is that struggle and strife aren’t the end of the story. Instead, something new can be born into our world that calls us to do better and to be better.

Yes, so this is Christmas! It’s not plastic sentimentality sold to us by commercial opportunists but it is the opportunity to allow hope be born anew. It is the hope of Christmas that bring us out of fear to a new faith that sets things right.

As I think about the pain and tragedy in the world and in the lives of people I know, it seems to me that we need Christmas more than ever. Indeed, we need to allow our lives to be transformed by love and compassion for the healing of the world.

On these last days before Christmas, I look for this hope as I pray the words of the ancient hymn: O Come, Emmanuel!

copyright by Rev. Lou Kavar Ph.D., 2014

 
Visit Lou's blog  here:

http://blog.loukavar.com/2014/12/22/so-this-is-christmas/

CONTINUED: Once Upon A Time

  Just the two of us ascended in the tiny elevator car.  I had stepped on in the basement, having come in from the street through the waiters’ locker room, stamping the season’s first snow off my cheap shoes.  He got on at the first floor, headed for the private dining rooms on the third floor while I continued to the fifth.  We spoke not a word. He hummed something while I cleared my throat.  Just as the elevator stopped at his floor, I said, “I must tell you something, ♫I Left My Heart In San Francisco♫. 

The doors opened and he stepped out without acknowledging my attempt at conversation.  He may not have heard me. 

I was twenty years old and from a small city farther upstate.  I knew a little piano, but never thought to ask Mr. Bennett if he needed an extra accompanist who could play just about any Chuck Berry song in the key of C.  And not much else. It might have been time for the aging crooner to consider updating his repertoire.  If he could do ♫Sing You Sinners,♫  he could certainly include Chuck’s classics like Maybellene and Roll Over Beethoven.  Forcing his voice up to the key of C should have been no problem for a professional. 

Frankly, I’d probably work for free.  And carry his bags.  I could even try to transpose to A.

I wasn’t very realistic at age twenty.  It’s a wonder I ever got any work done.  On that morning, the most important thing rolling around in my mind was not whether I could remember the wiring circuits that controlled the little magnets that pushed down the long thin blades just in the nick of time to send a punched car to the correct pocket on the sorter machine.   I was ♫Younger Than Spring♫ and my mind kept wandering to the snow falling on the streets of Manhattan and how pretty it looked. 

To some people snow is not pretty.  I have to say I began to lean in that direction as I got older.  But in my early adulthood … a period I now more honestly label my late childhood  … snow was gorgeous.  It would bring to mind a pretty girl with red cheeks sitting on a toboggan wearing a pink scarf and tight jeans.  My thoughts jumped to later, sheltered from a snowstorm in a dimly lit café, hunched over mugs of cinnamon-laced hot cider, her blue eyes and flaming red hair tugging on my heart as I sat in ♫The Shadow Of Her Smile♫. Still later, a dark sky arched high above a street lamp shining down on the snow covered sidewalk as our feet crunched along, bodies shivering inside our clothes, anxious to get to her apartment to enjoy each other’s warmth.  ♫For Once In My Life♫, I was in love. 

♫Where Do I Begin?♫  It is probably true that the last person you would expect to make a mature decision about a potential lifetime mate would be an unrealistic older child of twenty who couldn’t remember whether the little magnets that sent a punched card to the correct pocket were powered by a pulse from the cam contact or the detector switch. More alarming, I didn’t care about cams and switches and detectors that morning.  I went back down the elevator and out into the middle of West 52^nd Street to build a snowman.  But of course there is absolutely nowhere you can build a snowman on West 52^nd Street, except perhaps on the roof of a parked car.  ♫Just In Time♫, I stopped myself from making a mess on top of a very plain late model automobile when I realized I was approaching an unmarked police car.

What I remember best about the girl is she was nice to me.  Most young women I met at age 20 looked right through me as though I was a sheet of glass, like the door in the office building they pushed aside and went through each morning.  To get upstairs to a job, to earn money, to buy pretty clothes, to attract a man like me.  But not me.

In our twenties, most boys and girls were unaware we were simply at the age for chasing after someone else’s life we wanted to share.  ♫That Old Devil Moon♫ had a simple reproductive battle plan  that demanded we couple soon, while we still might live long enough to raise human children to the age of their own coupling.  We humans had no better  game plan than a ♫Firefly♫.

Most of us ran around and tried to look smart, pretty or handsome.  We hoped to meet the one who would serve our fancy, and maybe even our needs.  ♫I May Be Wrong♫, but I probably had no idea what my real needs were.

One definite need was to eat, so I went back upstairs to my job and  ♫I Got Rhythm♫.  I finally came to understand the music of the spheres, the interposer magnets and how to set 8 thousandths of an inch adjustment on the card feed blade.  ♫Maybe This Time♫ I would remember to turn off the power before probing the circuits.

For many of my friends, their one true love or a reasonable facsimile eventually showed up.  Or they got tired of searching and settled for companionship or sex.  Some  gazed with new eyes over old ground that held past  partners.  And if their old lovers were now spoken for, one could certainly find the old personalities wrapped around new candidates.  Some of my friends hoped what didn’t work in the past would work now.  “♫They Can’t Take That Away From Me♫,” they said. Many were disappointed to find you unlearn a good lesson at your own peril.

Evidently all of us believed five or six dates at the movies or tucked into a booth in a quiet bar were enough to form the basis of a lifetime commitment.  Some of us were right.

Biology pounded at the door and families, parsons, chapels, gown makers, formal attire renters and honeymoon destinations coaxed young lovers toward cementing their union.    One of ♫My Girl’s♫ friends had already married a boy who sold hot dogs downtown in an office building to earn money to buy her pretty clothes that made her attractive.  ♫But Not For Me♫.  I wanted the girl who promised she’d sail away with me on a ship called the ♫The Good Life♫.

“For us,” I told her, “it’s ♫A Time For Love♫.”

“♫This I All I Ask♫,” she answered, “♫I Wanna Be Around♫.”

“♫Because Of You♫,” I said, “I will never walk that ♫Boulevard of Broken Dreams♫.”

 “♫The Best Is Yet To Come♫,” she said.

Tony Bennett may have said the same each of the three times he married.  I still feel that way after nearly fifty years of marriage.  And if Tony and I met again on an elevator, we might agree that for us,  the birds, the bees and the marriage industry, ♫The Music Never Ends♫.

.copyright 2013 by David Griffin