420: The Key to the Secrets of the Universe

[The house where I grew up. Owego, NY.]

In 1971, five students of San Rafael High School (CA) decided that they would smoke cannabis next to a statue of Louis Pasteur. They chose to wait until all the after-school activities were finished. It was 4:20 in the afternoon (PDT). The date? Why, April 20, of course. While they smoked, they would lean against a wall. They were dubbed The Waldos. When I made this astounding discovery, I assumed I had stumbled on something big…really big. I knew something the vast majority of people had no clue about. (In reality, I was almost the last person on the planet that did not know the hidden significance of 420.) It’s now an international day to light up. This was blog-worthy. This needed to be revealed to the general public. I would have to be careful, because this kind of knowledge had the potential of causing wide-spread mayhem, social disorder and was downright dangerous. Much like the Trump Years would be decades later.

The rest is history, or so I’m told.

Over the years, the significance of the number 420 would evolve. Well, now it’s up to me to help you through the sometimes contradictory maze of esoteric meanings (Numerology) of this unique number. I have never let my readers down and this post will prove that I’m still in full command of arcane knowledge of all sorts. All of what I’m about to reveal to you is important, vital and meaningful. If anyone thinks that I’ve bent the facts, stretched the truth, ignored opposing views, used only the things that support my point or that I’m beginning to show my age, then I challenge you to unplug your iPad and Google these things. It’s all there. Trust me.

I dug deep into the bowels of Google.com to find the following facts. Whatever dark things you see in these facts, know it isn’t just me. So don’t blame the messenger. Following me now as I lead you into a brave new world of interesting and ominous information.

–Look at the lead photo of this post. Do you see the address of the house where I grew up?

–Bob Dylan’s Rainy Day Woman 12 & 35. 12 times 35 = 420.

–Hitler’s birthday is April, 20.

–420 High Street is the address of the cannabis store in Palisades Park, NJ.

Now, if you’ve stayed with me this long, then allow me to move slightly to the side and take a step into some new territory, still keeping the general theme in laser focus.

In 1979, Douglas Adams published The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. In it, the protagonist asks a super computer named Deep Thought to come up with answer to the ultimate question: What is the truth about the meaning of existence. The computer took 7.5 million years to finally spit out the answer: 42. That’s the true and final word. 42

It didn’t take me long to find the opening to the Rabbit Hole and go down into it, head first. Here’s what I found:

–42 is the Atomic Number of Molybdenum. Which happens to be the 42nd most common element on earth.

–There are 42 Laws in the game of Cricket.

–There are 42 generations in the Genealogy of Jesus.

–In the End Times, according to the Bible, the Beast will reign over the earth for 42 months.

–There are 42 lines per page in the Gutenberg Bible.

–In Chinese, the number 4 is shi. In Japanese, the number 2 is ni. Together the word is shini, which means to die.

–In Sing a Song of Sixpence, there are 4 and 20 blackbirds baked in a pie.

So, that’s all I’ve had the energy to research. I’m sure you will buy into this. It’s all backed by rock-solid logic and facts! How can you argue?

Well, you might say, it’s all a coincidence. To that, I would say: Trust me and have some imagination.

And never let the facts get in the way of a good story.

[I’m not sure what Elon has to do with any of this, but I found this article in a newspaper. So it must be true.]

{Note: all photos are mine. The numerous facts were found using Google.}

The Moonflower

[The White Moon Flower. Ipomoea alba. Photo: Google Search]

Nature is an Aeolian Harp, a musical instrument, whose tones are the re-echo of higher strings within us.

~~Novalis

This is a true story. It happened to me during my last few years before leaving home to attend college in the South. All of it took place in and around my family home on Front Street in Owego, New York. The central theme in this post took place in the Spring of 1965 when I was only weeks away from saying farewell to all those people and places I knew and loved while growing up.

I was a teenager and I had a dream. It wasn’t the night-time dream of sandy beaches, the Northern Forest, Boy Scout campfires, sock-hops or even nymphs who might be found somewhere in my backyard. No, it was something I saw in a film. It may very well have been in Mrs. Lowe’s French Class at OFA, sometime in 1962 or 1963. Mrs. Lowe mixed grammar and syntax with a dash of French culture. We saw a documentary about Maurice Utrillo, the painter of street scenes in and around Paris. I love Utrillo to this day. On another occasion, she ran a film about another painter who loved nature and landscape. I don’t recall who it was, but it affected me deeply. In fact, I think something nearly audible, almost visceral but so very real began to grow within me. I could feel it, smell it, touch it, but I couldn’t see or hear it. Was it the films or my new interest in poetry, the inner Irish romantic or merely hormones? I can not say. I was simply in love with nature and all its minute glory. I would lie in the grass, beyond the Hemlock trees, past the hedge of Peonies, away from the treehouse in the crotch of an ancient Elm, and try to watch a flower grow, or a blade of grass lengthen, or a bee pollinating a buttercup. If I rolled over onto my back, I would visualize demons and heroes in the cumulus clouds, or watch a hawk ride the thermals.

I was thick with love…of the sky, the grass, the flowers and a girl.

One day, I stood on the sidewalk in front of our house. Something was missing. Too much brown. No hanging flower baskets (that are so present in modern day Owego), no color. I only knew of the backyard foliage, but the front of the house was too naked. I wanted something with color, a hue of some sort. I knew nothing about gardening (I only tried it in a postage-sized patch of ground quite a ways from our backdoor…it was a failure.) There was a swing, wide enough for two, hanging from chains in the area to the left of the front door. In the photo below, it was the place above the obvious lattice work. This is where I decided to plant some flowers.

[Our house on Front Street. Porch space on the left, in front of the window is where the swing was located. Photo is mine.]

But what kind of flowers? Roses? No, too much care. Daffodils? No, we had several in the backyard. Then I spotted a seed packet at the local G.L.F. (now called Agway) store. On the cover was a stunning white flower. It was a Moon Flower. This was it. This is what I would plant beside our porch. The flower was a climber so all I had to do was prepare a planting bed, attach string from the roof area and sit back. Soon, I hoped, my neighbors to the east of me would be blocked out by the foliage of my flowers. I anticipated that I would sit on the swing and read, talk to my brother or write a poem. I would use the shadows to steal a kiss from a childhood sweetheart.

So, in late April or early May, after the danger of a late snowfall or tardy frost, I planted the large seeds. I had strung about twelve strings to accommodate climbing vines. Nothing left to do except wait.

~ ~ ~

It was now early May and steadily creeping toward the middle of the month. Suddenly, I saw a problem. I was under a strict time constraint. I was due to be picked up in late August by the parents of my classmate, Cathy Brown. She had been accepted to the same college as myself, so her family asked me if I would like to join them and make a road trip to Monroe, Louisiana. Few Interstates existed in the mid-sixties so the trip would probably take about three days.

With this hanging over my head, I began checking the Moon Flower every day to estimate its rate of growth. The Big Question was: Will I still be in Owego when my flowers bloomed? I found myself going to the Coburn Free Library to find a plant book and inform myself about Ipomoea alba. What I read made me love the as-yet-unseen flower even more than I had while staring at the seed packet.

It is a night bloomer. The petals are very light sensitive and would blossom under the moonlight. The night pollinators, the bats and the moths would do their job in the midnight hours.

But did I still have time, my final ‘childhood’ time, before I went off to college and begin my adult life, to see my flowers bloom?

~ ~ ~

In early June the tendrils climbed. By late June, the vines were nearly at waist as I stood on the porch and looked down. I began to worry. My plants weren’t climbing fast enough.

July came on faster than I wanted. I busied myself packing my suitcase and trunk. I picked out a few books. My clothes would have to wait. I didn’t know yet how bad the humidity and heat would be in the early Autumn…in far off Louisiana.

In early August, I felt heavy and fearful. Butterflies filled my stomach. I couldn’t sleep. I was worried. This is the end of a major phase of my life, drifting past my eyes…faster and faster. Instead of seeing the months ahead as a new adventure, I felt depressed…about saying farewell to my parents and brothers, neighbor friends and my childhood sweetheart.

I sat on the swing and watched my Moon Flower vines inch upward. “Hurry”, I would whisper to them. “Hurry”. I looked across the street at Craig Phelps’ house on John Street. I looked to my right where Jimmy Merrill lived. I looked to my left, to the houses that extended to the downtown. With my finger I traced the sidewalk, across the street, where I had walked to St. Patrick’s School for eight years of my young life.

It was all going to be gone soon. And, I knew, somehow I knew that once one leaves home, it will never be the same again when you return.

Never.

The third week of August. The vines had reached the cornice of the roof. But there were no flowers, yet. Still, I held out hope. Perhaps a warm evening would awaken the flowers. Maybe she would be there to watch them almost glow in the dark.

[A daylight bloom of the Moon Flower. Soon the petals will close and wait for the dark. Photo source: Google Search]

One day to go. The Browns will be here the next afternoon to pick me up. I was all packed. But I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want to go all the way to Louisiana. It was less than a year after the three civil rights workers were murdered. I was full of dread.

In the end, I was watching TV when the Browns knocked on our door. I kissed my mother goodbye. I hugged my father. I shook hands with Danny and Denny. (Chris was away at college.) I petted our cat one more time. It purred. I wiped away all the tears after I said I needed to use the bathroom one last time.

We walked out onto the porch. I helped to load my trunk. I went back to bottom of the porch steps where my parents and brothers stood. I said my final farewells.

I said I wanted to look once more at my flowers. I went around the porch corner and wiped away the tears that ran down my cheeks.

I was driven away a few minutes later. I never saw my Moon Flowers blossom. And three months later, I received a letter from my girlfriend…

Angel On My Wing

[American Airlines Gate Attendant. Caitlin. Photo is mine. The smile is hers.]

“Collect Moments, Not Things”

Gate #7 was nearly full at the Key West Airport. Mariam snagged two seats, probably using her charm. I would have picked a place to sit and made obnoxious remarks to anyone nearby until they moved. That’s what you do when you’re a seasoned traveler like me. Once she was settled I went looking for one more T-shirt. You know, something that whispers ‘Beach’ without yelling ‘Tourist’. Something subtle, no bikinis, no bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon and nothing with a message. (Actually, I did like the one that said: “Alcohol is the glue that holds this S**t Show together.” Mariam insists I have too many T-shirts already, but we men know one can never have enough T’s. So I avoided the shirt and settled on purchasing a 375 ml bottle of Havana BBQ Sauce. That won’t be around nearly as long as my collection of T-shirts. I mean some T’s can never be worn, not now, not ever. Like my Rolling Stones Steel Wheels Tour beauty or my priceless Bob Dylan Concert Shirts that will never be taken out in public. They’re enshrined.

I got back to my seat and popped a ginger lozenge in my mouth in case the flight got bumpy. It was then Mariam told me about our tickets. Actually, she tried to tell me the story back at our hotel in Key West but I was too busy trying to position myself in the late morning sun (so I wouldn’t return to New York looking as pale as when I left. Every last minute of UV was critical to get that ‘I’ve been to the beach look).

Here is what she said: Pat, remember how we paid for extra leg room because of your Restless Leg Syndrome (very true!). Well, she continued, they changed us. I’m in the row behind you but you still have an aisle seat. She said that American would refund the extra fee for the extra leg room. I told her it didn’t seem fair. We paid. Who gets to override our seating? Why can’t we sit together? I don’t think anyone at AA was aware that I needed her arm to clutch during take-off. I looked over at the Gate attendant. She was standing in front of her computer. Behind her was the departure information for a Dallas/Fort Worth Flight that was leaving before us.

I turned back to get another ginger lozenge. Not fair, I said.

A voice over the PA speakers: “Paging a Mr. Mueller. Mr. Mueller. Mr. Mueller.” This was about the fifth time I heard the announcement. I wondered where this Mr. Mueller was.

I don’t believe that once we board, someone won’t be willing to switch with us so we can sit together, said Mariam. I said, it still isn’t fair. It’s the principle of the thing. Let me go talk to the young woman. She’s not busy.

But, she was. “Looking for a Mr. Mueller. Please report to Gate #7. Mr. Mueller. Mr. Muuueelller. Mr. Muueellllerrrr.” I glanced around. So many people were smiling. I had to smile too.

I’ll go ask her now. She’s handling the Dallas flight, but she has a computer. She’ll know everything, I said.

No, I’ll go. Your back is sore and we’re going to be in the air almost four hours, said Mariam.

Okay, I said.

I got up to stretch. Ninety seconds later, Mariam was back. It’s all taken care of, she said.

Thank you, I said.

I looked back to the gate attendant. She was petite and young. I began to search for another ginger lozenge but before I could unzip my backpack, the attendant was standing in front of us. I noticed her pretty smile and her energy. She must love her job, I thought.

Would you two like to be upgraded to First Class?

I chocked on my lozenge. Sure, we said. A minute later she handed us two upgraded boarding passes. I couldn’t help but think that this would never happen at LaGuardia. Never.

I decided I would like to take her picture for a possible post or even a blog. I wasn’t sure if such a thing was allowed because of all the security concerns. I walked up to her and kindly asked her permission. She already knew me, of course. I glanced at her badge at the end of a lanyard.

So, it’s Caitlin with a C? Yes, she said, and posed for a photo. I felt a real human connection that moment. Something so hard to find these days. Her smile was contagious. I liked her without even spending more than five minutes in conversation.

I wondered how she perceived me. How she saw me. Did I remind her of her grandfather? Her uncle Fred? Or did she see me (as I sometimes like to see myself) as a distinguished gentleman of travel. A Sean Connery with a beard? Julio Iglesias? Timothy Dalton? Joe Biden? Yul Brenner with hair? A convicted felon? I wonder what she was thinking when I (jokingly) put my thumb on my ear and my pinky on my lips and mouthed “Call Me”.

Caitlin? Well, I struggled with finding a title for this blog. I thought “Angel-Something” but almost passed on it until I went to my dictionary App and read the synonyms for ‘angel’.

It all feel into place:

~~A benevolent celestial being.

~~A kind and lovable person.

~~One who manifests goodness, purity, and selflessness.

That’s all I needed. We passed her as we walked out onto the tarmac to board AA4555. We smiled. She smiled.

[The Keys. Ten minutes after takeoff. Photo is mine.]

And, several hours later, when I sat on our sofa in our New York apartment, I checked my iPhone.

There was a Friend Request from Caitlin Ford on Facebook. Truly, honestly an angel in many ways.

[Author’s Note: Thank You Caitlin.]

It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue

“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”

~~A.A.Milne (Winnie-the-Pooh

So, what brought you back to me, Moxie? I watched you wandering around the pool, and you looked intent. You found me back here among the palms, in the cool air. The sun was getting too intense for me. And I needed this quiet space…away from the chatter and the waterfall that makes a bit too much water music. Soothing, I know, but I need the quiet. But you know that already, don’t you? This is where you found me on that first day. Now you’re back. Are you here to say goodbye? Did you want a farewell kiss on your forehead? Did you want to brush my grey hair once more with your tanned fingers? A hug? Why did you seek me, Moxie?

You: I want to hear the rest of your story. I want to hear about how it all ends for you and your lovely wife.

Me: Well, come closer. My throat is a little rough today. But the story won’t be really over until we are seated on American Flight #AA4555 tomorrow afternoon. I suppose you could argue that the real end is when we deplane at LaGuardia and wait for the Uber in 41℉ weather. In case you’re curious Moxie, where we sit it’s 76℉. Sorry, my friend, I got sidetracked. I’m an old science teacher remember.

You: The story, Patrick. How does it end beneath these palms? LaGuardia will have to be your problem. I’m only here for you when you are here.

Me: Well, I finally got to sail again. It’s one thing that I can say I truly love. Mariam and I sat at the stern. The winds blew strong. I heard the Captain say that we were doing 8 knots. Then I heard him mumble, ‘that’s fast for this ship.’ We watched a glorious sunset to the west and the Full Moon rising in the east. I was in my element, Moxie. The wind. The sun. The sea.

Let me tell you a story within my story. Do you have to be anywhere? No? Good. Move a little closer. Mariam and I made the required pilgrimage to the Hemingway House. (I stood behind the velvet rope holding the tourists from his writing studio.) There was his typewriter. His desk, books, cot, chairs and open windows. Our guide said that if you stood long enough you might channel Ernest’s spirit. I think he spoke quietly to me. He said something like ‘you’ve got a long way to go, friend, to catch up to me’. I’m sure he meant it with all respect. But, I dunno, Moxie. The man put a shotgun in his mouth when he was sixty-one. Curious. It was in 1961.

You: But that’s not the story is it? It’s kind of depressing.

Me: He was a depressed man, Mox, from a line of depressed family. But you’re right, it’s too sad to dwell on. So the rest of the story…He went abroad to cover the Spanish Civil War. His second wife stayed behind, here at his house in Key West. The guy was quite macho to say the least. Hunting. Fishing. Boxing. Yes, he had a small boxing ring built beside his house. His wife (the 2nd remember) got wind that he was traveling in the company of a certain female correspondent. The man was a lot like me. He fell in love quickly and often. So, his wife, Pauline Pfeiffer, had the boxing ring torn down and put a full size swimming pool in its place. Out of spite.

When he returned from Spain Pauline met him at the front gate. She had a surprise for him. She led him around the corner, through the palms, scattering the polydactyl cats and brought his to the poolside. He took one look.

“Where the hell is my boxing ring? How much did this…this pool cost anyway?

“$20,000, she said.” I’m sure there was not a great deal of love in her eyes.

The famous author reached into his pocket and pulled out a new, shiny penny.

“If you’re going to take $20,000 from me, you might as well take my last red cent. He threw it on the ground and stormed away, most likely to Sloppy Joe’s to drown his sorrows. Pauline had the penny embedded in a patch of cement.

[And here is the penny.]

Me: So that’s my story inside my story. There’s not much else to say. We bar hopped and listened to Wagon Wheel played well by a 3-piece band. We ate great seafood. We swam in our pool. Mariam sipped Chardonnay. We began packing this afternoon. I will pull out my fleece jacket and ready it for New York City.

I guess the time is approaching when we have to say our goodbyes. We may never meet again, Moxie. But we will stay close in each other’s memories. We’ll at least be in the same Time Zone. I will think of you when the summer wind blows. I’ll think of you when I walk barefoot on the beach of Coney Island. I’d send you a message in a bottle, tossing it into the Hudson River when the tide is going out. I would, you know that. But, alas, the ocean currents would take that bottle and deposit it on a lonely stretch of the Irish Coast. Whoever would read it would have no idea of who you are or who I am.

Maybe that’s all for the best.

If I see you standing in the moonlight tonight in the middle of Fleming Street. I may walk out and give your damp curls a brief innocent kiss. Maybe.

But maybe it’s all for the best if I didn’t. I will always remember how you were eager to hear my stories.

It’s about stories…

A few extra photographs for you.

[An olive oil jug. The rectangular tiled piece was once a men’s urinal. Now it’s a drinking trough for Hemingway’s cats.]

[A note to my readers: I used yet another quote of Bob Dylan for the title. All photos are mine.]

My 600th Blog: Lat. 24 N./Long. 81 W.

[Ernest Hemingway’s typewriter. Located at the Hemingway House Museum, Key West, Florida. Photo is mine.]

Today is only one day in all the days that will ever be.

~~Ernest Hemingway

I am sitting in the air-conditioned Monroe Country Public Library (Key West Branch). It’s quiet, cool and has a WiFi that takes no prisoners. I chose this place to celebrate the posting of my 600th blog. (Confused? See Title.)

So I posted my first real blog on July 18, 2012. It was an excerpt from my first published novel Standing Stone (2012). I was totally unsure as to whether I had the energy and ability to write real content. In truth, only a year before I had very little idea what a “blog” was. I’m still learning. If my math is correct, that’s close to eleven years ago. I was sixty-four years old. When I’m sixty-four, I probably thought at the time, where will I be in eleven years from now? It wouldn’t be telling lies if I said that in my most dazzling dreams, I’d still be pounding on the keys of my laptop (actually, today I’m using my iPad) and trying hard to amuse and inform and entertain. Time will tell if I’ve succeeded.

What follows is a short list of the various places and topics I’ve written about in the years after 2012. They are scatter-shot…in no particular order. Just a quick look back:

I’ve told you stories of Adirondack Trolls, my frustration with snow, ice and sub-zero weather, thermometers that never run a battery down. You’ve heard of the joys and hardships of living in Big Bad New York City. I’ve reposted a true story of my father’s youth, “Coal for Christmas” every December (does that throw my count of posts off??).

I shared my joys of visiting my daughter, Erin and her husband and my only grandchild, Elias from Orting, WA. You’ve read numerous complaints about my bad back and the health issues I’ve had (including my diagnosis of leukemia).

I wrote of my love for the desert and our wandering in Death Valley and the Mojave. Numerous tales were written from England, Ireland, Portugal and Paris. I told you how I celebrated several birthdays in recent year (i.e., when I turned sixty-eight, Mariam and I walked sixty-eight steps along the nave of Wells Cathedral and paused to kiss).

Sadly, I wrote too many posts of sad farewells of my family…and my very best friend of over sixty years, Greg Stella who passed in July, 2022. Rereading those posts still make me cry.

I’ve concocted outrageously silly stories of the demise of or moral failure of our favorite cartoon characters like Popeye, Dennis the Menace and Mr. Peanut.

I’ve shared ghost stories and posted ghost photographs (leaving you to be the judge of the real and the fanciful).

I wrote numerous recollections of my childhood sweetheart, my family home in Owego and my time-warping walks down Front Street in my aforementioned home town.

I described how, on a beautiful autumn afternoon (or was it in the spring?) of helping a cemetery caretaker dig a grave for a woman I never met.

There are many posts that told you of my love of the poetry of Bob Dylan. I even wrote a pre-death eulogy for him.

I’ve tried to celebrate my love for my wife, my children and my grandson. I told you how sad I got in Bruges, Belgium, Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris and along a footpath in England.

I have played with different writing styles like noir and meta fiction. I’ve written short short stories.

And I did it all for you, my readers. I never wrote anything cruel, hateful or boastful. I was honest with you. I respect those of you who took a few moments out of your busy lives to read my efforts. Scrolling this page, I see that there are too many “I’s” and not enough “you”. I apologize.

I will close this rambling post with a photo and a microscopic story:

[The famous Key West Kapok Tree. Photo is mine. Taken by Mariam Voutsis.]

Legends about about the Kapok (native to Indonesia) Tree. One belief: The Devil entrapped a unwary carpenter inside the tree because he had the temerity to carve out rooms in the ginormous trunk. Another: The Tree is said to grow into the heavens (it is known to grow up to ten feet a year).

The Tree has many uses. It is soft so artists use the wood for carvings. It is used for dugout canoes and…caskets.

Good-bye for now. The beach beckons.

Be kind and never let anyone to be lonely or forgotten or be invisible.

Paradise Lost

[Sculpture from the MET. Photo is mine. Sadly, I failed to record the sculptor.]

No matter where you’re going it’s the wrong place.

~ ~Tobe Hooper

[BEFORE YOU CONTINUE: This blog post is not, in any way, an attempt to denigrate any staff, employees or anyone else who made every effort to make our short vacation enjoyable. Further, from Big Mama (that’s what her name tag read), to the housekeepers and food servers, they were more than helpful, friendly and eager to please. Any negative comments that follow are directed at the physical facility and the misrepresentations by the Travel Agency that apparently ran the raffle, that I won, that got us to the Bahamas. Think of this post as a kind of Yelp review.]

It’s a good thing I wasn’t even thinking about marijuana when I passed through Customs upon our arrival at Freeport in the Bahamas. I would never had made it through. But I wasn’t so I did. Once we stepped outside and into the warmth, I was very tempted to cross the taxi lane and peruse the souvenir booths. I had my eye on a “Tropical Shirt” or “Hawaiian Shirt” that had a color that made my eyes water. Your gaze needed to rest on the coconut trees to get any relief. Without even a chance to haggle the woman dropped the price to $25.00. I was sorely tempted, trust me. But I already own a respectable collection of those ‘retro’ shirts back home in New York. So I kindly declined and went back to where Mariam was guarding our luggage. I looked out at a few rusting sailboats and fishing boats. But before I knew it our taxi was pulling up to the curb. The taxi was loaded to capacity and we were off to our Resort hotel.

[Yet another stamp in my passport to brag about. Photo is mine.]

We stood for more time than I would have liked to get our room key. Then across the lobby to Big Mama’s desk. She was the concierge at the Taino Beach Resort & Club. I was handed the ferry schedule that would take us to Port Lucaya, where the shops and restaurants were located. We had a restaurant on the property but after being informed of the hours (11:00 am to 7:00 pm, with the last orders taken at 6:30. Lights were out at 7:00 pm.). I haven’t eaten dinner at 6:00 pm since the late ‘50’s, so it would mean stocking up on junk food from the hotel lobby to see me through the night. The hours the shop were somewhat unclear, because every time I went down to grab a bottle of fresh water, I was often met by darkness and locked doors.

But to return to Big Mama and our check-in and orientation: She keep telling us and everyone else about the necessity of having bottles of water. That was all I needed to hear. The red flags went up. I recalled a very good friend and former teaching colleague telling me about how he (even after many warnings) ordered a gin and tonic in Istanbul, Turkey with ice. He developed a case of Giardiasis. Let just say it was a nightmare for him and something that stuck in my mind.

So I mansplained to Mariam that it was only to be bottled water, even to wet a toothbrush while we stayed. It was only after a Google search to the World Health Organization that I learned that tap water in the Bahamas was safe.

Next, Big Mama snapped a wrist band on the two of us. Since there were only a relatively few people around, I wondered why the band? I thought of the following reasons:

—Glass Bottom Boat Excursion

—Deep-sea fishing

—Snorkeling

—Ocean swimming

—Capsizing

On that level it all made sense. But the band reminded me of the last overnight stay at a hospital. Wearing it around the Resort, I felt like an escapee from Bellevue.

[The infamous band. Photo is mine.]

I’m now looking at my watch. It’s 4:14 pm on Tuesday. We’re in a Marriott Courtyard in Fort Lauderdale and I so want to get to the roof-top pool and bask in the 82℉ and read.

So, I’ll speed things up a bit.

We arrived at Room 210. We opened the door. We saw what was essentially two single beds…not true singles, but not double. There were no beach/palm tree paintings on the wall. In fact, there was nothing on the wall. I went into the kitchen and flipped on the light. I opened the cabinet that contained one wine glass, one bowl, one coffee cup, two plates and zero utensils. I checked the bathroom. The water was loudly dripping into a tub with no stopper. I saw my soaking bath fly out of the Venetian blinds. I was momentarily conflicted. Should we accept this and tough it out or should we try to locate another room…or another hotel? I thought: We seasoned travelers and we are adaptable. The the housekeeper left. I flicked the switch on the wall. Nothing. There was no light in the living area. I even pulled the chain on the ceiling fan thinking there was a light up there. There was indeed a light, but the bulb was dead. I ran after the housekeeper who, after looking my panicked eyes, went to another room and returned with a table lamp. I hope the occupants of that room weren’t as needy as I was concerning light.

It wasn’t long before Mariam and I discovered that we were in WiFi Limbo.

Mariam: “I think I remember Big Mama saying that the WiFi was only available in the office, by the pool and in the restaurant. We did have a signal but it was so weak, a slight breeze would blow the WiFi signals out through the Venetian blinds.

We made two trips ($16.00 r/t) to Port Lucaya. The ride was a tediously unbearable six minutes long. On Sunday evening, we visited Port Lucaya for the last time…mostly for two reasons: To have dinner at a civilized late hour and to mail three postcards (one to a friend in the City and one to Brian and one to Erin). We’ll be back home planning our next trip before they get their cards.

So that’s about it. Our voyage back to Florida on the Margaritaville-at-Sea went uneventful save for last night howling nightmare I had. But that’s another story for another time.

I did love the beach at our Resort. Beautiful sand and that sea color I’ve never seen on any artist’s palette. I just wish the Travel Agency had been a little more honest about what we were getting into. Their descriptions were not outright lies. Rather they were grossly misleading and overstated.

We saw a young couple standing outside the office on our second day.

Me: “Enjoying things, so far?”

The Man: “We saw our room. We’ve booked another hotel.”

Me: “Really?”

The Man: “It’s a case of I worked too hard to settle for this.”

I took his point. But I lacked the energy to move out of a house that was very slowly burning down.

[Taken a few hours ago in the lobby of the Marriott Courtyard on N. Federal Highway in Fort Lauderdale. I have no idea what it means but I’m sure it has to do with sex. Photo is mine.]

We Dream In Colors Borrowed From The Sea

[The beach at Taino Beach Resort. Photo is mine.]

Like painted kites

Those days and nights, they went flyin’ by

The world was new

Beneath a bright blue umbrella sky…

~ ~The Summer Wind. Lyrics by Henry Mayer & Hans Bradtke

Slide your beach lounger closer, Mariposa, the white plastic is making my eyes water. There plenty of room for the two of us under the Palm Thatch Tiki Hut. If the onshore breeze get too cool for you, you can always rely on my warm arms. But don’t get too close. The Aloe Vera gel on my sunburn is still sticky. I have a few things to talk about. You do know, Mari, that I have two more nights here before I have to get back to Jimmy Buffet’s Cruise Boat. (Why it’s called Marguaritaville-at-Sea is beyond me.) I know you will miss me like the sun on a rainy day…but who knows…I may come back sometime, in the distant future, riding the summer wind.

But, I digress.

Yesterday we handed over $18.00 for a return trip to Port Lucaya. The trip lasted all of five minutes. That works out to $3.60/minute. If you calculated a similar trip from New York City to California…I don’t need my calculator to tell me that trip would run about $68,000.

Port Lucaya is where there are more restaurants and Gucci gift shops and bars (The Rum Runner looked inviting) than we have here. And it’s only five minutes away. Most of the shops were closed but we did manage to find a convenience store where I stocked up on my midnight snacks and a can of Coconut Water. That last purchase got me to thinking. How did water get inside a coconut? I’ve seen enough castaway movies to know that the person with that Island Survival Knowledge always chops the top of a coconut and gulps the liquid thereby avoiding dehydration and thereby saving all the others from a grisly death from drinking fetid seawater.

So I googled Coconut Water like a good blogger. The ‘water’ is really a clear liquid that serves as a suspension for the endosperm of the coconut during its nuclear phase of development. [Note: “Nuclear” in this case has nothing to do with Polonium 210 or any other of those fun elements at the bottom of the Periodic Table.]

Back to Port Lucaya. I managed to find a post box to dispatch two postcards to my daughter and son. Interestingly it was fire-engine red and had the E-R logo. As a former colony of Great Britain I get it. But I wondered if the changeover to a King Charles logo (it’s gonna be very expensive in England!) will apply to former colonies. I wonder. We (the USA) does have our own issues with former colonies. Texas and Florida come to mind. But I’ve found myself caught inside yet another digression.

As I write this, I’m keeping an eye on my iPad battery. I’m down to 60% and nowhere to plug in. Mariam’s iPad is at 51%. The sun is burning my shoulders while my fingers are slightly numb. Don’t ask. The beach is beckoning. I need reading time as does Mariam. We should also take a walk to burn off last night’s midnight snacks.

So it’s back to plug in at Room 210. Time for a walk. Time to think, read and dream.

Reading and dreaming is always best left to a chair and shade and sound of the never ending waves from a silver-green sea.

[Why do they need a pool when you have the ocean? Photo is mine.]

[Author’s Note: In no way am I attempting to make many of my friends and readers be jealous of me. Many of you have just finished shoveling several feet of snow. This trip was ‘won’ in a drawing. But I’ve paid my dues at the working end of a shovel. Enjoy these posts for what they are meant to be. Entertaining and enjoyable.]

Balmy Latitudes

I’m sailing the summer wind

I’ve got whiskers on my chin

And I like the mood I’m in

As I while away the time of day…

~~Gordon Lightfoot “Christian Island”

You’ll have to move your stool closer, Gloria. I need to multitask right now. I’m making notes on a new blog and, while talking to you, I have to filter out the ‘music’ being piped in about six feet above my head. I will never understand why piped-in music doesn’t include a Nocturne by Chopin or a long movement by Scriabin. I’m not sure what it is I’m listening to. There is a bit of Island music, some beach songs and “Wasting Away Again in Margaritaville ”, all twenty versions. To make my meager efforts even more difficult, I’m going to write the blog on my iPad…something I’ve been able to accomplish only twice before (well, maybe three times). This is not an easy task since my iPad is probably older than my son, who is slowly making his way to middle age. My apologies, Brian but July is your thirty-sixth birthday. Gloria, do me a favor and find the bar…it’s behind the potted palms and order me a Diet Tonic with an ample slice of Lime. I need my Vitamin C. You can order yourself a Double Lime Ricky. Put it on my tab. Oh, and don’t forget four bags of Cheez-its. I’ll need the Polyunsaturated Fats (1.5g) to get me through this blog…not having my laptop at hand.

But, I digress.

I’m sitting on the deck of Level 11. We’re abroad Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville Cruise Ship, the Paradise. My Apple Watch tells me it’s Breezy and 82 F. That’s a far cry from 36 and rainy back in New York City. I’m not a Cruise-Guy, so you, my dear readers, might be wondering why I’m on this boat, (which will depart around 5:00 pm and will be setting our bearing for Freeport in the Bahamas. What I will relate is not a long story so you still will have time after reading this to order in a pizza and a dozen donut holes with Chipotle sauce.

I guess it’s time I got down to the real writing…

Please do not misconstrue this blog as a faintly disguised attempt at bragging. I’m not a braggart in anyway. In truth, I despise those who feel the need to embellish their barely tolerable lives by making the little simple things more than they are. I simply feel the need to make my barely tolerable life interesting by doing the right thing and telling you the truth.

So, here’s the truth…

It started last April 21, 20022. Mariam was having PT after her shoulder surgery in February. We were in Fort Myers, Florida. I always met her after her sessions and we would go somewhere for lunch. Our usual Cafe was closed and a sign in the window directed us to their sister restaurant…a Greek place on San Marcos Avenue. It was very warm so we elected to eat outside, in the shade of a large umbrella. After finishing my cheeseburger and Mariam polished off her salad, we went inside…she headed to the cashier and I for the restroom. She was waiting outside in the sun as I walked to the door. Something on a card table caught my eye. It was a clear plastic box with a slot on the top. The placard behind the box had an enticing image of sandy beaches and Palm trees. I don’t remember even reading the message, but I instinctively knew it was a raffle. The only time I ever entered a raffle was in the late ’70’s. I think I won a six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon. This time I took a few minutes to fill out the slip of paper. I folded it twice and pushed it into the plastic box. What can it hurt, I thought?

Yes, you guessed it. A few months later I received a call from a man who said I had won a raffle. By that time, I had totally forgotten about the plastic box and the slip of paper. Of course, I immediately had suspicions so I cut to the chase.

“It’s a Time-Share thing isn’t it?” I said.

“Nope.” He said.

“Be honest with me sir, I’m nobody’s fool. I’ve been around the block. I’m a senior but you can’t intimidate me because of my grey hair” I said.

He said: “No strings, sir.”

“Nothing is not without strings” I said, quietly questioning my grammar.

“So I’m not going to end up selling my car to a guy named Pogo behind a used car lot in Boca?” I said.

“You have my word.” He said. “Now, let’s talk about your trip.”

“Okay.” I said.

He said: “There are port fees and a few other monetary details to go over.”

There always are, I thought. There always are.

~ ~ ~

So, by time you, dear readers, will get around to reading this, we will be on our way to The Fins Restaurant where we have an 8:30 seating. It’s not a long cruise but we will be passing near The Bermuda Triangle. So if we get sent through the portal into a parallel universe, I certainly hope you enjoyed my blogs. You can always click ‘LIKE’ in memory of all I’ve done for you.

It’s been great.

[Me, I hope. Soon. Photo: My picture from the hallway of Level 6.]

[Last evening in West Palm Beach. Photo is mine.]

Don’t Be Fooled By Trompe-l’oeil

[Illustration source: Google search. Artist Erik Johansson.]

Why did Van Gogh become a painter?

–Because he didn’t have ear for music.

~~

Whenever my artistic girlfriend is sad, I let her draw on my body…

–I gave her a shoulder to crayon.

~~

I used to do fine arts, until I decided I didn’t like arts.

–Now I’m doing just fine.

~~

When you’re colorblind in an art gallery, every thing is a pigment of your imagination.

~~~

So, as I was saying, I came close to being arrested by the Art Police (Security) at the Metropolitan Museum of Art (MET) about two weeks ago. What, you may very well ask, were you doing? Trying to find a cavity in Mary Magdalene’s molar in the Medieval Hall? Did you haggle over the $17.00 glass of wine in the Balcony Lounge? Unwrapping a mummy? Or did you try to slip a halter top on Andromeda in the Sculpture Hall?

Actually it was none of the above.

I had spent more time admiring the newly restored and painted statuary in the Greek and Roman Art Gallery. It was awesome to see the statues in living color. I felt like Marcus Aurelius in flannel-lined jeans. We lingered until Mariam pointed out that she thought there was another exhibition I had mentioned. Yes, I said. There is something about Cubism and something or other on the second floor. I checked my Apple Watch. We had forty-five minutes before we were due at the Balcony Lounge for S. Pellegrino, Chardonnay and Hummus with Pita. We had time. The walk would be good for me. I needed the exercise. We headed for the escalator.

On the way, Mariam pulled out the exhibition folder and said: Here, is this it? It’s called Cubism and the Tromp…I stopped on a dime. Wait, I said. Trump? I’m done here. Let’s go home…No, wait, she said. It’s called Cubism and the Trompe-l’oeil Tradition.

I told her the only French I knew was to say “Zwei bier, bitte”. I had so find a bench to sit. I was shaking. I thought it you said…C’mon, she said. It’s not anything political. I felt relieved. A few minutes later we entered Gallery 199. We walked slowly through the rooms, absorbing the ambience of artistic…art when I spotted something on the wall. I walked over. It was framed (!). But something wasn’t right. There was a nail sticking out. I stared. No, there are several nails sticking out. I glanced around for the Security to alert them to the danger of someone snagging a sweater or a Polo Golf Shirt on those dangerous nails.

[Notice the nails. Photo is mine.]

Upon closer inspection I was astonished to see that it was only a painting of a nail. My tension eased. Besides, the Security Guard, whose name tag read: Richard, was chatting up the red-head Security Guard from Gallery 201, (name tag read: Amber. He was making headway.) I stood back. This was something else indeed. I walked back the first room and read the writing on the wall. Whoa. This was Trompe l’Oeil. I scratched through my fanny pack for my French Phrase Book. It meant the eye deceives. Suddenly, a memory flashed before me. I remember a poster I had back in the early ’70’s. It was M. C. Escher, perhaps one of the most famous graphic artists in a long time. It was all coming back to me…

I returned to Gallery 199 and looked for more. I saw a painting from half-way across the room. I swear it looked like something was painted on wood. Wait, I thought. I assumed that artists used stretched canvas to paint on. Moving closer I was amazed to see that it was a painting of wood on canvas. I was feeling dizzy. This was awesome. This was really fun to look at.

[Indeed. Wood painted on canvas. Photo is mine.]

This was heady stuff. And there was more:

[I wanted to open the curtain a little more. Boy, was I fooled. Photo is mine.]

I felt Mariam pull on my sleeve. Look at that one, she said. I looked. Whoa. I’d better get over there and keep all that stuff from falling on the nicely polished hard-wood floor.

[Fooled again…Photo is mine.]

The painting above impressed me the most. Notice the comb interacting with the leather strap. This was not an exhibit I will easily forget. We walked through a few more rooms. I checked my Apple Watch. Time for hummus at the Balcony Lounge. After paying the bill (large enough to choke a horse) we made for the main exit doors and. There’s a yellow, Mariam said, let’s hurry and get it. I slowly descended the grey granite steps and walked to the cab, passing a saxophone playing the blues…in the rain…on glorious 5th Avenue…under a leaden sky…in the Greatest City in the World.

I was secretly hoping that cab was really there…and not just painted on the pavement.

~ ~ ~

I am sad to say that I lost my M. C. Escher book sometime in the last forty years. (I think it was a Tuesday). In the meantime, I’ve been busy trolling the Internet. Talented street artists have done some mind-blowing work with 3-D visual arts. Here are just a few examples: Enjoy…

[Park Bench. Artist: Julian Beever. Bored Panda.com]

[A common theme in this genre, fear of heights. Source: Google search. Bored Panda.com]

[Source: Google search.]

[Source: Google search. Artist: Erik Johansson]

[Source: Google search. Paste magazine]

[A living room rug to die from for. An advertisment from Tempu.]

[The shower is especially dangerous. Tempu]

A final word to my friends and readers: I apologize for not providing a full description of the artists at the MET. I don’t think I ever forgot my Moleskin notebook before that day in the Museum. The two ads were photos of iPad images. Tough to do. If you’ve enjoyed this post, ‘like’ it and move on with your life…which is, I’m sure, far more interesting than the musing of someone who can barely paint a brick with a brush from Ace Hardware. I never had an art class until I moved to NYC in the early ’90’s. Well, actually I took a six-week Screenprint and Etching course in Poole, England during my year in the UK. Full disclosure: My etching of Durdle Door in Dorset…I did it the way I saw it. But, it will print in the reverse.

Oops, I’ve done it again.

I will leave you with Escher’s most famous pieces. I believe it’s called Waterfall. Find a book about all this. You’ll love it.

[Artist: M. C. Escher. Source: Google search.]

To Elias on His 10th Birthday

May you build a ladder to the stars

And climb on every rung

And may you stay Forever Young

~~Bob Dylan Forever Young

Dear Elias,

You have been the very best grandson anyone could ask for. I remember when your mother called me with the news that she was expecting a child. It seems like yesterday. In the years that have passed we all are ten years older. Emmy and I were in our 60’s. Oh, where do the years go?

I came to Orting to visit you when you were an infant. Many people were in your mom and dad’s house to watch the Super Bowl. You fell asleep on my tummy…you slept until half-time. Then someone else took you so I could go to the bathroom! I would kiss your tiny head and I nearly cried when my lips touched your warm head. You were always warm.

[Elias has a treat.]

You grew up so fast, Elias, so fast I could hardly keep up with you when I visited you a few years later. I remember how you would always wait by the big window and wave at the man who drove the garbage truck down your street. He always waved back. Someday you may forget doing that, but the driver, I suspect, will never forget the little boy in the window.

Oh, where did the years go?

After you took your first steps, I was able to take walks with you, mommy and Emmy. My legs hurt so I had to try very hard to keep up. Little boys can walk fast.

[Three generations walking in the rain.]

Your father always seem to be taking pictures of you. I’ll bet you a nickel that his Elias Photo File is very full. Every year, in late October, your mom and dad would take you to pick out some pumpkins at a nearby farm. Every year your mom would put you up against a very big ruler. It was a perfect way to watch you grow.

I remember watching you take a very sudsy bath. Your mom would sit on the floor, put her feet up on the tub and play the ukulele and sing Wild Horses to you. When I think of you, sometimes it makes me sad to think how far away we live from each other.

[Elias at a playground in Orting, WA.]

You hiked in the mountains of the Cascades. Much of the time you rode in a backpack baby carrier on the shoulders of your mom or dad. You played in the sand at Cannon Beach, Oregon every holiday trip in many Decembers.

Oh, where do the years go.

[Elias at work on a toy truck.]

Your grandma and grandpa shared many special moments with you. And it makes us sad that we haven’t shared ALL of them. When you came to our house last summer you really enjoyed the Wild Center in Tupper Lake. You even crawled on the big spider web of ropes. I just sent you a microscope late last year. I hope you will get to know the tiny things we often don’t see with our own eyes.

[A new stereo microscope.]

So, I need to close this blog now. At the beginning I used a quote from my favorite poet and singer, Bob Dylan. Your mom and dad will tell you how powerful his words are.

Your are going to be a teenager in a few years. As you move up the grades in school you will learn many things. But remember this: You can grow up to be anything you want. A poet. A painter. A writer. A scientist. A doctor. A lawyer. An explorer. Maybe even a President. But whatever you do in life…make sure it’s your true passion.

But don’t grow up too fast. You are a superhero to your grandparents. Treat others with love and kindness and patience.

Stay true to yourself and please stay forever young.